by Denise Nichole Andrews

Beyoncé’s visual album, Lemonade raises questions of infidelity and betrayal. Though these messages resonate with the masses, our identities are not solely defined by men. We exist beyond these relationships and exchanges. We are queens, after all: grandmothers, mothers, daughters, and sisters. Lemonade celebrates the multidimensional facets of black women. The complexities of womanhood and one’s journey from daughter to mother is represented through each song, image, and lyric and ultimately, empowers women to thrive. The courage and bravery of the queens who raised us serve as reminders of our own magic and excellence. These legacies are passed down from generation to generation in what becomes a powerful symbol of womanhood. These are six lessons and lyrics that remind us of our worth and value in a society that continues to undermine us.
Women must stand up for each other.

“If we're gonna heal, let it be glorious. 1,000 girls raise their arms. Do you remember being born? Are you thankful for the hips that cracked? The deep velvet of your mother and her mother and her mother? There is a curse that will be broken.” 

The ensemble of women in Beyoncé’s Lemonade represents the diversity of Black women. The fashion, makeup, hair, and choreography unifies each woman as an extension of one another. Though our stories, styles, and backgrounds may differ, we are joined by our experiences. We carry burdens and responsibilities that are unique to our upbringings and classifications. While we celebrate the beauty of one another, we are often discarded by society. As a result, Black women must continue to defend one another and combat the injustices that attempt to dehumanize us. We must also guide future generations to do the same.

Respect for our elders is of the utmost importance.

“Grandmother, the alchemist, you spun gold out of this hard life, conjured beauty from the things left behind. Found healing where it did not live. Discovered the antidote in your own kit.  Broke the curse with your own two hands. You passed these instructions down to your daughter who then passed it down to her daughter.” 

The representation of women in Lemonade spans generations. Lemonade highlights the beauty and diversity of black womanhood while spotlighting the individuality that we each possess. By capturing the fullness of our legacies through honoring generations of grandmothers, mothers, and daughters, Lemonade becomes a visual history of our ancestry. The legacies of our elders are regarded as highly influential and honoring their contributions is essential to the formation of our identities.
 

There is no “right way” to be a woman. Our experiences vary and they are all important.

“You look everything like your mother. Film star beauty. How to wear your mother's lipstick. You go to the bathroom to apply your mother's lipstick. Somewhere no one can find you.”

Younger generations look up to those with more wisdom, experience, and influence. We look to our mothers and grandmothers for guidance and assurance. The depiction of mothers and daughters in Lemonade is represented through emotional expressions of attachment, adoration, and companionship. Beyoncé’s own daughter, Blue Ivy makes multiple appearances, both in the womb and with her mother in home videos that show the true, unfiltered nature of motherhood.

These visuals add a personal element while showing the multiple stages of womanhood through an evolution of self. Beyoncé's growth and example will prove to be beneficial to Blue Ivy's upbringing, just as her mother was for her. By examining these transformations, women are able to appreciate the relationships that they have with their own mothers, daughters, and sisters. When mothers encourage their daughters to be who they are, they are restoring their power and agency. Though others will test them and try to rob them of their worth, they will look to their mothers for inspiration, and remember that they are strong.

Recognizing history is part of honoring our legacy.

“The most disrespected person in America is the black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the black woman. The most neglected person in America is the black woman.”
-Malcolm X, Lemonade

The Malcolm X speech that was sampled in Lemonade highlights the plights of Black women throughout history by amplifying the continuous oppression of our mothers, grandmothers, and daughters. Though this speech was delivered in 1962, it couldn’t be more relevant. Black women continue to fight for justice, accountability, and equality and face hatred, violence, and discrimination. Our great grandmothers were enslaved. Our grandmothers were stripped of their rights and treated like second class citizens. Our mothers dealt with the aftermath of the civil rights movement. As their granddaughters and daughters, we are left to sort out the suffering of our communities.

Acknowledging these failings promotes change and accountability which is why Lemonade highlighted the tragic losses of mothers whose children were killed at the hands of police.




We are not victims. We are resilient.

“I had my ups and downs, but I always find the inner strength to pull myself up. I was served lemons, but I made lemonade. My grandma said "Nothing real can be threatened." True love brought salvation back into me. With every tear came redemption and my torturer became my remedy. So we're gonna heal. We're gonna start again.”

Though Black women face many obstacles, we confront them head on. We do not look at ourselves as weak, broken, or incapable. Beyoncé voiced many relatable issues in Lemonade including concerns about identity, family, relationships, and society. By voicing these problems, she acknowledged that imperfection is part of life. When we remember the lessons that our mothers and grandmothers taught us, we overcome. When we apply their teachings, we prevail. In doing so, we take ownership of our lives. Beyoncé’s ability to reflect this message with her album shows that what is personal and private has the ability to transcend and transform the individual. When we open ourselves up and allow others to see our truth, we are taking a stand. We are taking control of our stories and narratives by defining our experiences for ourselves.

Embrace your natural artistry, beauty, and creativity. Love who you are.

“Your mother is a woman and women like her cannot be contained.”

Lemonade showcased the beauty, artistry, and creativity of Black women. Black women were represented as complex. Though society tries to label us and confine us, we have learned to celebrate one another regardless. Each of our identities are rooted in history and part of identity requires building upon the contributions of those who have influenced us. Self-love and acceptance must be passed down in order to break damaging cycles, so we affirm ourselves.

Being a mother doesn’t mean that life is over. Being a daughter doesn’t mean you don’t have control. We each share these responsibilities and must encourage one another throughout.

Despite the obstacles that present themselves, Black women continue to break barriers, challenge conceptions, and blaze trails. Lemonade reminds each of us to embrace our differences and to honor the fullness of our heritage with the utmost respect and regard for those before us. When we remember to praise the queens who raised us, we, too, become heirs to the throne.

