One of my favorite Key & Peele sketches involves two buppie businessmen meeting up in a soul food restaurant in an old, forgotten neighborhood. (Yes, I know the show has issues. Just stay with me, ok?) The two fall into a game of one-upmanship to prove how down they are. Here, watch:

This, my friends, is what popped in my head upon reading this Ms. Magazine essay by Janell Hobson, and this piece by Salon/Crunk Feminist Collective writer Brittney Cooper. From the looks of it, these two brilliant, accomplished black women have–unwittingly, perhaps–fallen into the same sad game. With the Key and Peele sketch, we knew who the intended audience was: the buppies and the sweet, folksy owner/server. But in this case? We’re not exactly sure who the target audience is, and both essays read rather poorly. Cooper spends half of her piece blasting white feminists for attacking the First Lady, then politely finishes their job in the latter half. Hobson spends most of her piece agreeing that there is, indeed, a solidarity problem within feminist ranks and then…calls on “all of us” (read: angry feminists of color) to channel our anger and snark into more positive things.

A lot of people who claim to love black women (some, black women themselves) seem to only love them in the abstract. We can be counted on to provide page hits for the latest “oh no they didn’t” outrage or as fond remembrances in charming little essays we write when we want to regale readers with beautifully crafted tales of our humble beginnings, neatly wrapped in a Nikki Giovanni poem or an Audre Lorde quote. Depending on our usefulness and socioeconomic status, we rank somewhere between God and the nameless sista who bags your collection of Lean Cuisine entrees every week. But here’s the thing: demanding that people recognize our humanity only works if you recognize it, too.

I get that it’s a struggle. There are days when I have to check myself, days when I have to remember that the bathroom attendant I’m tipping isn’t a charity case in need of saving, days when I have to remember that the teenage girls cursing each other out on the train platform probably grew up in a better financial situation than I did. Days when I have to remember that the First Lady is a real flesh and blood human being, not a blank screen on which I can project my hopes and dreams. As others have said, the fact that we dare to exist is an act of defiance. I don’t need to make shit any harder.

There are enough people attacking black women for the lives we lead and the choices we make on the daily. We needn’t any more voices joining the fray. If we’re going to be about the business of improving the world around us, let’s do so without the performance art.

You know, it used to take a lot to get me angry. Someone would literally have to be standing on my neck before I’d respond in kind. Then one day, I was introduced to the internet, and I’ve been flipping tables ever since.

With that said, I apologize for raging out, Maria Lloyd. I let my emotions get the best of me. I blew up your mentions on Twitter. I said your essay was “irresponsible, irrelevant, and incorrect.” I suggested that you pursue another profession. I said that shaming single mothers for page hits under the guise of fake concern was the equivalent of shitting in someone’s mouth, You Tubing it, and asking for a tip after. Before I came for your neck, I went after your colleague (and co-writer of this post), Dr. Boyce Watkins, calling him a “misogynistic, foot-shuffling moron” for pimping black pathology porn. I also called him a “bully, a fraud, and a hack” and laughed when someone said he was “a doctor of fuck shit and Crown Royal bags.” I feel awful because that’s an insult to real doctors of fuck shit and Crown Royal bags. And I really shouldn’t have told you to seek another profession because we need people like you, Dr. Watkins, and other professional black pathology pimps (Hi, Jason Whitlock!) to be shining examples of what not to do.

It’s important, Maria Lloyd, that you remain here on the front lines, parroting patriarchal bullshit like “ERMAGERD THE BLACK FAMILY IS IN SHAMBLES BECAUSE YOU’RE A FILTHY WHORE” because that’s what we need. We don’t need better policies that ensure the success of Ms. Fields or women like her. We don’t need to offer genuine support. No, no. We just need to berate them for not keeping their legs closed to all the wrong dudes. I’m sure you’ve made ALL the right decisions to make sure you never become a single mom, right? Wait, I shouldn’t be so presumptuous; you and Dr. Crown Royal Bag are better at being presumptuous windbags than I can ever hope to be.

I would point to recent statistics showing that black motherhood is actually on the decline and that “unmarried” doesn’t necessarily mean “unpartnered” because there are plenty of queer black moms out here in healthy relationships. I would even point to the numerous studies showing that economics–not marital status–is to blame for the number of black moms living in poverty. But who needs all those pesky facts when you’ve got a forum to promote? “A Politically Incorrect Conversation About Saving Our Community?” Oooh. So edgy. I’m sure it’ll make Sean Hannity cream in his Jockeys.

So, I thank you–both of you–for making me realize just how important it is to stand up and use my voice. Thank you for reminding me of how valuable people like Tanya Fields and Melissa Harris Perry are, because while you are wasting bandwidth and keystrokes to attack them, they’re out here changing fucking LIVES. They are doing the work you think you’re doing. Thank you for making Hood Feminism necessary.

