It has been over a week since Nicki Minaj released the cover art for her new single “Anaconda” and everyone on the Internet lost their shit. Since then, many a meme has been created celebrating/mocking the infamous image of Nicki Minaj’s even more infamous derrière. Chuck Creekmur of AllHipHop.com penned an open letter to the rapper at Mommy Noire, asking Minaj to think about what her actions are telling little girls and boys about sex. This sparked thoughtful, critical responses from Jamilah Lemieux at Ebony and Mychal Denzel Smith at Feministing. Tea & Breakfast created a hilarious satire of male rappers supporting Nicki Minaj with their own risque poses. And earlier this week, Minaj postponed the release date of the single and released an alternative, more conservative cover image for the track.

All of this to say: It is 2014 and we still don’t know what to do with Black women’s bodies, bodily autonomy, and sexualities.

by Kimberle Crenshaw for The New York Times

“ANYTHING that makes life harder for women makes life harder for families and makes life harder for children,” President Obama told an approving crowd last month, at a White House summit meeting on working families.

But this seemingly obvious point is not reflected anywhere in the president’s signature initiative on race — My Brother’s Keeper, a five-year, $200 million program that will give mentorships, summer jobs and other support to boys and young men of color, most of them African-American or Hispanic, and that entirely omits the challenges facing their mothers and sisters. At a meeting in Washington last week to announce new commitments to the program from corporations, school systems and nonprofits, Mr. Obama gave a perfunctory shout-out to “all the heroic single moms out there,” but did not utter the word “girls” even once.

by Kimberly Foster

I can no longer hide my frustration or disgust with the growing use of the word THOT. Particularly concerning is the word's popularity among those who consider themselves to be adults.

The acronym, which stands for That Ho Over There and appears to have originated in Chicago a few years ago, is simply a new iteration of an ancient theme. It is a fresh addition to the long legacy of language created explicitly to demean and degrade women who are seen as promiscuous or sexually irresponsible.

by Aisha Harris for Slate.com

One of the first times I recall being asked the question “Where are you from?” was also one of the first times I realized that being black wasn’t a sufficient answer. For a sixth-grade project, I had to create my own version of a family crest to be presented to the class. The idea was for each student to celebrate her ethnic heritage. I knew my ethnicity, but where were my ancestors from? While almost all of my classmates in my predominantly white Connecticut elementary school could proudly claim that their grandparents—or great-grandparents—had come to America at some point from Ireland, or Italy, or Greece, I was forced to acknowledge that I had no idea where my forebears had lived, as they were brought here against their will and any records of their origins had long since been lost. My grandparents and great-grandparents on both sides of my family were born in the South and the mid-Atlantic—hardly an interesting story, or so I thought at the time.

Via ESPN: Washington, D.C., attorney Michele Roberts has been voted in as the new executive director of the National Basketball Players Association, making her the first woman to head up a major North American sports union.

At the close of a chaotic Monday filled with meetings, conference calls, presentations and an array of emotions, NBPA executive committee members and team player representatives cast 32 votes in favor of Roberts as the successor to the ousted Billy Hunter, six more than she needed for election.

Chris Paul, shown driving against Russell Westbrook in a May playoff game, said newly elected union chief Michele Roberts was "very relatable to a lot of our players. I think that's what really hit home."

by Sil Lai Abrams

This past Friday, veteran sports commentator Stephen A. Smith sparked a firestorm of controversy around statements he made on ESPN’s “First Take” on domestic violence. In his discussion with Skip Bayliss around the two-game suspension the NFL gave Baltimore Ravens running back Ray Rice last week for knocking out and dragging his then fiancee’ (and now wife), Janay Palmer, out of an elevator, Smith attempted to say something insightful on the prevention of domestic violence.

NYPD were caught on film putting a seven-months-pregnant woman in a chokehold following a scuffle over illegal grilling in Brooklyn.