Photo: Screenshot/Parkwood Entertainment

Denise Nichole Andrews is an MFA Candidate at Lindenwood University. She explores gender, race, and popular culture through writing, photography, and music. Follow her blog at: denisenicholeandrews.com

by Ashleigh Shackelford 

When the 88th Annual Academy Awards premiered this year, almost everyone had opinions about Chris Rock’s opening monologue. Chris Rock undoubtedly surprised audiences with his attitude in addressing the #OscarsSoWhite movement and the lack of diversity within the Oscar nominees this year. From his bit about how Black people have nothing better to protest right now, to chastising Jada Pinkett Smith for her activism - it was a shit show. The performance did nothing to radically further the conversation around racism (especially in Hollywood), and it actually made white people feel comfortable in their racism.

Chris made commentary like, "when we were getting raped and lynched…” to contextualize how different it is now for us as people of color, particularly Black people, to navigate a racist society. When white people roared with laughter as Chris said, “when your grandmothers were swinging from a tree...", it showed how white people are so desensitized to our pain that they will laugh at the violence they’ve caused us. They’ll even laugh when we laugh at our pain because it affirms the mythologies around our pain tolerance and our inhumanity. We aren’t seen as human beings, so, of course, when we’re murdered, it’s hilarious.




This kind of commentary speaks volumes to how white people react to our trauma. Only if we make jokes and utilize sarcasm, can we open up dialogues on the violence we experience. From The Today Show to Saturday Night Live, to The Jeffersons, to Blackish, we utilize comedy as a pacifier for white people. And often we use these comedic entertainment sources for our viewership and coping as well, but with the participation coming heavily from white audiences, things get skewed and our truth telling through humor becomes distorted.

Franchesca Ramsey utilizes her multiple platforms to engage folks on identity politics and current events. On her web series MTV Decoded, Ramsey often utilizes satirical performances to talk about issues of race. For example, one of her episodes discusses the problem with Kylie Jenner’s cornrows. This episode, as educational and quirky as it was, continues to leave the accountability piece out when it comes to addressing structural racism. Using humor and satire to make audiences learn about racism and have a good time easily translates to the maintenance of power.

Let me be clear, though. I’m not blaming Franchesca, or any other Black comedian, for racism or anti-Black violence. I’m saying that the comedy in which Black people (and people of color) discuss the violence and trauma we suffer because of white supremacist power systems can read as respectable way of engaging conversations on real shit.

Katt Williams posted a video challenging fellow comedian Kevin Hart to a battle in comedy and $5 million. This challenge seemed to be predicated on Kevin Hart’s success that has often been critiqued for being built upon pleasing white audiences. Katt states at the end of the video, “And since you not a puppet, don’t bring no white people with you then.” This beef between both comedians calls into question Kevin Hart’s platform that has been intentionally structured through white palatability while Katt Williams has not had similar opportunities to have such a platform. Although many Black comedians within white media or white controlled platforms are often seen through a gaze of minstrelsy, Kevin Hart’s career seems to be taking off because he is the Black guy white people can feel comfortable with. Hart stars in big box office movies twice a year with the same boring plots, the same anti-Black frail masculinity jokes, and a bigger paycheck.

This article isn’t about dragging Kevin Hart or understanding Katt Williams’ explicit reasons for this challenge, but, rather, to add nuance on how comedy is a way for Black people to maintain subordination within an anti-Black society, often for capitalistic means/survival. The scariest part about using comedy as an entry point for conversations about our lived violence and trauma is that there is a psychological warfare happening between your truth and the audience’s truth. You're making jokes about your survival and your day-to-day reality as a Black person, and white people are laughing at your existence and pain. That shit is violence. And at some point, you're actively participating in it so you can survive white supremacist capitalism while also trying to engage in what you love.

Satire is seemingly a white man's game but also a tool Black folks have utilized for survival and creativity. At what point do we realize that comedy and satire are also forms of respectability? When do we realize that satire is also a way to feed our oppressor's voyeurism while they actively ignore their privilege and power from the audience? How can we responsibly engage in satire and humor as healing, education, and entertainment without whiffs of minstrelsy?

When looking at the history of how comedy has evolved to be a platform to degrade, mock, and dehumanize Black people when the stage is created and built for white people, it’s imperative that we critique the platforms that offer us Black comedians and Black comedy and question what exists for us and what may exist to maintain palatability. When our pain and the violence against us is never inherently funny or comedic, how is it possible for us to still use comedy as a coping mechanism and learning strategy without engaging in oppressive paradigms?

It’s required that we become hypercritical of comedy because it is used so often to disparage our humanity and pain, while also fostering a level of comfort with our traumatic experiences. But let’s also challenge ourselves to cultivate an environment that allows for multiple forms of accepted and protected platforms to engage conversations on structural power systems. While anger is often portrayed as the antithesis to comedy and love, let’s challenge the idea that anger is not only a suitable way of addressing these issues but also a means for change. Our navigation of these systems requires us to maintain multiple methodologies for coping, healing, survival, and justice, and that should include more than just agreeable forms of comedy and satire that often maintain instead of transform our political understandings.

Photo: Associated Press

Ashleigh Shackelford is a queer, agender, Black fat femme writer, artist and cultural producer. Ashleigh is a contributing writer at Wear Your Voice Magazine and For Harriet. She is currently working on her M.A. in Africana Studies at Morgan State University. Read more at Facebook.com/AshleighShackelford.

by Michelle Talbert

“Have you heard that new diss track going at Jay Z?”

“Who dissed Jay?”

“Bey.”

In the fewer than seven days that have elapsed since the release of Beyoncé’s already-legendary ode to Black womanhood, by way of the visual album Lemonade, the meme-loving world has set their sights on clowning her husband Jay Z, while others are skewering him as a philanderer, cheating on the Queen Bey herself.

What is going on here? Jay and Bey are the King and Queen, respectively, of the well-manicured, highly and tightly controlled media image. Beyoncé has filmed now multiple surprise videos and albums in cities across the globe (as a former corporate lawyer, I must admit that I would love to take a gander at her non-disclosure agreements). Hell, they got married in the middle of New York City and no one caught wind of the pending nuptials until the day of. I mean, yeah, there was that one time in the elevator after the Met Gala caught on hidden camera, but that was neither Bey nor Jay, that was Bey’s baby sister, Solange, wildin’ out. And neither publicly addressed the altercation or its cause. Until now...possibly.




