by Ashley Daniels


I have this thing. Whenever someone is talking to me about a subject that requires a bit of thought, I'll think of a song that applies to the question, as I'm thinking of an answer. For example, when asked, "Are you a feminist?" I think of Mya, while searching my brain for an answer: I'm so confused / I don't know what to do.

I have an answer, but it’s not as direct or simple as the question.

Growing up watching BET, MTV, and VH1 (before they became the holy ratchet television trinity), I only understood feminism to be three things: white, angry, and mostly lesbian. I watched scores of white women on a field wearing sundresses and combat boots holding hands with other white women wearing buzz cuts and flannel shirts, swaying to the spellbinding sounds of the Indigo Girls and Melissa Etheridge at Lilith Fair. I listened as Meredith Brooks told the world how she was a bitch, a lover, a child, and a mother. The news showed hundreds of White college coed girls with megaphones, candles, and makeshift signs in an effort to "take back the night."

All these sounds and images bonded together in my pre-adolescent understanding of one word: feminism.
From hearing that word tossed around in interviews and news reports, I developed an associative understanding of feminism. But because I rarely saw faces that looked like mine in these spaces, I didn't think that feminism was a "thing" for a little Black girl like me. Every once in a while I would catch a glimpse of artists like Tracy Chapman or Meshell Ndegeocello on MTV or VH1, but I was more in awe of their Blackness on a predominately white music network than their feminism. It would not be until my sophomore year of college where my mind would change (sort of).

Every year, my aunt gives me a book as part of my Christmas gifts. In tenth grade, I received Kevin Powell's Step Into A World: A Global Anthology of New Black Literature. I skimmed through the book but hadn't really read it until I was in my dorm room one boring snowy Saturday years later. Flipping through the writings of Robin D.G. Kelly, Ras Baraka, and dream hampton, I happened upon an essay by a writer named Joan Morgan, who introduced me to the concept of hip-hop feminism.

When reflecting on the treatment of women during the Million Man March with Farrakhan banishing us from the National Mall to our kitchens to "cook for our warriors" as noted by Kristal Brent-Zooks, Morgan cited the need for a new kind of feminism that is relevant to Black women of the present 20th Century (the essay was written in 1999). She understood that not too many Black women were checking for "the f-word" due to deep-rooted racism from White women. But honestly, that wasn't the part that resonated with me. What drew me was the idea of being a "hip hop feminist."

Despite knowing all the words to "Bittersweet Symphony" and "You Oughta Know" thanks to binge-watching MTV and VH1, I'm still an avid rap and hip-hop fan. Trips to class were included background tracks from A Tribe Called Quest, The Roots, or Missy Elliot in my ears. I can knowledgeably discuss the Roxanne Wars, the Bridge Wars, and how the Biggie/Tupac beef fucked all that up. I could tell you about the Zulu Nation and the significance of Afrika Bambaataa. So of course the notion of hip-hop feminism intrigued me.

But as a young Black woman, I was conflicted. This was around the time when sisters at Spelman were protesting Nelly's appearance on their campus after the infamous “Tip Drill” video. I applauded those sisters for standing up against the misogynoir that flooded our radio stations on a daily basis. But as a lover of rap and hip-hop, I questioned if I even allowed to do such a thing?

True, I wasn't constantly checking for songs that said Black women were nothing more than ass and titties wrapped in a quick weave. But I won't lie and pretend that my bitty booty doesn't automatically get ready to twerk a lil' sumthin' when I hear that Cash Money is taking over for the 99 and the 2000. Joan Morgan let me know that I was not alone. That there was a space (or there needed to be) where this intersected. We needed a kind of feminism that "was brave enough to fuck with the grays," as Joan Morgan writes in her classic text, When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost: A Hip-Hop Feminist Breaks It Down. As Morgan writes, we needed a feminism that understands how "truth can't be found in the voice of any one rapper, but in the juxtaposition of many… they lie at the magical intersection where those contrary voices meet—the juncture where 'truth' is no longer black and white, but subtle, intriguing shades of gray."

As part of my quest to find such a feminism, I ordered more books about Black feminism including those by Patricia Hill Collins and bell hooks. I perused through essays by Beverly Guy-Sheftall and Barbara Smith. I read feminist studies on the writings of Alice Walker and Zora Neale Hurston.

Feminism and I formed a “situationship.” Where in a relationship you relate to the other party involved, I could appreciate learning about Black feminism… but I still couldn't seem to shake the idea of how “white” it was. While Morgan, Guy-Sheftall, Smith, hooks, and Collins helped me see myself in the mirror of feminism, its reflection was still fuzzy. I found myself still in search of an ideology that I could relate to. Not knowing of anything else at the time, I reluctantly linked up with feminism.

