I felt calm as I stood backstage waiting for my cue to host the Girls Can Do Program at the Warner Theatre in Washington, D.C. The usual butterflies were gone as I peeked out at the crowd. This program was special – the audience was filled with girls with baby hairs and afros whose twinkling, curious eyes and wiggling in their theatre seats reflected their excitement. Beside me, my 11-year-old Black girl change maker cohost Marley Dias, the founder of #1000BlackGirlBooks, whispered tongue twisters while reviewing the cue cards I cut and backed onto fun patterned cardstock the evening before. My phone vibrated in my hand as Black women mentors texted words of wisdom and the love and support of fellow Black women leaders, friends and family members overwhelmed all doubts and any nagging feelings of imposter syndrome.

As I waited for the clapping of the audience to signal the end of mindful meditation and our turn to walk on stage, I heard the voices of Viola Davis as she accepted her Emmy and reminded the audience that “the only thing that separates women of color from anyone else is opportunity,” Lupita Nyong’o as she delivered her powerful speech at the Black Women in Hollywood Luncheon on how she felt unbeautiful as a child and how representation of women who looked like her –Alek Wek and Oprah – started her self love journey, Ava DuVernay’s advice to “be passionate and move forward with gusto every single hour of every single day until you reach your goal” and, finally, I heard the voice of our First Lady of the United States Michelle Obama reminding girls in the White House and across the world that she was so proud of them and we are all leaders in this world. The clapping began and Marley and I danced onstage with our own baby hairs and afros and reminded the girls of their brilliance and the limitless possibility of every girl in the room to assume critical leadership positions and change the world in our opening remarks. In all ways always, we deserve to take up space, to lead and to unapologetically pursue our passion!

As Assistant Director of the White House Initiative on Educational Excellence for African Americans, I have had the honor of visiting thousands of girls at schools and conferences, as well as hosted events for students to unapologetically be themselves at the U.S. Department of Education and the White House. From reminding girls that the queen is the most powerful piece in chess after a screening of Queen of Katwe at the White House, to passing out tiaras to students who are homeless or in foster care with young author Jordan West to celebrate literacy and high self esteem, to learning the Nae Nae as a warm up during a reading party with Marsai Martin and Marley Dias, to discussing gender identity at the White House Summit to Support LGBTQ Youth, to meeting other Black women who evoke that type of shyness where you have to focus all your energy on audibly saying hello, my heart is not just filled with #BlackGirlMagic but with inextinguishable #BlackGirlHope.



Today we change tomorrow by investing in our young girls – not just with time and resources, but with love and affirmation. As Black women, I pray that each and every one of us hold our heads high and support one another, that we lead where we are, and we reach back to teach and close opportunity gaps for Black girl change makers all over the world. On December 9, 2016, the White House Initiative on Educational Excellence for African Americans will convene over 250 Black girl change makers, black women trailblazers, and sister’s supporters for the White House Initiative on Educational Excellence for African Americans #AfAmWomenLead Student Summit to Advance Educational Excellence for Black Girls. The daylong convening will kickoff with a Black Girl Change Maker panel featuring Marley Dias, April Star and Mikaila Ulmer then transition to small breakout sessions where students will spend hours solving the most pressing issues facing African American women and girls in education under the guidance of Black women trailblazers. Students will craft recommendations for researchers, policy makers and practitioners as THE experts of their education. Simultaneously, adults will meet separately to engage in a discussion of educational excellence and opportunities to support Black girls. The day will end with a Black Women Trailblazer panel featuring Brittany Packnett, Symone Sanders, Dr. Kimberlyn Leary and Cierra Kaler-Jones.

It takes a village to support Black women and girls. Join the movement by tweeting about #BlackGirlHope and #AfAmWomenLead and save the date on your calendar to virtually join us on December 9 on Periscope, Twitter and via Livestream at http://tinyurl.com/afamwomenlead. We will post our favorite tweets throughout the event! Then, download our toolkit to host a teach-in to support Black women and girls in your community! Most importantly, reach out and mentor a young girl. We are the hopes and the dreams of our ancestors.