Why would they consciously air their "dirty laundry" on screen for the salacious-rumor-loving, meme-creating, 24-hour news-cycle-watching, social media consuming, hairpin-TwitterFinger-tweeting public to devour and spit back out into their faces? And why the hell would the King of Bed Stuy’s Marcy Projects, a bad mother-shut-yo-mouf rapping, swagalicious, mogul like Jay Z allow himself to have his improprieties displayed, dissected, rebutted, rebuffed and exposed not by an enemy but by his wife?

Why can’t you see me? Everyone else can

Lemonade debuted Saturday night. I chose to pay homage to our recently lost Prince Rogers Nelson, by going to see Purple Rain at a theater here in Miami, opting to watch, more like consume and absorb, Lemonade on Sunday.

Sunday I awoke to a text message from my cousin, a long-time fan of Jay, also from New York...and a guy: “So to be clear hov cheated on Bey? Is that what happened?” My first thought was, “Huh? What? Wow! What did Bey say/sing?”

If you've not yet seen or heard the album, it is a beautifully woven tapestry of experiences, exhibited through stunning visuals, incredible music and the gut-wrenching yet graceful poetry of warsan shire. Lemonade is an unapologetic love letter that recounts the experiences of many a Black woman who have loved a man--be it father, lover, son--and lost them, whether by betrayal or the hand of another. The album unfolds as a journey from intuition of possible wrongdoing to confirmed betrayal to forgiveness and redemption.

As my sister For Harriet writer Diana Veiga says, “ Men are mostly absent on Lemonade. But they are there.” And the one man who is there front and center is Beyoncé’s husband, Jay Z.

Beyoncé is an artist. She may not send a subtextual tweet or respond to the myriad criticisms hurled her direction via a rebuttal press conference or media interview, but she’ll let you know how she feels, eventually. Just a sampling of exhibits A through, hell I’ve lost count, include: Y’all haters corny with that Illuminati mess, she likes her Negro’s nose with Jackson5 nostrils and her baby heir with baby hair and Afros. Check and mate. Any questions?

So it should come as no surprise that Beyoncé used her art as the vehicle to share the impact of witnessing her mother’s marriage dissolve, her own husband’s infidelity and other stories from her circle of sister-friends--remember the domestic abuse her sister Kelly Rowland shared that she’d endured?

After watching Lemonade, the one takeaway that appears evident to all is that Bey has been betrayed. She’s been cheated on. Lied to. Broken hearted. And the offending party was the love of her life. The offender was Jay Z. Jay Z, her husband of eight years and father to her daughter Blue Ivy. The man she’s known since she was 16. Her collaborator. Her muse. The man with whom she’s built an empire valued in the billions, with a ‘B.’

So what are you gonna say at my funeral, now that you've killed me? Here lies the body of the love of my life, whose heart I broke without a gun to my head

Marriage is a legal and spiritual bond. Two people coming together, vowing to love, honor, cherish, ride or die, be each other’s Bonnie and Clyde. However its worded, the mutual understanding is that they will be true to and truthful with one another. When a spouse breaks those vows, whether by infidelity, irresponsibility, or any of a myriad of actions that put the other partner at risk, the pain runs deep. Some marriages weather the storms, others do not. The Carters have clearly chosen the former option for their union.

Lemonade contains two songs that made me sob. "Sandcastles," in which Jay and Bey are shown more intimately than ever before seen by the public and "All Night Long", the quintessential song to, “touch up and rub up and feel up, all night long,” on your love after you’ve made it through. The sweet taste of sugar as foil to the bitterness of the lemons.

If you try that shit again you gon' lose your wife. *Flings wedding band at camera...high-step struts off*

As a woman who has been married twice and betrayed by the man I thought was the love of my life, only to have him realize what he’d lost after I walked away, "Sandcastles" struck me so deeply and unexpectedly that I couldn’t contain myself and my emotions freely flowed from me. In the video we peek in on a fresh faced Beyoncé belting her raw pain, barefoot, sans glitz, glam, shiny leotard or her ubiquitous locks-blowing fan, cross legged on the floor of a simple room at a piano, alone, hurt, cut to her core by the man who promised vowed, before God and witnesses to love her, to hold her above all others, to protect her heart.

But we also see something else. We see the man, the husband, Jay Z, caressing her. Holding her. Gazing into her eyes, closed mouth, as she speaks her pain. Shares her words. her wounds, her thoughts, about him and his actions. He’s saying implicitly, “I’ve hurt you, but in the process I’ve also hurt myself. I’m about to lose my all, my everything, my wife. What have I done? And more importantly,what can I do to fix it?”

After belting out, with cracked, emotional-filled notes, “Pictures snatched out the frame, scratched out your name and your face,” she sees standing before her husband, in his brokenness. “I made you cry, when I walked away.” She asks him to show her his scars. Let her see that he’s hurt himself in this process. Then and only then will she return to him and try, again.

And what we see in "Sandcastles" is that he, Jay Z, that badass drug dealer turned rapper mogul, empresario, replacin’ women Jigga, Hov, shows his scars to his wife, to keep his wife. To save his marriage. To save his life.




In an epic Facebook post that everyone, but especially men, should read, Chicago poet and self-proclaimed "Jay Z head," Kwabena Foli speaks from his perspective, as a Black Man, on the impact of the moment Jay bears his soul, his scars, dare I say, his true manhood to Bey on screen for all to see,

Jay Z made pimp culture cool (not to mention the older men in my life who modeled it before me). Pimp culture can be summed up pretty much in this - i believe women need me and exist for me. Like, a woman’s value is only as much as you can use her for…

When [Beyoncé] looks at Jay Z and sings…

and your heart is broken

cuz I walked away

Show me your scars

and I won’t walk away

I know I promised that I couldn’t stay

but every promise don’t work out that way

and the way he appeared to breathe all that in as he laid at her feet had my mind blown. This is the creator of Big Pimpin! This is the guy with the hottest chick in the game wearing his chain! Now the dude I’m looking at is vulnerable - yet not embarrassed by it. He looks straight into the camera at one point like, “Yea. I got it all wrong. She doesn’t need or exist for me. I need and exist for her.