Also, when we say #openseasononblackgirlsisover? We mean it. Don’t come for us unless we send for you.

NARAL’s recent board appointment is just the latest in a series of “OH REALLY WTF YO?” moments in an already-fractured movement, another opportunity for a more inclusive approach falling away. Their new appointee’s failures at intersectionality have been well-documented, yet these missteps haven’t stopped her ability to fail upward.

Must be nice.

Though plenty of good people are on the front lines waging wars against “-isms” daily, social media has unwittingly given birth (and a considerable amount of real estate) to a new breed of feminist agitator–one who isn’t so much invested in fighting the good fight as she is, say, getting a spot on The MHP Show. She is lively, verbose and blustery; her showmanship could put the late P.T. Barnum to shame. She is…the Performance Feminist.

Equipped with a Twitter account, a WordPress blog, and an arsenal of quotes from Very Important Feminists at the ready, The Performance Feminist can be seen holding court in the public forum of her choice (though it’s usually Twitter.) She may be an academic from the Dirty South, or a charmed New Yorker with an Ivy League pedigree and a breadwinning husband. She may have cut her teeth writing about sexist tropes in Joss Whedon shows for a popular blog, or she may be a rookie, fresh out of her Women’s Studies class and ready to take on the world–in front of a camera, of course.

While The Performance Feminist claims to be all about fellowship and sisterhood, once she latches on to her cause du jour, civility and thoughtful engagement are on the midnight train to Georgia. Instead of reaching out for an honest conversation, she will man the torpedoes, taking to her blog to assail the characters of any and all perceived foes, real or imaginary. She will rally her troops to petition, boycott and march, all the while patting herself on the back for her good work. She will create conferences and collectives under the guise of sisterhood, all the while neglecting large swaths of girls and women who aren’t in the right age or tax brackets. She will take credit for creating online feminism when, in fact, it predates her involvement. When faced with legitimate criticism, she will dismiss it as jealousy and infighting, or respond with an ill-conceived plan to address the lack of diversity. She will shame and dismiss those who do not fit her arbitrary definition of Feminism, and will take to penning open letters to let her disapproval be known.

She will pay lip service to diversity and intersectionality as she readies herself for her new writing gig, where she will be counted on to offer the “feminist perspective” on a number of recycled, navel-gazing topics: Can a woman have it all if she takes her husband’s name while wearing skinny jeans? Are wearing skinny jeans feminist? What about wearing skinny jeans while watching porn? Meanwhile, other, more pressing matters receive scant attention.

The Performance Feminist never shies away from a topic, even if she doesn’t know much about it. Image is everything; as long as she appears informed no one has to know that her treatise on Chicago violence was based on one interaction with a homeless guy at a Harold’s Chicken while in town visiting a beau. People will praise her for passion and bravery, for her commitment to make the world a better place. It will make her big television debut that much sweeter.

Which is great. For her. The movement, not so much. These antics drown out other voices, like the ones rallying to save broken public school systems across the country, or the ones fighting on behalf of indigenous rights. Or the ones working to improve the conditions of mothers everywhere, working and non. It means little-to-no shine for issues affecting millions of people who don’t live in New York City, whose only means of online access may be through a prepaid cellular phone. It means that the people most at risk will continue to be overlooked.

So how does one avoid being a Performance Feminist? As the famed poet Dewayne Michael Carter once said, Real Gs move in silence, like lasagna. Let your work speak for you. When advocating on behalf of those who cannot speak for themselves, remember that they are human beings, not a cause to be advanced; let them tell their own stories in their own words. Use your online platform to facilitate discussions in good faith. If someone calls you out, graciously accept the criticism and learn from it. Talk less. Listen more.  Don’t let your naked ambition alienate those who could potentially change the world.

Of course, all of these things have been said before. But a little reminder always helps.

When the clock struck midnight on Capitol Hill, nearly 9 million mothers and children were left to fend for themselves, their WIC support suspended. Since there was no approval for additional funding, the 53% of American infants and 25% of expectant mothers currently covered by the program will stop receiving clinical care and food benefits in the next week or so, unless the states can pony up. (SPOILER ALERT: Most of them can’t.)

And with women making up 44% of federal employees, this infographic (courtesy of WaPo) illustrates how many could be left in dire financial straits as the shutdown continues.

People in need of emergency assistance won’t be able to rely on TANF, either. (h/t @AmandaMichelle)

We’ll start posting whatever information and resources we stumble across here.

Feeding America has a few ways to give.

Or check out Catholic Charities.

Or this national food bank directory.

The National Association of Free and Charitable Clinics can help you find a clinic in your area. And they’re in need donations and volunteers.