Photos released Monday show a cope leading Rosan Miller, 27, away from a home with his arm around her neck.

Hi, my name is Randie Henderson and I am “one of those black people” but I often find myself wondering “why am I doing this?” I also find myself praying and trying to understand why God did not give me a passion for dolphins, trees, or cars, but instead gave me a passion for justice, education, and resistance—in short, people. This passion is hard, difficult, and personal. I literally internalize every failure, every turned head, and every apathetic shrug from black people who believe I am out of my mind. In exhaustion I try to explain that I do not know how to love them or myself silently and because of this, I do not know how to passively address racism, sexism, and other forms of oppression and terrorism that directly affect me and them daily.

Northwestern University history professor Darlene Clark Hine will receive a National Humanities Medal for outstanding achievements in history Monday at the White House.

President Barack Obama is scheduled to present the award, which recognizes work in history, cultural studies, filmmaking, cultural commentary and historic preservation, to Hine and nine other recipients.

For the past several weeks, the headlines have been about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and social media has been in a fervor. Friends become enemies and make vile accusations at one another over political disagreements. People are passionate about the conflict, and Americans should be. America has given 3 billion dollars in aid each year.  Some people will talk about the conflict to no-end in private, but won't post on social-networks for fear of alienating friends or peers.

In the days since I published this piece, I've come to realize that I made a grievous error in neglecting the potential harm my words could bring to Mr. Garner's family and friends, and to them I offer an apology.

by Nancy Arroyo Ruffin

She smells of hope and new beginnings. Buried in my arms, her tiny hands hang limply against her side as she rests her perfect little face on my shoulders. Rocking her to sleep, I nestle my nose in the folds of her neck until the softness of her skin greets me like fresh linen on a summer day. Our breathing becomes a synchronized melody; our heartbeats become one. I can't believe that in six days my baby will be 2 years old. There was a time when I prayed for moments like this, a time when she seemed like an unattainable dream; something that I yearned for.

There’s a certain attractive, yet destructive danger that comes with seeking definition, footing and stability in others. I know it well. I know the thrill of redefining yourself with every new encounter and with every subsequent relationship. However, I also know the void for sense of self that remains unfilled, calling you back to the last and on to the next.

How often have I heard “But he’s a good man,” “Girl, it could be worse,” and “You just better be thankful that . . .” and how often have I caught myself saying these things?

I, too, was bamboozled into thinking that because he was “good,” I had to be perfect, and being perfect meant you were a "cool girlfriend" and "cool girlfriends" never “nagged,” never had an opinion, lied, and were passive. In truth, he never made me feel like I had to be this way, but years of listening to older and other women had convinced me that sacrificing my full satisfaction was a small price to pay. Listening to these women and hearing their stories had also convinced me that being unfulfilled would be easy to live with because he was “so good,” and “good black men” were a commodity, a rarity--men that didn’t come easy, and black women were supposed to do everything they had to do to keep them.

"I can't breathe."

I held my breath as I watched Eric Garner's pleas for mercy. I didn't make it to the part where he suffocated--hands behind his back, face down--on the sidewalk. The familiarity stings. I knew the ending. Images of murdered black men haunt my thoughts.

This is not your old-fashioned snail mail.  The prevalent use of social media allows users to form friendships and other relationships in interactive settings, and it often conflicts with the politics of internet etiquette.

by Simone Oliver

At first, when her call came, I thought she was calling to console and encourage me in my grief and recovery, but she called to share her own story. Like me, she found that the connection with her pastor as a confidante and spiritual mentor had morphed into a relationship that turned controlling, threatening, and abusive. As we swapped stories we both bemoaned our stupidity, naivety, and had taken to self-loathing. Her plan was to leave town and start all over in another state. My plan – to continue praying that I would miraculously recover from the 28 stab wounds he inflicted resulting in my paraplegia. When the third call came, different woman, different pastor, similar story I knew that there was something bigger going on. Bigger than being “stupid”, “naïve”, or “making poor choices”. Like most women, we had learned how to turn on ourselves, but as I considered their stories, others that I had heard, and things I had witnessed in the church I knew that we could not all be stupid, naïve, or just making poor choices, there had to be another dynamic at play.

