Ethel Waters

June is Black Music Month. According to the website for the National Museum of  African American Music, Black Music Month was founded in 1979 by Kenny Gamble, Ed Wright, and Dyana Williams to celebrate the impact of black music. While there are countless female musical pioneers remembered today, there are many that aren't. Here are just twelve women in black music history you should know. Of course there are many more, but here are just a few.

by Amber Wright

I am not a daddy’s girl. From what I understand, carrying that title is something many women cherish well into adulthood. I’m familiar with the idea that once you become one, you will always be a daddy’s girl. I think that’s something really special!

This week five-time US national champion Alysia Montano ran at this year's national championships while only weeks away from giving birth to her first child.

Dr. Ersula Ore, a professor of English at Arizona State University, claims a police officer used excessive force during a stop last month.

Dr. Ore was stopped by Officer Stewart Ferrin while a crossing a street on the University's campus. The recently released video depicts the exchange. Ore was arrested. During the process, she was slammed on the hood of a car exposing her body. Ore was charged with aggravated assault on a police officer in addition to criminal damage and obstructing a thoroughfare. She intends to fight the charges.

by Sharlia LeBreton-Gulley

“So… You KNOW you’re Latina, right?”

That was a legitimate assertion once made to me by a proud Latino brother while I stood behind the counter at the Vitamin Shoppe in Pasadena California bagging his protein, testosterone booster and multivitamins.

“Actually, I’m African.”

My mom suggested me a few years ago that when prompted, I should respond that I am definitively “African” to inquisitions of my racial, cultural and/or ethnic background. Typically most people don’t even understand the difference between the three “distinctions,” so this wouldn’t be a problem if I began simply responding “African,” when asked my background, right? What I found though, was that most people simply could not accept that by me claiming an African identity , that I could look the way I do. I’ve gotten everything from, “But you’re so pretty,” to “ No, your grandparents or somebody must be mixed or something.”  One of my sisters once told me her response to these intrusive questions was to reply that she is mixed, “[w]ith slavery and oppression.”

Blackness is ubiquitously positioned to be the consistent antithesis of all that is good and valuable as it relates to beauty, intelligence and other characteristics of prestige or merit. With an indoctrinated ideology of anti-blackness, it is almost impossible for people to accept black as being beautiful in and of itself and so people dig to justify black beauty with a connection to any racial or ethnic “other.” We are taught and encouraged to disassociate from blackness.

With over 180 million people of African descent living throughout the America’s, it is crucial to honor the unique experiences of the African peoples and their places of geographic displacement caused by the period of enslavement and colonization which by and large has helped to create the Latino/a identity. We are all well aware of the atrocities of these periods of history; the raping, mutilations, separation, religious perversions and the like, but for my original point, let’s just reexamine something to make it very palpable.

“I would never claim my rapist.”

This was a sentiment expressed in a lecture by Rosa Clemente (2008 Green Party Presidential candidate, Community organizer, Hip-Hop activist and Independent journalist) in a talk on the ”AfroLatina Identity and Critical Approaches to Blackness.”

Enslaved African and indigenous women were exploited for their reproductive potential for centuries, giving rise to the various “mulatto/a, morienho, mestizo” etc, variations of African descending children. These children, though (sometimes) ethnically categorized into a different race or ethnicity, than their mothers would typically still be in the same social position as their black mothers with some social privileges. Why then are we in such a hurry to turn our backs on our mothers, both literally and in the sense of Mother Africa, in an attempt to yet again reach and aspire to “whiteness?”

“Black is beautiful,” but what is “black” and whose standard of “beautiful” are we using? The approach to blackness and concepts of beauty need to be critically analyzed and re-imagined further than a simplistic assertion. We need to look deeply into the identification and lack of identification with blackness and beauty especially within our Diaspora and our AfroLatino/a global community.

Recently, I was blessed with the opportunity to share some of Sista Docta Alexis Pauline Gumbs’s time for an email interview. I wanted to catch up with her to talk about a project she’s recently completed: The Black Feminist Breathing Chorus.

This year I've partnered with AT&T to attend Blogging While Brand. Each year around this time, I follow the conference's hashtag and wish I could attend. This will be my first year attending, and I'm beyond excited to see so many of my faves in person.