If we’re going to heal, let it be glorious

We will likely never know what happened between Jay and Bey, nor truthfully is it any of our business what happens between any husband and wife. Jay Z seems to love his wife. He supports her artistic expression. And he is her ride or die. Whatever autobiographical elements Bey intertwined into the universal narrative of betrayal, shared pain, and the possibility of forgiveness, Shawn Carter, her husband, Jay Z, is there, next to her, and the onscreen result is, in fact, glorious.

Photo: Screenshot/Parkwood Entertainment

Michelle Y. Talbert is a regular contributor to For Harriet. She is a recovering attorney, author and host of the Her Power Hustle Podcast, who helps women create powerful connections in business and love. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter. 

by Bee Quammie

I’ve almost always been scatterbrained. As a child, I thought that multi-tasking and thinking two steps ahead at all times were the keys to success. That habit was never shaken as an adult. I can present a calm exterior, but that shell casing generally encapsulates a mental and emotional thunderstorm - clouds of ideas, lightening bolt plans, and showers of worries at any given moment.

Various forms of art have also helped me to quiet that internal storm while embracing clarity and mindfulness. When I look at the multitude of open tabs on my laptop and get overwhelmed because they’re ALL necessary, I put that sucker to sleep and indulge in a well-written book to cleanse my mental palate. When the clutter of my physical space starts to mirror the clutter of my mental space, music helps me to focus and clean up both aspects of life.

Moving my body with dance gives me a different kind of stress release and clarity. I’ve studied all kinds of dance - from ballet to jazz to Afro-Cuban - and all of my instruction has been very methodological:

1. Learn the steps. 
2. Practice and perfect the steps. 
3. Take a four-count or an eight-count and be sure to switch moves at the appropriate time. 
4. Rinse and repeat. 

Even in dance, I was literally thinking two steps ahead, multitasking to make sure my mind was ready for the next moves my body had to do, and counting along to ensure I hit each one at the right time.

When I stepped into my first West African dance class, I was ready for more of the same. Then all my expectations shattered.




The first thing the instructor told the class was “Everything in this room is a conversation between the dancer and the drummer. The most important thing here is that you need to be a good listener.” I quickly learned that gone were the days of counting to eight and switching from a kick ball change to a pivot turn. I experienced a brand new level of mindfulness.

We learned moves from the seductive Yankadi and energetic Macru dances of the Sousous people of Guinea, and I felt a spark in the depths of my blood memory. These weren’t moves I had done before, but my waist, hips, arms and feet seemed to instinctively find their proper places as I danced. After being taught a few moves, the instructor told us it was time to put what we had learned into a sequence. There was no counting to four or eight. Instead, we took our cue on when to start, change moves, or stop based on the drumming circle that accompanied us. During the drumming rhythms, one of the three drummers would hit a “break,” a distinct change in the beat that was a signal for us to begin dancing. We would keep doing that move until we heard another break, then we would switch to our next move. Since the timing of the breaks were entirely up to the drummer, we had no choice but to focus on the move we were doing in the moment because we couldn’t predict when we’d be doing the next. Eventually, we realized that our role wasn’t just to flawlessly execute our moves, but to ensure that we paid attention to the conversation our drummers were having with us.

After class I sat in my car, sweaty, sore, and rejuvenated. I had a revelation. For the first time in a long time, I practiced mindfulness. I stayed in the moment without deviating to the future. I took note of how my body moved and felt in the present without worrying about what it was supposed to do next. The drums forced me to focus solely on what they were saying in the particular moment, and reminded me that my dancing was only half of the artistic expression. I was mindful, grounded, and present, and my brain didn’t feel as tired as it usually does.

The Centre for Mindfulness Studies in Toronto, Ontario defines mindfulness as “a non-judgmental way of paying attention in the present moment, and leads to increased personal awareness and clarity.” The Centre has created a special Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy program aimed at helping those coping with anxiety and depression, but mindfulness is something that has a wide array of benefits.

From practicing meditation to simply taking a few moments to stop, breathe, and bring your thoughts back to the here and now, mindfulness can do amazing things for your overall health and wellbeing. Research shows that just a few benefits of practicing mindfulness include reducing stress, increasing focus, and decreasing emotional reactivity. Members of the Marine Corps and other branches of the U.S. military have also felt power of mindfulness. Psychology Today published a helpful article with easy ways to fit mindfulness into your day. It doesn’t take as much effort as you may think, but these small actions will yield some big results.




I’m gradually working towards being able to successfully meditate on a regular basis. For now, I get a regular reminder to be mindful with each dance class I attend. Every week, I have the chance to reset my brain - to leave yesterday in the past, to leave the next hour or day or week in the inevitable future. I have to focus on me in the moment. Every week, I’m a part of a conversation with my ancestry, my body, and my drums. And every week I’m proud of the fact that I was fully present for it all.

Photo: Shutterstock

Bee Quammie is a Toronto-based writer and founder of ‘83 To Infinity and The Brown Suga Mama. Recognized by Black Enterprise & the Black Canadians Awards for her digital work, Bee aims to live '83 To Infinity's motto: "It's never too late to learn something new, do something new, or be someone new." Follow her on Twitter at @beequammie.

To those I offended,

There are many aspects of my earlier column for which I would like to apologize. I was accurately accused of using Ciara’s circumstance as a springboard to address issues that do not directly mirror her own. In media today, writers sometimes pounce on current events and use them to frame broader ideas. In my zeal for timeliness, I did not give the issues of sexism, single parenting, and domestic violence the care, context, or empathy such subjects deserve and require.

My contrition extends to my leaving room for any inference that I condone or encourage abused woman (or men) to remain in tormented entanglements or remain silent about them. Supporting victims of domestic violence has been my life’s work, and I am distraught to think that my words could be interpreted as blaming the victim or sympathizing with the abuser.




Because I’ve written often about the dynamics between my parents, I neglected to provide enough context for my position to make sense to those new to my work. I should have explained that after the shooting, my father never again abused my mom verbally or physically. This was incredibly lucky, and perhaps unusual. It was careless of me not to acknowledge the danger of violence that many people continue to face after leaving.

To the women, especially the single moms, who let me know how wrong I was, I ask your forgiveness. You have always had my respect and admiration, and I am terribly sorry this wasn’t expressed earlier.