A few months ago, ThoughtCatalog published a post titled “Natural Hair For White Girls”. This article started a minor uproar on my Facebook feed from my friends who are considered conscious and ahead of their time.

The vagueness of the title let on that it was probably a click-baiting scam. My curious nature pushed me to go forward and see why people were getting angry. Was the article that infuriating? I wanted to understand.

PHOENIX (AP) - Prosecutors and a Phoenix woman reached a deal Friday that would allow her to avoid prosecution for leaving her two young sons alone in a hot car while she was at a job interview.

Shanesha Taylor, who faced being tried on two felony child abuse charges, said gratitude was the only thing she felt.

Last week, someone responded to one of my posts saying (more or less), “I have always considered myself a woman first and a person of color second.” I read her sentence over and over again as I tried to understand what she meant. But making sense of how she posits herself in the world never came to me. I do not say this to invalidate this woman’s feelings or how she chooses to identify herself, as I don’t know her like that, but I have always been equally Black and Woman, Woman and Black. (And I always will be.)

By Enongo Lumumba-Kasongo
I hope when you read this article’s title you started humming the chorus for Creep by TLC. For the past few years I’ve wanted to create a parody song à la Chescaleigh that changes the lyrics from an anthem for scorned lovers into a song about fearlessly inhabiting my geek identity. As the backlash against cosplayer Chaka Cumberbatch illustrates, a black woman who openly identifies as a geek can pose quite a threat to the status quo. Entering into geek spaces is often a harrowing experience for any woman, but it is especially pronounced for a woman of color. Not only do black women geeks often feel invisible to their non-POC peers as well as geek content creators, but they also face racist and sexist hate-speech online and in person just for pursuing their interests.

Today a casting call for the upcoming N.W.A. movie "Straight Outta Compton" circulated the internet, and it is clear that casting for this film will do nothing to budge Hollywood's systemic racism and classism--which of course is merely a reflection of that which perpetuates our society as a whole.

Whenever things like these make the rounds, someone always attempts to explain away what we're seeing isn't a clear demonstration of white supremacy.

by Elizabeth Dawes Gay

July marks the time of the year when a Black woman’s earnings finally catch up to a white man’s earnings from the previous year - a startling timeline representation of the largest pay gap. Black women only earn 64 cents for every dollar a white man makes. As much as this might spark somber reflection on the economic and racial inequality that persists in our nation, it is also a time of celebration. On July 16th we celebrated the birthday of fearless social justice activist, suffragist, politician, and journalist Ida B. Wells-Barnett.

by Danielle Whitelow

It seems that lately I learn of breaking news via social media. May 28th, 2014 was no exception . After completing my morning workout I grabbed a banana, plopped onto my bed and started scrolling through Facebook on my iPhone. I immediately see that Maya Angelou's death is trending. I Google to verify that the news is true and sigh when I realize it is. More than twenty years have passed since my middle school Language Arts teacher, Ms. Eickelberg, introduced me to Angelou's work. A passionate and thorough teacher Ms. Eick had many of the greats of the African-American literary canon within her personal library. She stored her books at the back of her classroom, immaculately organized, each one stamped with a notary denoting her ownership.

In a long-running affirmative-action case, a three-judge panel of the United States Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit on Tuesday upheld the University of Texas at Austin’s consideration of race as one of many factors in admissions.