As a guest of AT&T, I'm privy to a new initative they'll be announcing at Blogging While Brown's close.

As a gadget lover who regularly attends Sunday church services. I've been on the receiving end of more than a few side eyes for using my iPhone or iPad in service. Though my home church is fairly progressive on this matter, many are not. Some of those side eyes may have been warranted (I'm a social media addict), but even when I'm just pulling up a Bible app, I get a strong sense that a lot of church folks view technology in the sanctuary as purely a distraction.

Black women are said to be the most religious group in America. What happens, then, when the oppressive and constraining practices of the black church push us away during childhood?

For eighteen years of my life, my family would wake up every Sunday at 6:00 am and head to our mega church in Southfield, Michigan. Like a lot of small black children, I attended the children's service while my parents attended the service in the main sanctuary. I was interested in the one thing children are excited to do whenever they're around their peers: I wanted to make friends. The obvious step to take was to join the Children's Choir.

Lianne La Havas, née Lianne Barnes, presents listeners with a soulful, sultry musical catalog that mimics tunes from decades past. The 24-year old London native accompanies a powerful voice with a funky aesthetic – natural tresses, thick winged eyeliner, collared shirts, hip prints, thigh bearing shorts, A-line skirts and chunky heels that challenge every industry imposed standard for women of color.

Since it was released in 2010, over 20 billion photos have been shared on Instagram. Of course we know that nobody’s Instagram (or IG, for short) account is completely transparent about every aspect of their lives. But for the most part, it’s a great way to get to peek into the lives of people we know personally and those we don’t, like celebrities. I have found a mix of women (most are famous, some you may not know…yet) that I actually enjoy following on IG because they inspire me to live greatly with their posts. Here’s a list of ten in no particular order.

by jenifer daniels

Throughout life, we are posed with questions to answer. What do you want to be when you grow up? What college do you want to attend? Will you marry me? Would you like fries with that? Some perplexing; some absurd; some seemingly unanswerable. (Seriously, how long has it taken you to decide if you do, in fact, want fries with that?) But one of the most poignant questions that life (or Gene Siskel) asks of you is ‘what do you know for sure?’

The Supreme Court today rejected Massachusetts' effort to enforce a 35-foot buffer zone around abortion clinics.

The 9-0 decision is a free-speech victory for opponents of abortion. It upholds the rights of “sidewalk counselors” who wish to speak to young pregnant women to persuade them against having an abortion.

For as long as I can remember, I have had a thing for White Boys.

I was in fourth grade when I met Landon after transferring to the elementary school in my suburban neighborhood. Prior to that, I had attended school in South Los Angeles, where my parents were teachers. Although there were plenty of Black and Brown boys to crush on, none of them were as much a novelty as Landon. His bright green eyes were shown to my nine-year-old self like rare, precious jewels. His sweet, reserved demeanor and bashful smile made my heart flutter. I remember looking up his parents’ phone number in the Yellow Pages and coming up with any excuse to call him. Eventually, my feelings for him diminished from passionate, unrequited love and he became one of my best friends through high school.

Wooster hurt and when graduation finally arrived I found myself profoundly relieved, fascinated that I had survived, newly engaged (my fiancé proposed right after graduation), and ready to go.

Would I miss my girls? Yes. They were by far the greatest women that have walked this earth—full of grace, intelligence, vulnerability, and pride and I would miss our dinner dates, late night conversations, and moments with professors. However, I could not deny that most of our deepest moments stemmed from great discomfort and pain and I would not miss that almost as much as I would miss them.

by Audrey Kerr

I am sitting on the campus bus reading Soul on Ice, and Eldridge Cleaver is telling me that the rape of black women is a dress rehearsal for the rape of white women. I am a 17-year-old Black woman. My insatiable hunger for Justice causes me to find a location for Cleaver’s logic in my body -- to wrap his bestial aggression around my raging race consciousness. I am hungry to assume the very best in blackness and maleness.

Leaders at the Op-Ed Project asked me and thirteen other women to introduce ourselves with this statement: “I am an expert in…”

The reactions of participants’ discomforts range from verbal resistance of the “patriarchal notion” of expertise to stammering over one’s words: “I am not going to brag; I am too young to have an expert; I’ve only been in my field for ten years.”