As I read more about the history of feminism, I understood my apathy. Doing research prior to joining my sorority, I learned that the founders of Delta Sigma Theta were regulated to march in the back of the processional, because of their race during the 1913 Women's Suffrage March. When doing a paper on the history of Black women voting, I learned that the rift in the alliance between Frederick Douglass, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Susan B. Anthony was caused with the decision to either support voting rights for Black men or White women. While I wasn’t really trying to claim feminism, historically it wasn’t claiming me either. The situationship lasted for the remainder of my undergraduate tenure up until my second year of doctoral school.

That's when I met Womanism.

Props must go to my Black Political Theory professor. In a discussion with him about what I wanted to study regarding Black women, he suggested that I check out Dr. Clenora Hudson Weems's 1993 classic Africana Womanism: Reclaiming Ourselves. This book too was like looking in a mirror, but with a clearer reflection. Here was an ideal whose founding roots shared my own: being a woman of African descent in America. It was something I could relate to, therefore form a relationship with. I had dreamed of a "feminism" that didn't reluctantly acknowledge the racist roots of feminism, but that called it out on its bullshit. Dr. Weems did just that in her definition:

Africana Womanism is a term I coined and defined in 1987 after nearly two years of publicly debating the importance of self-naming for Africana woman. Why the term "Africana Womanism?" Upon concluding that the term "Black Womanism" was not quite the terminology to include the total meaning desired for this concept, I decided that "Africana Womanism," a natural evolution in naming, was the ideal terminology for two basic reasons. The first part of the coinage, Africana, identifies the ethnicity of the woman being considered, and this reference to her ethnicity, establishing her cultural identity, relates directly to her ancestry and land base: Africa. The second part of the term, Womanism, recalls Sojourner Truth's powerful impromptu speech "Ain't I A Woman," one in which she battles with the dominant alienating forces in her life as a struggling Africana woman, questioning the accepted idea of womanhood. Without question, she is the flip side of the coin, the co-partner in the struggle for her people, one who, unlike the White woman, has received no special privileges in American society.

As good as feminism could be, it still fails to address how intersectionalities—like race and gender—further complicated the realities of women of color. (An example of this is the recent discussions around closing the wage gap that white women like Patricia Arquette champion, without acknowledging that Black women make even less.)

Womanism does a better job at this, but it’s not perfect either. We have our beef, too. First there is a sense of exclusiveness, even among Black people. In reading about other Womanist works, there is a strong emphasis on spirituality and religion. By centering the concept around a particular religious belief, we are pretty much guilty of the same crime we accuse White feminists of committing: leaving folks out. I'm reminded of the approach Malcolm X proposed in his speech, “The Ballot or the Bullet.” Regardless of our backgrounds, we must all come together to realize that we are catching the same two kinds of hell in America constantly: being Black and being woman. We cannot afford to ostracize anybody from our cause—no matter how religious affiliation, sexual identity, class, or education background. Every type of Black woman is necessary and should be represented in our fight for liberation. It makes no sense that we vote at the highest rate of all voters, yet our social progress is still among the lowest.

There is strength in solidarity and inclusiveness.

Second, I take issue with Womanism being a belief more so than an ideology. A belief is based on faith or perspective. It is what a person thinks or perceives. As noted by Karl Mannehiem in Idelology and Utopia, “an ideology is a vehicle used to mobilize a belief.”

Womanism still lags behind feminism in its ability to mobilize around womanist beliefs. From modern feminism’s early origins within the Suffrage Movement, women mobilized around the issues they believed in by forming organizations such as National American Women's Suffrage Association (NAWSA) and the National Organization for Women (NOW). As history has tells us, these mobilization efforts have done a pretty decent job thus far.
Africana Womanism, to me, has not yet reached that level of influence yet. We still need a vehicle to move our agenda forward, and we still need to create a centralized agenda on our own terms. We need to be our own champions, and not rely on the examples set for us by white women or Black men. We need to move from the trajectory of margin to center, as bell hooks, famed Black feminist, would tell us.

So am I a Black feminist? Yes and no. Am I a Womanist? Yes and no.

I guess I'm like Joan Morgan, in a sense. I have a need. I need a Womanism that encompasses the spirit and passion of Black feminism. I need a Black feminism that truly advocates for us, understanding that Black women are quick to get lost in the shuffle of other issues.