“We are persuaded that to deny U.T. Austin its limited use of race in its search for holistic diversity would hobble the richness of the educational experience in contradiction of the plain teachings of Bakke and Grutter,” Judge Patrick E. Higginbotham wrote, referring to two previous affirmative-action rulings by the Supreme Court.

by Lyndsey Ellis

July 16th marks the birthday of eminent journalist, Ida B. Wells, whose early leadership in the civil rights movement and endless fight to shed light on injustices on behalf of women and the Black community makes her an unforgettable champion of truth. Whether you want to get familiar with the renowned female crusader’s life for the first time or you need to get re-acquainted with her work, be prepared to see into the compassionate heart and brilliant mind of one of history’s greatest figures.

by Julianne Robertson

I received a priceless gift one afternoon as I left my office to grab a bite to eat. Before I focused on the temperature, or the people jostling along the sidewalk, or even my appetite, my attention was drawn to a man sitting in front of the building in a motorized wheelchair. He had an oxygen tank beside him which was hooked up to an outlet in a bank lobby next door. As I walked by him, as is my custom, I made eye contact, smiled, and said “hello.”

As a teenager, I realized that I couldn't connect to today's black music at all. Until I entered high school, I pretended to like rap and R&B to fit in, then I met a Hispanic girl who introduced me to alternative rock and I turned my back on black music. Little did I know social media would led me back to it.

by Nicole Sek

Uhhh 30 feels utterly spectacular! I’ve finally arrived. I look around me and I can breathe a sigh of relief because I’m surrounded by people who truly make my heart sing. Many of my friends have celebrated or will soon celebrate the dawn of a new day: the thrilling thirties. And, if 30 is any indication of what’s to accompany the 40s, 50s, 60s, and so forth—I’m totally up for the joyride.

by Danielle Monique

When I was thirteen years old I wrote a poem titled “To The Brothers.” Full of the zeal and naïveté typical of the young, I poured out my feelings to the Black Man. I waxed eloquently on what the evil of White Supremacy had done to him. My Grandma loved the poem and eagerly shared it with my aunts. Next thing I know I’m pressed to read it at church for Black History Month.

by Viviane Rutabingwa

Recently I was involved in what I will hesitantly refer to as the most genuinely honest conversation that I have had across black/white racial lines about race. A very close girlfriend had asked us, 4 of her girlfriends compromised of three Black girls and one Asian – already close friends, to go over to her house to meet her visiting white sister-in-law for the first time. We shall refer to the sister in law as Heather.

Alice Coachman, the first black woman to win an Olympic gold medal, died at age 90 in Albany, Ga., on Monday morning.

Coachman, the 1948 Olympic high jump champion, suffered a stroke in April and died at an Albany hospital, according to Albany’s NBC affiliate.

by Tara Hughee

Sadly, on numerous occasions I have heard women claim that they don’t have many female friends because they are catty, disloyal, and full of drama. They claim to prefer the friendship of men because they are amicable, loyal, and drama-free. I find this troubling on many levels, as it reminds me of patriarchal dichotomous thinking which implies that women are the negative opposites of men.

I don’t know about everyone else but I love to see black people accomplish their dreams and set new standards. I love these kinds of accomplishments so much that I find myself growing attached and extremely proud of them—that is, until they say or do something incredibly ignorant.

Following this ignorance I find that I have to check myself and evaluate what it is I expect and want from them. In the case of Pharrell, I’ve narrowed down 3 things I should have understood before I expected rational thought from him when he appeared on Oprah's OWN network for an interview back in April. (Everything that followed his elation about his song "Happy" had me stumped) and his thoughts on Feminism when he interviewed in the UK.

by Dr. Kenda McDow

I heard the verdict in my car, driving from my birth home, Washington, DC to my new home, Baltimore, MD. I was stunned, my mouth agape and my mind muddled.

Not guilty.

by Evette Dionne

As I slid off the examination table after my annual pap smear, my gynecologist said the same thing he always did: “All looks good down there, Evette. No news is good news.” His words never failed to reassure me. I’d never received the dreaded phone call telling me I had a gynecological issue, and a part of me thought that’s how it always would be.