Security forces denied the kidnappings. Nigeria's government and military have been widely criticized for their slow response to the abductions of more than 200 schoolgirls kidnapped April 15.

I have an ambivalent relationship with casual sex. The risks of it terrify me. Still, I enjoy it because I don’t have to put much thought into it. It wards off the emotional mess that usually comes along with intimacy otherwise. But of late, I’ve realized that reflecting on the reasons behind the decisions I make in my sex life—noble or not—as well as the reasons why I gravitate towards the things I’m generally passionate about is key to understanding my purpose in examining sexual politics itself.

I’m wishing and hoping that one day ladies will finally realize that love cannot be bought and that they stop wasting their time, energy and resources attempting to buy love.

I’ve read countless stories and have also seen television shows interview women that meet someone online and who shortly thereafter, begin sending him (a person they’ve never even seen in person) thousands of dollars until their homes are mortgaged to the hilt and their savings and retirement funds are depleted.

I recently learned about the Carefree Black Girl (CGB), a movement driven by social media to represent the diverse beauty and eclectic joy that is inherent in being a young Black woman. The Carefree Black Girl is a welcome departure from the stereotypical representations we see of Black women and girls in the media, where we are often seen as anything other than joyous and liberated. I connected to the CBG immediately because of this.

Theodore Johnson for MSNBC - Black women are one of the most active political constituencies in the nation, yet they are severely underrepresented in federal, state, and local  government, according to a new study released this week. The Higher Heights Leadership Fund and the Rutgers University Center for American Women and Politics, in collaboration with the Center for American Progress, has released these findings in a report entitled the “Status of Black Women in American Politics,” which highlights the extent to which black women’s voices are not being adequately heard, or their concerns addressed.

by Bee Quammie

I’m about a month away from the estimated due date of my first child, and to say I’ve learned new lessons about myself and this journey is the understatement of the year. The battle between authenticity and dishonesty is one that I didn’t realize would be so prevalent, but here we are.

Growing up, I was a very nice girl. I was always the one who went out of her way to help her friends. I would loan them money, offer them advice, give them rides, and help them with school assignments. I usually did not expect anything in return. I avoided rubbing others the wrong way. And I rarely spoke up when friends hurt or offended me. I wasn’t a perfect angel—I had my bratty moments and bouts of diva-dom. But for the most part, I tried very hard to appease everyone. I prided myself on being nice.

And then that shit got real old, real fast.

For the past few years, I have been a Reformed Nice Girl. Like many, I equated being nice with being kind. I thought being a good friend meant overextending myself and being a good person meant having relationships without boundaries.

Being nice is an expectation that we often exclusively impose on girls. It primes us for a lifetime of being subordinate to men, of keeping the status quo firmly in place. Nice girls do not talk back. Nice girls do not have opinions. Nice girls, in many ways, are stripped of their agency and humanity. We are taught to give and give and give, until we are depleted, exhausted, and resentful. This is especially true for Black Women. We are socialized to take care of everyone… except for ourselves. And if we do have the gall to talk back and declare our boundaries, then we are labeled “sassy” or “hostile” or “mean.”



It is often a delicate balance between being nice and a pushover, between assertiveness and bitchiness. These restrictions are meant to police all women’s behavior. But my lived experiences as a Black Woman have taught me we have it a little rougher. Historically, we have been expected to be the world’s nice girl and happy, compliant servant. Or else.

Eventually, the threat of “or else” no longer scared me.

High school made me realize that maybe this Nice Girl business wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I had a few longtime friends who had been taking advantage of my chronic congeniality, while they rarely provided the same courtesy. I distanced myself from them and found a group of people whose friendship was not as draining on my emotional wellbeing and resources. I also began tackling my fear of confrontation. I learned to assert myself, to speak up when I felt wronged by another person. This was an important lesson for me to learn: friendship is reciprocal. For too long, I had been the giving friend when everyone else took. I began to seek out friendships where we were both mutually invested and generosity was a shared quality.

In college, I continued my quest to take back the “nice”. For the first time in my life, I had uncomfortable and tense confrontations with close friends. I went head-to-head with roommates. I was not afraid to let people know how I was feeling. I was not afraid to tell someone no. It was difficult. I battled feelings of guilt, wondering whether I was being an asshole. Or worse, a “bitch”. (Another word used to regulate women’s ability to stand their ground and have agency in their lives.) I worried that by expressing myself and telling people where I drew the lines, I would lose friends. And sure, some friendships certainly changed. But the important people in my life stuck around. Our relationships became stronger because there were no hoarded resentments and no passive aggressiveness.

