The Cost of Survival: On "Straw," Zora Neale Hurston, and the Weight Black Women Carry

Content Note: This reflection discusses themes of trauma, poverty, and Black motherhood. Light thematic spoilers for the film Straw are included, though major plot points are intentionally left vague to preserve the viewing experience.

Say what you want about Tyler Perry.

Some folks say his work is over-the-top, exaggerated, unrealistic. But Straw, his latest film, hit me like a thunderclap. Not because it was perfect, but because it told the truth-raw, messy, and deeply familiar. It wasn’t just a film. It was a reckoning.

The story follows Janiyah Wilkerson, a single Black mother whose entire life spirals in the span of a single day. And while the specifics may seem dramatic to some, many of us recognize the emotional blueprint all too well: the missed paychecks, the threats of eviction, the endless appointments and obligations, the silent prayers whispered in grocery store aisles and bank lines. It's a story about how expensive it is to be poor-not just in dollars, but in dignity, in sanity, in time, in sleep.

That line in the movie broke me: "People don’t know how expensive it is to be poor."

That line sits with me like a lump in the throat. Not because it's poetic, but because it's true. And not just monetarily expensive, but spiritually, emotionally, and physically costly. The kind of cost that Black women know too well.

Because that cost is real. It shows up in how hard our grandmothers worked, how exhausted our mothers became, how tightly we hold everything now. I thought of my own grandmother in that moment. Naomi. Naomi the Great as we called her. My father once told me about the day he thought she might stay home from work. There was snow on the ground. He was excited. He imagined a day with his mama. But instead, he watched her put on long johns to go clean houses and scrub floors in white folks' homes. She didn't have the luxury of rest.

So many of us come from that lineage. Of women who had to choose survival over presence. Who mothered in moments and meals because capitalism took their time and stole their softness. Who loved their children fiercely but carried guilt they never deserved. And Straw-for all its imperfections-makes you feel that ache.

There’s a moment in the film where everything Janiyah has tried to hold together unravels. She’s running on empty, still giving, still praying. The story hints at something deeper, something devastating she's trying not to face. And that’s the brilliance of it. That kind of grief-the kind so sharp it detaches you from reality-that’s not just trauma. That’s ancestral. That’s the legacy of being told over and over that your pain is inconvenient.

And yet, she keeps going. Until she can't.

This film isn't just about Janiyah. It's about us. The mothers. The daughters. The women who stay stitched together with threadbare faith and Friday night prayers. It's about what happens when nobody comes. When the systems you’re told to trust betray you. When surviving feels like sin.

There’s a Zora Neale Hurston quote that framed this movie for me: “The Black woman is the mule of the world.” It comes from Their Eyes Were Watching God, written in 1937, and it's still relevant today. Hurston wasn’t being dramatic. She was telling the truth. Because to carry the world and be told you’re too angry while doing it is a gaslight of biblical proportions.

“The Black woman is the mule of the world. ”

— Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937).

We can critique Tyler Perry all day. And we should demand nuance, healing, and evolution in our stories. But, in my opinion, what Straw gets right is the rawness. The ache of it all. It’s not a perfect film. But it doesn’t have to be. Because it’s the truth. Maybe not your exact truth, but someone’s. And that’s enough.

We need to talk about the cost of survival. We need to ask the real questions and follow through with actions…How do we take care of each other? How do we ensure that no one has to carry all of it alone? How do we interrupt the spiral before the straw breaks the soul? So that we stop asking Black women to carry the load in silence. So that we stop confusing endurance with consent. So that we finally build a world where we don’t have to keep surviving in order to be seen.

Let the quote sit where it belongs: “The Black woman is the mule of the world.” But let us stop pretending that was ever okay.

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At The Gathering Table, we're building something different. A sacred space where Black women don’t just survive—we tell the truth, hold each other close, and imagine new ways of being. It’s not about fixing what’s broken. It’s about building what’s ours.

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