I need "the intriguing shades of gray" of both, I suppose.
Ashley Daniels (also known as Ashfronomenal) is a third year Ph.D. student in Political Science program at Howard University in Washington, D.C. She is currently featured in the book, "The Miseducation of..." from the Ignorant Intellectuals. To purchase, please email ignorantintellectuals@gmail.com.

by Kimberly Foster @KimberlyNFoster

I quite enjoy Amber Rose’s take on contemporary feminism and sex positivity. She takes ideas that often seem sterile and academic and translates them for easy consumption by people who might not be well-versed in feminist theory.
Instead she highlighted that a feminism that lacks a rigorous intersectional analysis is, ultimately, worthless.


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

by Ashleigh Shackelford

Earlier this month, Amandla Stenberg took over Teen Vogue to share her power and vulnerability in navigating a world that fails to represent the fullness of Black women. In Amandla’s powerful and necessary message about media and representation on the magazine’s Snapchat, she revealed for the first time to the world that she identifies as a Black bisexual woman.

Amandla wrapped up her powerful announcement with some inspiring words for a Black feminist future by saying, “This is just the beginning.”

Amandla is #BlackGirlMagic and her voice is an important one in the discourse around the representation of Black women and the representation of intersectional feminism. I do not contest that Amandla is a game changer. But I do have concerns about who we are lifting up as trailblazers of intersectional feminism during the era of #BlackGirlMagic.


In the sea of praise Amandla received for coming out as a Black bisexual woman, I started thinking about other pioneers in the movement for better and more diverse Black Girl representation. When we look at Lianne La Havas, Solange Knowles, Ava DuVernay, Zendaya Coleman, Willow Smith, FKA Twigs, and Zoe Kravitz, we are looking at artistic, carefree Black women who are redefining the limitations of Black womanhood. But as thin, light-skinned Black women, they also reaffirm a certain type of respectability and palatability.

Hood femmes, ratchets, and thotties are not represented by these women. Darker skin and bigger bodies are not represented within these women. It seems as though being woke, thin, and having lighter skin affords you a platform to speak on the issues important to Black women today—and praise for doing so.

But what about the rest of us?

While I celebrate Amandla’s powerful coming out and the acclaim she has received on multiple media outlets, I wonder about the Black women and femmes who will never get the same kind of space or praise of their queerness. I think about the many queer Black women and femmes who are conscious and understanding of their oppression enough to name it, but will never be put in the limelight of mainstream media. I think about all the queer Black femmes who must navigate the intersections of their identities with no platform to speak on the violence and experiences they live through. I also think about how speech—specifically African American Vernacular English—is a barrier to accessibility and respectability for the spectrum of representation that we are so desperately lacking.

In analyzing examples of ratchet feminism and hood politicking, the women of the Love & Hip Hop franchise come to mind. Especially those who have explicitly stated they’re attracted to and/or engage in relationships with other women—their queer identity is often erased. Love & Hip Hop: Atlanta’s Joseline Hernandez openly stated that she is bisexual. But there was barely any media coverage around her vulnerability and strength in living her truth because her platform was limited through the gaze of black femme ratchetry and hypersexualization. Joseline is not only seen through the limitation of hoe-ness, but her body type (bigger breasts, bigger butt, but still socially acceptable thick) does not read as an alternative Black girl to the gaze of white supremacy because of the oversexualization of her body. Her light skin and beauty allows for her to have the limited platform she has now, but if she was darker or had different features, her trajectory would be very different.

Another example is Sassy on Black Ink Crew, who is an out brown-skin Black lesbian, yet she is not seen as a role model within the current representation of #BlackGirlMagic, though she has stated in interviews that she wants to be a role model for other queer Black femmes/women.

The reason why Amandla and Black women/femmes like her are able to maintain this status as a radical alternative Black girl (or in Solange’s words, the “non-comforming Black girl”), is because they are seen as being palatable to white supremacy. However, being palatable to white supremacist gaze is a violent reality. Media studies and popular culture studies through a Black feminist lens show us that often white media platforms determine who to anoint as a leader or who to give the spotlight to. When these white media platforms determine this, their decision simultaneously feeds into the capitalistic motives of white supremacy and into the viewer’s ideas of white supremacy’s hierarchy of worthiness. If we’re consistently seeing light skin, thin “alternative” Black girls being thrusted into the spotlight as the primary revolutionaries in creating change in an anti-Black, misogynistic world, then we’re receiving the message that only by being closer to white in presentation and performance is how we can see “change” happen.


Much like the often ignored limitations within the Carefree Black Girl Movement, there are major shortcomings when it comes to the representation and visibility of magical Black girls and femmes.

What about the bisexual trap queens, the queer hood femmes, or the sexually fluid thotties?