I am still fairly generous with my friends. I will pay when we go out from time to time, especially if I know someone is struggling financially. I offer to drive my friends around… or at least pick them up and drop them off at the nearest train station. I enjoy giving them advise and listening to their rants. I offer support when it comes to writing, sexual health information, budget tips, or what’s going on in pop culture. But I also have my boundaries. I am more forthright in expressing when I can and cannot do something. I do not feel the need to apologize for having needs or opinions (as much). And if someone is getting on my last damn nerve, they will know it.

These days, I pride myself on being honest and having great personal boundaries, just as much as I pride myself on being a good friend. I learned to redefine what being a good friend means. Now, I can be generous and loyal without feeling obligated or drained. I also enjoy being a little “selfish”, because I know it is not really selfishness—it is self-care and self-preservation. And as Audre Lorde once said, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence. It is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

Preach!

A client once asked me if I had ever been in therapy before. "Never trust a therapist who hasn't" I responded.

Therapists, like everyone else, struggle with anxiety, depression, parenting, challenging work environments, and relationship issues. We're not immune to the stress of daily life or the challenges from our own childhood. For me the past few weeks have been challenging as I'm in the middle of change and I find myself anxious and emotionally exhausted.

When someone mentions ‘eating disorder’, what comes to mind? Stick-thin, hollow-cheeked white girls with purple bags under their eyes is the typical image people conjure in their minds. It dominates the media: images of Hollywood starlets wearing their clothes large and baggy in an attempt to hide their bodies.

Self-love is the ability to see yourself as a worthy and valuable person regardless of your situation in life.

People often confuse self-love with self-care.  Self-care are the actions you take to support and care for yourself.  Often, self-care is inspired by self-love, but they're not quite the same.  Self-love isn't necessarily attached to any particular action.  Self-love is a perspective, a way of thinking, which permeates every aspect of your life.

by Matthew Desmond for The Washington Post

Patrice is, in many ways, typical. A low-income woman, she’s struggling to find affordable housing in Milwaukee. The 24-year-old single mother of three shares a two-bedroom apartment with her mother, her three young children and her three siblings. It’s on the same block as abandoned buildings and memorials for victims of shootings. The back door does not lock, the kitchen window is broken, the toilet and shower remain stopped up for days, and the apartment crawls with roaches.

Two weeks ago, a diverse group of Black men signed an open letter to the President urging him to consider the needs of Black women and girls in addition to the My Brothers Keeper initiative which focuses primarily on Black and brown boys.

I cannot recall a clear moment when I lost my faith--just that recently all has been coming back to me. Lately, I have found myself praying for miracles. This is a strange occurrence for a progressive graduate student in her 20s now a far cry from the girl growing up near the Ohio river praying for an exodus. As a young child, faith had always been the substance of things hoped for and remained largely invisible--hidden on the other side of the riverbank. While I acknowledge my experience is not universal, I would like to share some lessons I’ve learned about faith, race, and plotting one’s own course.

Kandi Burruss’ conversation with her father on last Sunday’s second episode of Kandi’s Wedding was likely déjà vu for many viewers. For me, it was reminiscent of the many "wha-ha-happened" conversations I have had with my own father. During the scene, the once estranged father and daughter discussed what may or may not have occurred during Kandi’s childhood. Titus Burros, now a pastor, explained there were “undercurrents” of the situation Kandi could not understand.

There are only two positive things that I can remember that he has ever said me unprompted: 1) “I like that,” referring to something I did while driving, and 2) “She has great comedic timing.” The former was nice, but didn’t carry much weight as I have always been pretty assured of my driving skills. I don’t talk an exorbitant amount of trash behind the wheel for nothing. I’ve seen bad driving, and ninety percent of the time, I don’t do it.

Many of my most vivid memories from childhood involve my hair.  Most of those recollections are less than pleasant: floods of tears and insecurity. But I also remember strutting like a perfectly coiffed peacock  after spending hours situated between my mother's knees or leaving the beauty shop.