Photos Courtesy of Lauren Mims

by Kimberly Foster @KimberlyNFoster

Breaking into journalism is hard. In the age of instant opinions, everyone think they're a writer. But making a living crafting ideas and telling stories takes a grit and skill that few possess. If you're not well-networked or well-resourced, you'll have to claw your way into the big leagues. And most, simply, don't make it.

Bené Viera might not say she's there, but she is certainly on her way. With each byline she cements her place as a creator of culture.  The woman behind some of ESSENCE's biggest cover stories, Bené's success in an industry that wasn't made for Black women to tell their truths reminds us that anything worth having won't be acquired without dogged determination.

I caught up with her to talk about how she's building a career of note while staying true to herself and honoring her gifts.

Why do you write?

At this point, I think writing is not something that I just do for a living. It is also who I am. I just needed a space to be able to get the thoughts out of my head and to be able to convey whatever it is that I want to say. Whether it is for me personally, whether it is a cathartic process, or whether it is about any particular thing going on in the world. I write to stay sane. If I did not write, I don't know what my life would look like. It is interesting because I have always written. I used to write poems. I have old journals where I was writing terrible rap, but I never wanted to be a writer. I don't know that I had the language or even the vision of what that life would look like. I always thought I was going to be an attorney, which is why I majored in English in undergrad. I was going to be the female Johnnie Cochran. That is, literally, what I would tell everyone.

It didn't click that I was going to actually become a professional writer until I was maybe about 24-years-old. That kind of changed my life. I had always had this dream of being this big time attorney, and that is not what happened. And I love telling stories. One of the main reasons I went to journalism school as opposed to just saying, "Oh, I can write without a journalism degree or I can write fiction" is because there is a clear void in how marginalized communities are covered, if we are even covered. I just really wanted to tell stories of A) black people and B) of women in ways that I did not see them being covered and being talked about. That is why I specifically went into journalism. I just knew that broadcast wasn't for me, and that writing was something that I enjoyed.

What clicked for you at 24 years old?

At twenty four, I was studying for the LSAT. I graduated at twenty one. I was just ready to leave Nashville, which is my hometown. I was like, "What am I going to do?" We had a family reunion in Atlanta, and I was talking to my cousin who is a big time investment banker who went to school with President Obama and his sister who is an attorney. They were like, "I just don't think you want to be an attorney. I think you think it sounds good, I think you just want to do it for the money and what status you think it holds."

I was really taken aback by that because I was like, “no, I am really passionate. I want to be a civil rights attorney." They were like, "Well you know that a lot of attorneys work seventy to eighty hour weeks. Not all of them are making great money, and you might not really be arguing in a courtroom." I was like, "Oh no, oh no. If I become an attorney, I have to be arguing in the courtroom, I don't want to just be doing briefs and paperwork, no." My cousin's wife recommended that I read Newsflash by Bonnie Anderson. They were like, “You are just very opinionated, and you are always writing notes.” Back then, Facebook was the platform where you could write your thoughts, and I was always writing notes.

I get back home, I read Newsflash, and then I read Volunteer Slavery by Jill Nelson, who was one of the founding Black editors of Washington Post Magazine. It just clicked. I was like, “No, I am going to be a journalist, I am going to grad school!” The family reunion was in May, I probably didn't start taking it serious until September or October. By January, I was in grad school. That was how fast I moved once my mind was made up. It just clicked. I read those two books, and I was like, “Writing makes so much sense, I already do this. I want to tell stories.” I just started applying for graduate schools.

I got into the five schools that I applied to. I chose Indiana University. They have one of the top five journalism programs in the country. From there, I just studied journalism.


Law is a very safe profession. You can tell anybody that you are a lawyer, and they will be impressed by you. You can tell your family that you want to be a lawyer, and they will support you. They will cheer you on. Were you worried about the perception of the people around you when you tell them, "I don't want to be a lawyer anymore, I want to be a journalist"?

No, not really. I think maybe because I was going to get a graduate degree, that would supplement the feeling of ”She is just going to be this unpaid journalist her whole life. She is not serious about it.”