Finally, I would like to say to Black Twitter, keep doing what you are doing. I appreciate your criticism and even your ridicule. I believe these things to be constructive for democracy and good for the soul. You gave me reason to check myself, and I am better for it.

Yolanda Young

Photo: Shutterstock

Yolanda Young is an attorney, activist, and columnist. Her work appears in The Guardian, NBCBLK, The Washington Post, and USA Today. Her childhood memoir On Our Way to Beautiful was published by Random House. The author provides cultural, legal and political analysis for TV Ones NewsOneNow and CNN.

by Kimberly Foster @KimberlyNFoster

In the summer of 2014, Keonna Davis, 19, and her sister Kayla, 17, were frustrated. They wanted to experience the freedoms of young adulthood, but could not get jobs to finance them. Unsure of what to do in a job market that has, for years, been inhospitable to post-adolescents, they sought counsel from their parents. When they told their mother, Lethia, about their struggle to find employment, she encouraged them to build something for themselves.

“I told them, ‘Stop begging for work, and make your own work,’” said Lethia, who has twice tried her hand at entrepreneurship.

The sisters brainstormed businesses they would enjoy heading and decided to open a beauty supply store.

Keonna’s interest in haircare was piqued by her transition to natural hair. After shaving her head, she began experimenting with a haircare regimen that worked with and for the hair texture she was born with. “At that time I was trying different products, and it was very interesting to me,” she said. And, perhaps, she would be able to help other new naturals on their journeys.




Kayla, on the other hand, wore hair extensions and wigs. The sisters combined their interests to build a business that would meet the needs of a wide range of potential customers.

Kayla Davis, 19, and Keonna Davis, 21 Photo: KD Haircare LLC

Their dreams of escaping the insecurity of sporadic employment, however, required even more money they did not have. While planning for their store’s launch, Kayla began working at Popeye’s and Keonna in an Amazon warehouse.

The work was sometimes difficult and mostly unfulfilling. “Every day I would be like ‘I don’t want to go to work. I’m so tired.’” Keonna recalled. With her petite build and small frame, she is certainly not the person you would expect to spend her days lifting and packing boxes. Her co-workers commented often on her surprising presence in the notoriously grueling environment.

Brick and mortar beauty supply stores cost tens of thousands of dollars to launch, so they opened an online store first to learn more about the market and continue saving money. By this time they’d lost interest in the personal pleasures they once longed for. Their dream of working for themselves became top priority.

Fiscal discipline is rarely a hallmark of those newly ushered into legal adulthood, but Lethia says her girls are wise. “I think that a lot of young individuals could do it,” she said matter-of-factly. “But they’re into more materialistic things.”


They didn't do it all alone. Friends and family offered help because they were so impressed by Kayla and Keonna’s focus, but the sisters came up with most of the money themselves, and they’re proud of that. “The majority came from me and my sister saving up every little ounce of money that we did have and putting it towards our business,” Keonna explained.

As they eased into the competitive world of Black beauty, the pair learned quickly that relationships matter. The hair business relies on face-to-face brokering between retailers and vendors. For aspiring store owners, who you know determines the products you’ll get and the prices vendors set. As total outsiders, they started from scratch. The process was not easy, success was not certain. “It was really stressful for a moment,” said Keonna.


Guidance from veterans was essential. They sought advice from more experienced business owners. Many were generous, but their ages posed a hurdle. Some questioned their seriousness.

“Once they started getting out there and meeting these individuals and networking with them and reaching out to them, that was kind of, like, the gate,” said Lethia.

Also essential was their affiliation with the Black Owned Beauty Supply Store Association. Keonna and Kayla joined B.O.B.S.A. to connect with vendors. President Sam Ennon says the two are among a growing cohort of Black women beauty entrepreneurs who are remaking the business, and it all comes down to the thing that first drew Keonna in: natural hair. “It’s changed now because the hairstyles have changed,” he said.

Breaking into the old model of beauty supply stores, which relied heavily on relaxers, wigs, and hair extensions, has been difficult for Black entrepreneurs. South Korean owners have direct connections to the textile and wet goods industries in their home countries that have enabled them to dominate the market for more than 30 years. Now there are approximately 12,000 Korean-owned beauty supply stores across the United States.





Now 19 and 21, news of Kayla and Keonna's opening quickly went viral. Supporters are clamoring to help them with the next phase of their business “We’re actually getting a lot of posts and phone calls from people looking to invest in us,” says Keonna sounding nearly amazed. “We’re very humbled by it.”

The beauty supply store is only one of their dreams. Like most at the crest of adulthood, their aspirations are malleable. While they would like to franchise and open more stores, particularly on the east coast where they get the most inquiries, they haven’t given up on pursuing higher education. Kayla wants to be an ultrasound technician, and Keonna wants to go back to school to study 3D animation and visual arts. They are saving money for their next chapter now.

In the meantime, they spend their days managing the operations of a new business. Despite all of the press, their customers come first. With so many products to choose from, figuring out exactly which ones they really want has been difficult.

As they weather ups and downs of entrepreneurship, Keonna says having her sister by her side is a gift.

“I have complete trust and faith in her. She has complete trust and faith in me.

“We’re sisters so we’re going to butt heads on things, but at the end of the day, we both love each other dearly,” she added

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

by Shannon Shird

It was mid-February when I found out I was pregnant.

I took both kits in the box to make sure and when they both turned blue I sat down on the floor of my bathroom and felt a heavier weight than ever before.

I evaluated myself in this moment. This was my first pregnancy at 27 and while I was doing alright, I didn’t know if I was doing well enough to support a family.

On one hand, I had recently completed grad school and I was employed. I was also in a loving partnership and we had just moved to a bigger apartment. I knew that my partner’s family and mine would rally all their resources and support to be there for us and our child in this time of need.


On the other hand, I was underpaid, swaddled in debt and living paycheck-to-paycheck. When I took my position as a community organizer I knew that I wouldn’t be getting rich or even paying off my debt, but I did it for the love of Brooklyn and the community I built there. I was kicking myself for choosing the cheapest healthcare plan I could afford earlier in the year and was worried about my ability to feed another mouth when I skip meals regularly just to save money.

I was more than a little worried. Now, in the midst of this I began to second-guess a lot of decisions.