Why is it that as African-American women our own minds, the media, some of our men and anyone else who doesn’t grasp the indescribable depth of our divinely inspired beauty often try to tell us otherwise?

I'll be the first to say there were times in my life when I looked in the mirror and didn't like what looked back at me. I never reached the point of not loving who I saw, but liking what I saw was a song of a completely different tune. Those things that jiggle, wiggle, drop, flop, and flubber have once been a pain in my, well, I won't even say where, especially since that’s one of my areas of concern. However, even with the jiggle, wiggle, drop, flop and flubber, I believe I’m beautiful. We all are.

Ruby Dee has died at age 91. The actress starred in plays and over 50 films during a career that spanned nearly 70 years.

Born Ruby Ann Wallace in Cleveland, she was a civil rights activist who was awarded the National Civil Rights Museum's Lifetime Achievement Freedom award in 2005 alongside her husband of 56 years, Ossie Davis.

There is nothing that sets me off more than someone asking me when I am going to straighten my hair now that I am natural! I don’t know what it is. Even if they say it in the sweetest way possible, it irks the heck out of me. Yesterday, I was talking with an African American teenage girl. She asked, “When are you going to straighten your hair?” I immediately asked her, “Would you ask a white girl when she was going to make her hair curly?”  She said “no” and insisted that I answer her because she was just curious to know what I would look like with my hair straight.

by Jade Perry

Hey, well... I consider myself... consider myself a... a Black feminist."

I have a confession; I was raised a Black Conservative. In November of 2004, I walked into my sixth grade homeroom with a “Bush 2004” bumper-sticker on my trapper keeper, sheepishly avoiding the eye-contact I could feel from my glaring classmates.

The retrial of a Marissa Alexander was postponed on Tuesday to wait for new legislation inspired by the public outcry over her case.

Alexander had her conviction for shooting at her admittedly abusive husband overturned on appeal.

THOT, THOT, THOT, THOT.

The word buzzes around in my mind like a mosquito. And my attempts to logically swat it away fail; the buzz grows louder and louder. But no matter how much I try, I can’t get away from the blood thirsty judgmental name callers. They just keep biting, drawing blood and inflicting pain.

Johannesburg, South Africa - Gunmen abducted 20 women from a remote settlement in northeastern Nigeria as 272 schoolgirls kidnapped by the terrorist group Boko Haram continued to languish in captivity, according to news reports Monday.

It was unveiled last week at Stylist Magazine‘s Stylist Book Club Inaugural Session that the fabulous actor Lupita Nyong’o secured the film rights to Americanah written by award-winning author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Lupita’s acting abilities mixed with Adichie’s literary vision will make for a spectacular film. As we wait for announcements about cast members and the director, allow me to praise Adichie for Americanah, a literary work that stands on its own.

Until I went natural, I never really had the courage to dig deeper into the history of slavery than what was being taught in schools. Growing up in Suriname in a loving family of five, I had everything a kid could wish for. I can humbly say that we grew up privileged with more than enough opportunities to play sports, travel, learn to play an instrument and obtain a good education. Aware of my blessings, I could hardly consider myself a victim of slavery.

I was socialized within a southern tradition - pumped out to be a "good," southern Black girl who listened to her mommy and daddy, came in on time, and loved her Jesus. I know the good girl narrative well, and I played it better. But, I still wondered. I wondered why being a good girl didn't do what it was supposed to. I wondered why being a good girl, by all of society’s imposed means, didn't save me from myself: my-Black, invisible woman-self.

I've learned to protect my joy. I hold it close like it is my most prized possession because I've fought for it.  I desire to be a joyful  woman, a brilliant woman, a kind and thoughtful woman. But more often than not I find that I am an angry woman.

Anger prevails with regularity because I take personally the assaults launched at Black women daily. Black women can expect misogynoir even in the spaces we enter to seek solace.  I'm saddened by the inevitable silence when we are assaulted, killed, humiliated, or abducted, and knowing that we likely cannot count on those who continually seek our support cuts deeply.

Black women have called on Black men to aid in the dismantling of the systems that oppress us for decades. We have pleaded. We have cajoled,. We have berated.  Yet the intended recipients either ignore or dismiss our voices without thought. And at this time, it is clear that although Black women can light the way and clear the path, this centuries long battle will not be won without the aid of the Black men with whom we live in community.  This is not a concession to patriarchy but a recognition of the depths of its grasp.