Hoodness, poorness, fatness, and nigga-ness are not represented in our mainstream #BlackGirlMagic movements. This is expanded through other forms of oppression as well, such as colorism, respectability politics, beauty politics, sizism, ability, and transphobia. It’s time we lift the limitation around our ideas of Black girl representation and Black girl magic in our aims to challenge the stigmas of being a Black woman or femme. In claiming our identity as a source of confidence and empowerment, we have to recognize that what/who we praise as radical and ground-breaking is politicized too. We have to understand that light skin, white gaze palatability, and thinness are privileges in representation. We can praise Amandla for her #BlackGirlMagic and still question where the rest of the Black femme representation is at.

Photo: Ben Toms / Teen Vogue

Ashleigh Shackelford is a radical queer Black fat femme based in Richmond, VA. Ashleigh is a cultural producer, body positivity advocate, pop culture enthusiast, and a run-on sentence repeat offender. They are a community organizer at Black Action Now and the director of Free Figure Revolution. Find more posts at: BlackFatFemme.com.

by Jaimee Swift

• Women still earn less money than men with the same education level.
• Women are still under scrutiny about what they are allowed to do with their bodies.
• Violence against women is a global epidemic. 
• Cultural and societal norms prohibit women to advance in various avenues of life, and gender discrimination is rampant across countries and creeds.
  

By Marisa Franco

Feminism has been a stained word, made into an archetype of angry women who shame and emasculate men, which is why many of us who eventually identified as feminists first went through periods of denial: like yeah, I think men and women are equal, but that doesn’t mean I’m a feminist. But feminism, in its most bare bones definition, simply means exactly that: a person who believes that men and women are equal, that one gender is not superior to the other. If people ascribed to the true definition of the word, the number of self-identified feminists would spike.

By Shannon M. Houston for Salon

I’ve never liked the word “revolution.” It brings to mind the act of going around in a circle. Or, as a friend of mine used to say, it’s exactly the thing to do if one wants to end up right back where you started. For that reason, I hope what’s happening in America right now is not, exactly, revolutionary.

 The weight that a single word can carry is thrilling, and sometimes terrifying. Literature lovers—even non-believers—can’t help but get a tingle of delight at the start of the Book of John: “In the beginning was the Word…” Forget Adam and Eve, the Heavens and the Earth—for some of us, language is the genesis and the revelation, and the words we use are, for that reason, never arbitrary. This is especially true for the words we use to describe a movement, or words used to self-identify. “Feminist” is one of those words that carries a lot of weight, but it’s almost laughable how so many people—especially women—are repelled by it. In a recent interview with Vulture, the great Emma Thompson broke it down like this:

by Veronica Maria Brown-Comegys

Many years ago I found myself in the midst of a throng of women at a celebration of International Women’s Day in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Every now and then I wondered why Vanda Lucia Gomes, Gloria Maria, a television news reporter, and I were the only black women present.

by Suzanne Forbes-Vierling, PhD

I’ll never forget the day that one of my friends babysat my 9 year old daughter, Jasmine, for a few hours. I returned home to a hilarious sight: There was my German friend Jeannine looking up at me with a resigned look on her face and her waist-length hair slicked back with Ultra Sheen. My daughter had a big 'ole brush in her hand vigorously brushing the oil into my friends hair. My daughter looking up at my awe-struck face and said “Hi Momma!” as she continued brushing, braiding and oiling away.

by Briana Perry

In response to the shortcomings of first and second wave feminism, third wave feminists have worked to develop a movement that is centered on an intersectional approach. Though the term was officially coined by feminist and legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw in the late 1980s, feminists such as Audre Lorde, Angela Davis, Patricia Hill Collins, and bell hooks called for individuals to examine the intersections among various forms of oppression.

by Andrea Tyler

Last fall, I went to Boston to participate in a think-tank conference designed to brainstorm creative solutions to the education gap. By the end of the week, each team was to make a final presentation to various stakeholders in the community. For the presentation, I was assigned to a sub-group that was tasked with creating a narrative arc. My sub-group leader was full of passion, but short on comprehension and ideas. I talked him through what it means to create a narrative and sketched out what I had been envisioning for the presentation while he took copious notes. When we reconvened as a full group, he recited my comments verbatim and they were met with praise from the rest of the cohort. It was decided that he would be one of the presenters because as my group leader stated, “No one could express those thoughts better” than he did. I half-heartedly waited for a clarifying statement along the lines of, “Actually, no. These are Andrea’s thoughts. She should do it,” but it never came. With an eye roll and a shrug of the shoulders, I let it go. That opportunity to speak clearly meant something to him, so he should do it.