I was also more than a little scared. I thought about the social and political climate around me and felt intense fear at bringing a Black child into this world. I thought of the huge responsibility to protect them and most importantly teach them how to protect themselves. I also knew that I could do everything in my power, but that the state or the streets could take them away from me suddenly and without explanation.

I wouldn’t just be having a child. I would be having a Black child in a violent and aggressive world.

I had never felt more like an adult in my life.

My partner and I went to Planned Parenthood for one more test and to find out how far along I was. The nurse figured I was about a month pregnant, talked to me about my options, and recommended physicians and prenatal vitamins.

I took a leap of faith. I attempted to alter my diet and habits. I immediately started taking more care to wake up and eat breakfast, drink more water, and incorporate even more leafy greens than usual into my diet.

A few weeks later I woke up in the middle of the night. I had terrible cramps that caused me to bend over in pain and I was sweating with a fever. I was terrified to find myself bleeding profusely.

My partner and I got in a car and spent the night into the morning in the emergency room. After a while, two nurses and a doctor told me that there was nothing they could do, that I was “barely” pregnant at 5 or 6 weeks. After taking my blood they said my pregnancy hormones were at about 10 or 20 when the level should have been in the hundreds, and that it was likely that the pregnancy was terminating itself.

I hung my head in overwhelming sadness and disappointment. I didn’t want to look my partner in the eye. I felt like I had failed us.

But I also felt enormous relief, followed by guilt; because though I was prepared to meet the challenge and thrill of having a child, I felt no urgency to shoulder the huge lifelong responsibility. The whole ride home from the hospital I sat with my conflicting feelings. When I got home I just felt numb and weary.

Miscarriage, stillbirths and infant mortality were never new to me. Born and raised in Baltimore City where health inequality varies wildly depending on the neighborhood in which you were born, I have known many families over the years to suffer this particular hardship, including my own. My mother suffered through three miscarriages and a stillborn baby girl before having me. She always told me how happy she was when I was born healthy after years of heartbreak between the birth of my brother and me.

My mother and I both have a number of friends--all Black women--who have experienced issues with reproductive health and infant mortality. We’re not the only ones. Across education, class, and geography, Black women in this country face higher rates of miscarriage and infant mortality than any other racial or ethnic group.

The Sojourner Syndrome: An intersectional approach to health inequality

One way to approach this reproductive health inequality is the Sojourner Syndrome, an intersectional approach that requires the examination of how racism, classism and gender operate in the lives of Black women produce increased risk of miscarriage, stillbirth and infant mortality.

Developed by Doctor Leith Mullings, Presidential Professor of Anthropology at the Graduate Center of CUNY, it is named for historic abolitionist, suffragist and spiritual leader Sojourner Truth, widely considered the mother of Black feminism for her early work at the intersection of women’s voting rights and slavery abolition.

Much as the day-to-day life of Sojourner Truth was a testament to the resilience and resistance of so many oppressions, the Sojourner Syndrome recognizes Black women’s resilience and leadership in the family and community. The Sojourner Syndrome is a lens that recognizes the harm of systemic oppression, which helps identify why Black women are at higher reproductive health risks.

It’s well known that Black women are more at risk for heart disease, diabetes, and certain types of cancer. For some time, public health officials have been looking at race as a contributing risk factor for this.

But the Sojourner Syndrome looks at racism, rather than race in this instance, gender discrimination rather than gender, and classism rather than class to understand the root causes of these problems.

Compounding factors that lead to health disparities

In the aftermath of my miscarriage, I was out of work for a day. That’s all I could afford. I went to the doctor for a follow-up that week.e

“Next time you want to get pregnant,” she told me in a monotone voice, “make sure your body is relaxed and you aren’t so stressed out.” She told me I was free to go, but should schedule a follow-up in a month. I left the office feeling intensely confused.

Don’t be stressed out? But isn’t that the norm? I strained my memory to think of a time when I wasn’t stressed. I was a high-achieving student for most of my life and now I was an underpaid community organizer in New York City and the rent was too damn high. I couldn’t envision a time in the future when I wouldn’t be dealing with some level of stress.

When we use the Sojourner Syndrome to understand Black women’s reproductive health issues, we see that the overbearing weight of oppression and responsibility converge on our bodies, and over time increases stress in critically different ways than our white and Latino peers. This stress disparity is one of the leading factors for Black women’s overrepresentation in a number health issues, but especially miscarriage, stillbirth, preterm birth, and infant mortality.

This is because we have a lot to worry about.

While Black women are gaining more in higher education and have better careers than before, Black women continue to make less weekly earnings than Black men, white men, and white women.

Tougher still, is that we are missing the safety net of hefty financial savings and intra-family wealth that accounts for so much access and security for our white peers, who, on average, come from homes with nearly 13 times the wealth of Black households. The racial wealth gap is also startling when you consider households headed by single women: the median wealth of single black women is $100 compared to $41,000 of single white women.

Across the lines of class, income, geography, occupation and education, Black women face miscarriage, stillbirth and infant mortality rates twice the rate of white women. Our Latina sisters only fair slightly better but also face increased risk of complications. Interestingly enough, African and Caribbean women who come to the US have better reproductive health outcomes than U.S. born black women. Some have attributed it to diet, DNA, and geography. But the Sojourner Syndrome would allow us to look through another lens and see that foreign-born Black women have less experience with America’s particular brand of racism, sexism and classism; they experience and synthesize it much differently than US-born Black women.

The combination of daily microaggressions and larger structural and systemic oppression is deadly.

I know what you’re thinking. What gives? Why is this not being treated like the public health crisis it is? How can understanding the Sojourner Syndrome help us develop a framework for action against this crisis?

Taking action against everyday oppression

The Sojourner Syndrome is labeled a syndrome because a number of conditions continue to consistently occur. Half of that is the oppression, but the other half is Black women’s brilliance at resisting and preserving in the face of that. As much as this country is steeped in oppression, Black women are steeped in centuries of resisting this. We have a greater sense of community responsibility and activism. We have been leaders in every social movement in this country. We are much more likely to be active in our community associations, churches, PTAs, and social justice organizations than Black men. We are also more likely to help out our aging parents and relatives. We forego meals, sleep and personal time to meet all of these responsibilities and expectations.