If we desire to see a change in anti-sexist consciousness, we need fervent Black male allies.  Moreover, we need Black men who not only acknowledge the importance of feminist thought but who engage it deeply and  contribute.

I have no delusions that recruiting scores of Black men to feminism will not come without difficulties.

Feminism has been a scapegoat for the problems that exist between Black women and men. Many men believe that a Black woman's rebuke of misogyny and male privilege within the community further emasculates Black men, but Black women have long handled with extraordinary care the fragile self-concept of Black men. These displaced resentments should be attributed to the legacy of racism not feminism.

I advocate a divestment from the restoration of Black masculinity, but Black women should never cease to care for Black men. History and destiny links us.



Overlooked are the ways that coming together to disentangle ourselves from the bonds of patriarchy can create stronger communities. A recent letter from a coalition of 200 Black men to the president requesting a My Brothers Keeper program to address the needs of Black girls  and women exemplifies this potential.

Here's the crux of the argument:

If the denunciation of male privilege, sexism and rape culture is not at the center of our quest for racial justice, then we have endorsed a position of benign neglect towards the challenges that girls and women face that undermine their well-being and the well-being of the community as a whole. As Black men we believe if the nation chooses to “save” only Black males from a house on fire, we will have walked away from a set of problems that we will be compelled to return to when we finally realize the raging fire has consumed the Black women and girls we left behind. 

Luke Harris, chief organizer of the letter and associate professor at Vassar College, wrote an op-ed in which he further explains the value of a fundamentally shift in perspective that sees the life outcomes of Black women as more than an afterthought.

Yet this incarnation of the Black male endangerment narrative does more than ignore women and girls.  In a patriarchal society in which male problems typically receive far more attention than those of women, the narrative actually reinforces patterns of beliefs that endanger Black women and girls within their homes, schools, churches and within society at large.  As a result, we know, but do we care that Black girls are much more likely to be suspended than all other girls and most boys as well? We know, but do we care, that Black women have lower average incomes and possess significantly less wealth than both Black men and White women? We know, but do we care, that Black women are disproportionately burdened with child care in situations of acute poverty? 

Harris articulates a Black feminist viewpoint.  Centering Black women's work and experiences enables us to imagine new liberatory discourses. Feminism should not be seen as a threat to manhood but a lifeline--a necessary and important response to the "matrix of domination" that Black men and women must navigate.

At the very least a commitment to feminism demonstrates a desire to listen and learn about the myriad ways a system that promotes violence and dominance disturbs the lives of men and women. That is a very good place to start if we are to avoid conversations that devolve into "good guy" derailments.

Black women should not have to compel Black men to think of their loved ones before they can acknowledge our humanity. I implore Black men to think of the emotional labor Black women expend on their behalf and for our communities. Caring for the Sisters requires a dedication to eliminating oppression that extends beyond simply being a "gentleman."  We're fighting for our lives, and we need your help.

Photo Credit: Shutterstock

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Kimberly Foster is the founder and editor of For Harriet. Email or Follow @KimberlyNFoster

Women make up seven-percent of the total incarcerated population(largely for drug-related offenses); however thirty-percent of incarcerated women are Black. Similarly to our male counterparts, Black women are three times as likely to be incarcerated than White women.

The music Black women create speaks to every mood. While they can tap into our deepest sorrows, they also remind us of the joy that surrounds us. I, personally, owe my favorite artists an enormous debt of gratitude for their contributions to my life. Thy've carried me when things got hard. And here's a list of 20 of the songs that have the power to life any mood. Turn on one of these songs the next time you're feeling down.

I have been working as a sexual health educator for almost three years. I came into this work on accident. Upon graduating, I found myself unemployed, confused, and using up my savings from my last year of college. When my aunt told me the healthcare organization she worked for was hiring, I was desperate. Although my plan was to work in media or entertainment post-graduation, I just wanted a job. When I was hired to work in the organization’s community education and outreach department, I was incredibly happy.

Even though I was hired to educate others about sexuality and sexual health, my job has taught me so much about myself and my own perspectives about sex. More than I ever thought it would.