by Moiyattu Banya


What is African Feminism? Many feminists from around the world have contested the idea of whether modern conceptions of feminism are African or un-African. Indeed, feminism has existed in Africa since the times of Queen Nzinga of what is now Mozambique and Yaa Asantewaa of Ghana. These women have inspired contemporary African feminists, who have contributed significantly to feminism in various ways—whether it be through art, music, writing, policy. They have been committed to bringing the voices of African women into the spaces that they work within, and they are indeed change-makers—not only on the African continent, but also throughout the African Diaspora. As Women’s History Month comes to a close, we must take the time to celebrate the 20 African Feminists you should know.

by Inda Lauryn


When Kesenia Boom wrote “Sh*t White Feminists Say to Black Feminists (And How to Counter Them),” she recognized the ways in which white feminists dismiss the valid concerns and issues unique to Black women. When Jessica Williams announced she would not seek the hosting position on The Daily Show, much to the disappointment of her fans, white feminism took it upon itself to diagnose Williams as having impostor syndrome. In a post for The Billfold, Ester Bloom writes:

by Casey Bruce

The fact remains, LGBTQ and women of color are not included in feminism.

I watched the 87th Academy Awards with the understanding of who would be celebrated that night—white men.

by Moiyattu Banya

When I travel on international flights, one of my favorite things to do is to sample new artists on the in-flight radio system. Somewhere during my flight from Accra to Harare I discovered Fatoumata Diawara, a young female Malian artist. I fell in love with the music, the strings and the message that she sent through her songs. For the most part, I didn’t even understand the words, but the power I felt through the song transcended beyond the lyrics. The music resonates with African Feminism for me: strong, creative, feminine power . On my flight I began to reflect on how African women artists have truly shaped my life as an African woman and also as a feminist.

So… #SolidarityisSTILLforWhiteWomen but #BlackLivesMatter…

The protests in Ferguson center around the killing of yet another young innocent Black male, and of course, Black media sources including the thousands of everyday contributions via social media have helped document the evolution of this story and the movement taking root around the country. It stands to reason that all publications with any kind of investment in news, social commentary and women’s issues should be aggressively covering Brown’s. So it is curious, though not surprising, that many of the most popular and prestigious websites for social commentary seem unable to do just that, and problematic because thus far, the killing of Black children has largely been constructed as a concern exclusively for Black women in feminist media and activism.

by Kesiena Boom

There is an understandable distrust of the feminist movement amongst many Black women. Historically, the push for women’s emancipation has been a facade for the perpetuation of a specific form of ‘empowerment’ only relevant to privileged white women. This shallow conception of feminism relies on a glorification of “equality”—that is, equal access to patriarchal, neoliberal systems created by white men to exploit the physical and intellectual labours of women and people of colour. In contrast, Black feminism revels in the idea of “liberation”: we have no interest in standing on the backs of our sisters and brothers in order to grow bloated on a slice of the ruling classes’ pie. Instead we seek a future free from the structures which are inherently exploitative. We seek a future in which success does not have to come from the blood, sweat, tears, and suffering of others.

I was raised by my great-grandmother—a self-proclaimed strong Black women who ain’t need no man. Winnie was independent. She may have enjoyed my great-grandfather’s attention, but she never coveted it. Her self-esteem was not based in what others, or society at-large, thought of her.

by Michelle Denise Jackson


I still remember the first “ratchet” song I ever heard (long before ratchet was a term in my Black Girl lexicon): It was Too $hort’s “Shake that Monkey.” I was a high school freshman, and my best friend at the time played it incessantly. I had always been the “white-washed” Black girl obsessed with pop and alternative rock music, so I first found the song’s sexually explicit lyrics to be shocking. But the more I heard it, the more I fell in love with the song—eventually downloading it onto my own iPod and memorizing the lyrics. Recently, the song came on the radio and I realized I still knew all of the (uncensored) lyrics by heart.

Feminism has become a hot topic again, and thank god for that. Many young female celebrities have lent their voices to the loosely defined cause. Emma Watson, recently spoke at a UN conference making a declarative statement that she too is a feminist and encouraging men to enter the fold. Taylor Swift, long opposed to using the ‘f’ word has finally “come out” as a feminist after, I suppose, looking up the definition. Then there is Lena Dunham.

by Erika Turner

Black women in America just can’t seem to catch a break these days.

Between Michelle Obama being called transphobic slurs for her stature and physique to Janay Rice getting shamed and lampooned by Fox News anchors after being assaulted by her NFL player husband, black women are routine targets for disrespectful jokes and offbeat questions about their everyday lives.