This is our reality. We live, breathe, eat, sleep, love and procreate in a society that holds us to impossible standards, undervalues our worth and constantly demands the most. No wonder its impact on our reproductive systems, pregnancies and young.

This is the sophistication of centuries of inadequately unaddressed sexism and racism. It has mutated and spread like a disease that kills before arrival.

Weighed over a lifetime, this load can impact much more than just reproductive health. Luckily there are real innovative solutions to the Sojourner Syndrome made by Black women for Black women that everyone can support. Reflecting on my miscarriage now makes me feel less disempowered as I did in the initial aftermath knowing that there are decisive steps I can take to combat this inequality.

There are theories like the JJ Way® Model, an innovative alternative to traditional maternal health care, organizations such as The National Association of Birth Centers of Color where pregnant moms can get individualized birth plans, and scholarships for Black and other women of color to become doulas and midwives and help each other fight this disparity.


Going through my miscarriage was hard and made me deeply sit and consider many external and internal factors. Knowing what I know now, my self-care can’t be an afterthought, regardless of my reproductive decisions.

Knowing this, I implore Black women to center ourselves and our health. I know it's hard and I know the load is heavy but it can't be delayed or pushed aside. I call on our friends, partners and allies to step it up. Combating the troubling legacy of centuries of overlapping oppression is all of our responsibility, but Black women need your help. We must internalize the belief that "We must love each other and protect each other" so that all of us all can live healthier, safer lives.

Black women deserve health equity. We deserve reproductive justice. We want to live and reproduce without fear. And, at the heart of it all, our babies deserve a fairer chance at surviving and thriving in this world.

Do Something

• Be aware of your own privilege, position and power; use that to empower and support the Black women in your circle.
• Call out racism, sexism and classism - it operates internally, interpersonally, institutionally and structurally be aware of it and don’t be afraid to speak out against it.
• Encourage Black women in your life to develop and maintain their personal self-care.
• Support policies that end social and economic inequalities particularly helping low-income and working-class families.
• Support initiatives that eliminate health disparities especially around health and birth outcomes for Black women.
• Support (or become) Black women in roles related to reproductive health such as OB/GYNs, midwives and doulas.

This article was originally published on Everyday Democracy. It is republished with permission.

Photo: Shutterstock

by Lola Mitchell

My husband has seen my hair in various styles over the years. Some of them he has liked, some not so much. He has followed me to the beauty supply store and lamented the amount of time box-braids take to get done. I would calmly explain my reasoning for so many hair products and the necessity of a few hours to wash condition and re-braid my hair, just to put it under a wig. To be fair, I, too, was frustrated with the amount of time my hair took to wash, style, deep condition and more, until I learned the best methods to detangle my hair.

Many years ago, I saw an interview with Halle Berry. In this interview, Halle explained the reasons why she went with a new hairstyle, leaving behind her pixie cut for extensions. She explained that the hair style change was for work, but she liked it so she kept the look. She also explained that whenever she got the extensions installed by her hairstylist, who came to the house, she asked her boyfriend at the time, Gabriel Aubry, to leave. At the time I laughed as did the studio audience, but I was also perplexed. Halle’s boyfriend was a model. So, wasn’t he used to seeing women get extensions? Why was this something to hide? Not to mention that Halle had what the Black community used to call good hair so what did it matter if she chose to get extensions? I mean she still had beautiful hair. It upset me that as Black women we’ve always had to “do something” with our hair. And the something was supposed to be a mystery.
Eventually the “natural hair moment” took place, and our hair was no longer that mysterious. Girls were showing us how to lay edges, twist-out, braid-out, and pluck the heck out of a lace front. They were doing it openly, discussing hair issues that many Black women only discussed with our closest friends and our hairstylist.

Outside of the community, there were myriad responses to Black girls and their big chops. Whether positive or negative everywhere you look you can see naturals wearing beautiful variations of curly, coily, and kinky hair.

Many brothers were coming out in support of our beautiful tresses, but accepting the two hours of co-washing, loc method, braid-out, twist-out was much easier than understanding what actually happens when women goes from relaxed to natural. The language does not automatically change, and words like “nappy” and “good hair” don’t magically get dropped from our vocabulary.

I had my husband wash my hair not too long ago. After that process, we shared an openness about my hair that we had not previously had. He is bi-racial, and has curly, coily hair. Some of the comments he’s made about black woman and our hair over the years were “questionable.” He was never cruel and did not have malicious intent, but he perpetuated stereotypes early on in by referring to his hair as “nappy” whenever it was frizzy or unruly.



After washing my hair, my husband’s tone when discussing it or my regimen has completely changed. The questions themselves may be the same, but instead of frustration or puzzlement, which made me defensive at times, he is honestly interested in what, exactly, I’m doing with my hair and what I’m putting in it. He even asks, “Do I need him to watch the baby so you can finish?” (Yes!) His compassion has helped eliminate the barrier that’s often present between Black men and women when it comes to acceptance of our hair. When questions like “are you leaving your hair like that?” became “babe I saw a cool protective style on tumblr I think you would love,” (true story) It produces honesty and dialogue in a relationship where every girl should be allowed to be truly bare and at her best.
Over time his views on hair have changed because of the natural hair movement and the overall awareness he’s gained by dating and marrying a Black woman with kinky hair. Though he would still get frustrated with the amount of time it took to wash my hair or make comments like, “you should wear your hair like this or that” when it was clear that the hairstyle was for a different texture or length of hair.

I won’t say that he’s a YouTube hair guru now, but after washing and styling my hair, my husband has completely changed his tune. He understands more about texture and takes his time finger detangling our daughter’s hair with pride. For so long, not only have Black women not understood our hair, but neither have Black men, and it’s time for that to change. In our house, the only good hair is healthy hair.

Photo: Shutterstock


Lola Mitchell is a Youtuber who recently started a channel with her husband called Mitchandlo xo. She's also the author of Lola's Prayer Cocktail and the mother of a beautiful 1-year-old named Autumn.

by Kimberly Foster @KimberlyNFoster

At just 17 years-old, Augusta Uwamanzu-Nna has a resume that far outpaces many of those twice her age. The senior at Elmont Memorial High School in Long Island, New York,  was a finalist in the prestigious Intel Science Talent Search. She'll present her research on cement that will keep oil rigs in tact at the White House next week.