It turned out I was wrong.

by Quanisha Smith

by Mlilo Mpondo

I found my daughter fiddling with her vagina in the bathtub. The said vagina will here forth be referred to as a pony. It is far too cute to be burdened with the responsibilities that come with having a vagina. She was in the bath and suspiciously quiet. Bath time is always her opportunity to work my last nerve, so the silence was unheard of. I found her chubby hand beneath clear water fiddling with whichever part of her body stays hidden below her plump belly. I soon found that what had her attention was her pony.

Black women are brilliant. Read their words.

Street Harassment: The Black Girl's Bat Mitzvah by Maya Francis

Street harassment, in its own sick way, was the way I figured out I wasn’t a little girl any more. Even though, at 15 years old, I was very much a child. It’s almost a rite of passage. The Black girl’s Bat Mitzvah.

If you’ve ever followed the conversations on Twitter, you’re probably pretty versed on what street harassment is. It’s when some mouth breathing asshole decides that a great way to get a woman’s attention is to honk his horn at her. Or make passes at her while she’s walking down the street minding her own damn business. Or physically stop her. Or call her a cunt when she doesn’t give him the response he wants. He “deserves.” Or worse.

There are, of course, levels to this shit. Some of these idiots are harmless. But — and fellas please pay attention — when it’s dark and/or you’re alone, it can be very hard to differentiate between harmless idiot and fucking criminal.

via AZCentral.com The Arizona State University professor who claimed she was abused by university police during her arrest pleaded guilty to one count in a court hearing in Mesa on Wednesday morning and had other charges against her dismissed.

We celebrate Black hip hop artists, jazz players, R&B singers and Pop artists, but what about our classically trained Black string players?

by Anita Badejo

At first glance, Black Girl Travel seems to be like any other American international travel club, just one that caters exclusively to black women. But buried toward the bottom of its About Us page is a fuzzy YouTube video that indicates a wider problem.

The video is a defense of the company — directed at “haters” who have criticized Black Girl Travel for encouraging black women to date men in other countries.

I’ve always been a sprinter. As a child, my long legs would dash across an open field or down the asphalt of my neighborhood street determined to be the first to slap the hand of the person acting as our finish line. In high school, during my brief stint at track and field, my coach encouraged me to be a long distance runner, but I insisted on the thrill of the 100-yd dash. I didn’t see the benefit in the endurance and strength required for 800 meters.

When I became intentional about beginning my healing journey, I took a similar approach--attempting to sprint to the finish line called “healed.” As if I had disappeared into a lab and placed my psyche under the microscope, I dove into very deep waters, unaware of my capacity and how it was mismatched with my ferocious quest to heal. With the help of therapy and deep self-reflective work through writing, I unearthed long repressed memories that floored me.
I was ill prepared for the unexpected grief and momentary rage that had me wondering if I would ever smile again. Determined to heal myself and recover what was taken from me as a survivor of child abuse, I went full throttle into my process, trying to mine my past for my lost parts, relentless to recover what had been taken from me.

I was finally doing the work and needed to make up for lost time. My wounds took center stage and after a while of processing may past in that way, I became overwhelmed. I thought that by looking at every memory, every hurt, reading every book, I wouldn’t hurt so much and somehow fix it all--I was wrong.

Whether I went inside myself with a bulldozer or an ice pick, what I uncovered surprised, terrified, depressed, angered, and at times even disgusted me. Eventually those heavy and dark emotions gave way to something sweet, powerful, resilient, and fiercely loving. I learned that I could face my pain.

I learned that those emotions and memories would not kill me. I learned that I had what it took to make it through and heal. Healing from trauma is not about fixing one’s self. It is about tending to our wounds, then giving them time to breathe.

Like a child being shooed away from picking a healing scab, sometimes we have to just let it be. Healing is about recognizing our wholeness in the face of deep pain, knowing that scars mean that I’ve been wounded, but they also mean that I’ve healed.