On March 30, she learned that she was accepted to all eight Ivy League schools and four others. including the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Johns Hopkins University.

I talked to Augusta about who inspires her to work so hard and how she aspires to help others do the same.
How did you choose which schools you were going to apply to?

I definitely wanted to apply to schools where I know their academics. My parents have really taught me the importance of education, [and] the importance of taking advantage of any opportunity that you're given, especially academic opportunity, so decided that Ivy league could potentially offer me what I was looking for in terms of achieving a very high level education.

In May, eight Black women are earning their PhDs in Education from Indiana University. The amazing thing is the women did not all start the program together but they found each other along the way and cultivated relationships to help them achieve their goals. This May they are making history. The university has never had eight Black women complete a program at one time. The Great 8 attribute their success to the ground work laid by Black women before them. They are committed to leaving institutional legacy so Black women still in the program and those coming behind them have the support they need to thrive. Graduation Ceremonies for the #Great8 will be held on Indiana University campuses in Bloomington and Indianapolis campuses between May 5th and May 8th.

Demetrees Hutchins
Higher Education Doctoral Candidate




What's the biggest obstacle you've had to surmount to complete your degree?

The biggest obstacle I had to overcome was fear of my own success. The fear of succeeding at something everyone else felt was impossible for me to do. Once I overcame that fear, I was able to refocus and complete the journey I started.

What advice would you offer anyone else who'd like to obtain a terminal degree?
Self-sabotage is a real thing. Recognize when God is bestowing blessings and accept those blessings. No one ever said it would be easy, but know that anything is possible. Understand your struggle is never in vain, so use it to tackle all hurdles and remove all obstacles that stand in your way. And don’t be afraid to sing your song as it helps you determine your purpose.

Jada A. Phelps-Moultrie
Jasmine M. Haywood
Higher Education Doctoral Candidate  
@BlatinaScholar
What advice would you offer anyone else who'd like to obtain a terminal degree?
The advice I would offer is to think about why you want to get a terminal degree. How will it help you achieve your purpose and passion? Once you know that, hold on to it and remember why you wanted to do it when the going gets tough. Be intentional. Have thick skin, but a soft heart. Don’t worry about anything, instead pray about everything.

Johari S. Shuck 


What's the biggest obstacle you've had to surmount to complete your degree?
Managing stress and transition. As a single mom of two kids who's lived in two different places, Chicago and Indianapolis, throughout this journey has been taxing, to say the least. Traveling by plane, train, bus and automobile back and forth, every other weekend, for 6 years, I have been in a perpetual state of change and transition while trying to be the best scholar I can be.

What advice would you offer anyone else who'd like to obtain a terminal degree?
When I applied to IU, I had an admission interview with a Black woman faculty member, Dr. Sheree Wilson. At the end, she told me that she had my back and gave me a hug. That was before I was even accepted. That set the tone for my entire experience.  My advice is for people in the initial stages to be very careful about the institution they chose. Specifically look for people among the students and faculty who also belong to groups with which you strongly identify. Talk to them about their experiences. Pay attention to the vibes. This can be a very isolating and emotionally taxing process. You need circles of love around you to protect you from all academia and life will throw your way, for better or worse.


What's the biggest obstacle you've had to surmount to complete your degree?
The biggest obstacle to overcome is self-doubt.  Often times, as a performance artist and dancer, my work looks different than most students. White faculty questioned my ability to do scholarly work, which left me feeling isolated.  I started to believe the White discourse about Black youth from the inner city. Maybe I wasn’t prepared for this type of rigor growing up in Newark. Maybe I lacked the tools to compete with my peers. I was struggling as a writer, and it seemed to come so easy to others. Maybe I was not cut out for this work. Yet, as I continued to doubt myself, others continued to sow into me. Drs. Little and Modibo, IUPUI African Studies faculty, and Iris Rosa gave me opportunities to teach and travel with undergraduates. Drs. Hughes, Patton-Davis, and Murtadha provided opportunities for me join research teams, publish, and present at national conferences. Black faculty challenged me to produce when I wanted to quit. They wouldn’t give up on me, so I couldn’t give up on me.
Nadrea R. Njoku 
Higher Education Doctoral Candidate
@kween504


What's the biggest obstacle you've had to surmount to complete your degree?
My biggest obstacle has been remembering that I have divinely assigned lane to drive my career. That lane is crafted by me, for me, and ordained by my higher power. In a doctoral program you find that you constantly find yourself comparing yourself to other scholars for validation and affirmation. Who is publishing? How many publications do they have? What is everyone presenting on? What conferences are they presenting at? Who is mentoring who? Who is getting a fellowship? The fact of the matter is, i am in this program to blossom and develop into a special and unique voice. I cannot obtain my maximum #BlackGirlMagic potential if I am following someone else’s path. I was hurt the deepest my first year in the PhD program when it looked like everyone was getting awards and funds except me.  After I wiped away my tears--and my momma looked at me sideways for stressing out about someone else’s blessing--doors started to open for me. However, I can’t say I don’t slide backwards from time to time, because I do. But with prayer and focus I stay centered on my goals, distinctive voice, and watch the blessings fall down.
Tiffany S. Kyser 
 Urban Education Studies Doctoral Candidate 

What's the biggest obstacle you've had to surmount to complete your degree?
Persisting through the challenging journey toward a PhD while working full time, being present for my family and friends, and staying engaged as an active citizen in the educational landscape within Indianapolis.

How did having a network of Black women during your PhD journey shape your experience?
I am in awe of the love, spirit, and care the faculty and staff at IUPUI have provided me throughout the years. Having a network of Black women in my field of study, within the social sciences, and within a supportive recognition of intersectional identity was and is significant. Standing in solidarity as Black and as womyn/women, but also embracing the intersectional identities of class, gender, gender expression, sex, sexual orientation, geographic origin, faith tradition, dis/ability, language, etc that simultaneously converge and diverge between Black womyn/women, was also equally necessary and significant in my current doctoral journey.