Now, when I’m doing those “deep dives,” I know I must prepare myself and make sure I am taking care of my body in addition to my mind and spirit-- something I’ve learned many trauma survivors struggle with. I have also learned to recognize when I’ve been triggered and am responding to life from a space where I feel small, reactionary, uneasy and tense in my body. This work is a continuous journey, but the most rewarding and fruitful work I’ve ever done.

The following tools are ones I’ve learned and practiced both in my healing work and in my life. They support my “training” in living my life as a whole human being who is worthy of love.

Take care of your self

I got sick a few times early on in this process. My sleep was often interrupted by flashbacks. I ate a lot of unhealthy comfort foods and ignored the signs from my body indicating its need for more care. Eating nutritious foods, getting a good night’s sleep and exercising are practices that maintain a certain level of wellness in the body and during times of deep emotional processing, an act of self-love.

Paying close attention to how your body feels will help you to know if you are doing too much and where you may need to make adjustments regarding how you’re caring for it.

Set boundaries
For many years I struggled to set boundaries with others. I either said “yes” when I wanted to say “no” or I avoided the issue completely. I wasn’t strong enough to say what I really wanted or needed or I wasn’t clear. Learning to be in touch with what I feel and what I need has been a huge and important step for me in setting boundaries. Honoring myself enough to let others know what my needs are and deciding what I will do to care for myself when others don’t honor them has been vital to me feeling safe in my body and to my healing.

Find a good therapist
There is no way I could have done this level of work without the support of my therapist. I am grateful that she is compassionate, wise and that my wholeness is important to her. If you are processing a painful past, hopefully you are already doing this work with a therapist. If you are not, I highly suggest finding someone who will support you in your healing journey. You don’t have to do this alone and you shouldn’t. You deserve the support.

Have someone you can call anytime of the night or day
There were many nights when I thought the tears wouldn’t come to an end and those who were willing to answer my phone calls at any time of day or night where anchors in my storm. Having a loving witness to our pain is sometimes the very thing we need to help us transition from a rough patch. At times this can be a therapist, but if you’re not able to access them or if you’re not seeing one, a good and trustworthy friend is the next best option.

Do something that brings you joy
One thing that trauma does is limits our capacity to experience a range of emotions fully, especially good ones like joy and peace. I am personally very familiar with the emotions of fear and anger.

I am sometimes hyper-vigilant, preparing myself for the next attack or on the lookout for the next bad thing to happen. Now, with increased awareness, I deliberately seek out experiences that facilitate true joy and happiness. Something as simple as going for a walk in nature and allowing myself to take in its beauty and wonder allows me to tap into the ever-giving stream of goodness inside and all around me.
Celebrate yourself
In the heavy lifting that is the healing journey, I took care of myself. I asked for help and slowly but surely, the persistent sadness began to lift. I was able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Joy came more easily. Anger, an emotion that used to dominate and floor me, now informs me. I have the tools I need when I fall back into sadness or self-sabotage, which I sometimes do.

Healing work is some of the hardest work you’ll ever do. Touching those tender spaces inside you is an act of bravery and radical and fierce self-love. Wherever you are on your healing journey, you deserve to celebrate yourself. You deserve respect. You deserve to be supported and loved.

Please remember that during this times, when a new you is immerging and you are setting boundaries, honoring yourself in ways you never have, you may have to release relationships and people who will not celebrate this new person you are becoming. Bless them and send them on their way.

The Buddha stated, “You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.” In your commitment to healing, you show yourself the greatest demonstration of your love and care for yourself.

by Neisha M. Washington

“It’s not that I don’t want love. It’s just that I don’t know if I can survive it,” I said aloud, mentally perusing my internal rolodex of broken-hearted black women--their stories brimming with the grit and grief of a Toni Morrison novel. Too often many of us learn to recognize love by its absence, and I had seen my fair share of empty. Growing up love seemed like nothing more than a tool to kill and keep women alive.  At this point I could count the number of love stories I’d seen on two hands while the cautionary tales accumulated without end.