No one in my family or around me was like, “No, don't do that or you are never going to make any money.” I guess it seemed like a fit, so no I wasn't really worried about that. To be honest, I still hadn't completely given up on law school. I was in graduate school and going over to IU's law school, and talking to the dean. I think they had a Black dean at the time. I was talking to the dean, telling him my situation and why I hadn't really applied. I was taking LSAT prep courses. I still had this idea that maybe I could do both.

They do have joint law programs for some graduate programs. I was looking into that. I hadn't completely given it up until I graduated with my Master's. I finally packed up my box of all of my LSAT prep material and all of my application materials from various schools. I was like, "Okay, this dream is dead."

In 2010,  you graduated. At what point did you decide that you were going to move to New York?

Being in graduate school was one of the worst times of my life because it was a culture shock to me coming from an HBCU and going to IU. It was just really white. I didn't function well. The work was easy, I always got all As, but I just did not function well in that culture. There was a lot of covert racism happening to me. I was sick all of the time, I was just miserable. I didn't have a plan because I just wanted to get out of Bloomington, Indiana. I didn't have a plan, but I knew that I wanted to go to New York. I had interned while in graduate school at VIBE magazine. I was 24 and the oldest intern. After falling in love that summer with VIBE magazine, this was the heyday of VIBE with Danyel Smith as the Editor-in-Chief, I was like, “I have to move to New York. New York is the dream. If I can make it in New York, I can make it anywhere.” I graduated with no plan just elated to be getting out of Bloomington. I move home for, like, a month, if that, it might have been a couple of weeks. I was dating a guy - we met on Twitter, and he was in Long Island. He said, "Come visit me." He got my plane ticket, and I went to visit him in July and just never came back. I went with a suitcase and that is it. Very little money in the bank. I was there with him, and he just didn't want me to go back. I didn't want to go back. It is not like I had a job or anything waiting for me back home in Nashville. Who wants to go back and live with their mom?

You think you are big shit. You're like, "I got a Master's degree. I am good." You don't really want to move back in with your mom. He was like you should just stay here with me. We will give it three months, and if you don't get something, we will figure it out. I just never left from that August of 2010. I have, literally, just been here ever since.

Did you know anybody else in New York?

No, not really. I had the few contacts from my VIBE internship, but that is it. They weren't handing out jobs or like “Come work for us.” No, I really didn't. It was just me having this idea that I was going to make it as a writer in New York City. It had to be New York City because New York City is the media hub of the world. Publishing companies, magazines, [and] the print industry lives in New York. If I was going to make it anywhere, it had to be New York City.

This is interesting. You have moved to New York, you know your boyfriend, you know a couple of people from your VIBE days. How, then, do you become a working journalist?

At first, I literally am hitting the pavement, not even just for media jobs, I am going to record labels. As a writer, my skills are transferable, I can do very different things at different companies. I am hitting the pavement old school with my resume,  and going up to record labels. I think I went up to Bad Boy [and] Def Jam with my resume in my hand. They are like, “No, this is not how this works.” I couldn't even get past security. They were like, “Who are you here to see?" I am like, "Well, I just want to drop off my resume,” and they are like, “No.”

I am doing that. I am like, "Okay, that is not working. Let me go back to the drawing board." Then, I start using my IU database. All of these people that went to IU you can look up in their field. I see a few IU alum. One was at the New York Times. He was an older guy. One was the publisher of a magazine that I would rather not mention. Anyway, I send them emails, and I was like, "Hey I am an alum in the city. I would love to meet with you for coffee." I didn't even position it as I need a job, it was more I just want to pick your brain about the industry.

People agreed to meet with me that way. I met with an editor at Seventeen. She loved my resume, but didn't really have anything for me. That same magazine that I don't want to mention - because it is a huge hipster mag that everyone reads - he literally sat across from me and told me, "Your master's degree is antiquated." I was just blown away. He was like, "I would hire someone with reporting skills over you just because you have a Master's." A) Do I think that that was rude, yes. But B) I feel like it had a lot to do with the fact that I was a Black woman, I was younger than him, and I had more degrees than him. There was no other reason to say that, so it became a thing where I was being discouraged. I realized early on that I am not going to get a job with no experience. All I have is this internship and these clips from Indiana Daily News.

I had begun freelancing. I had a blog, but I was freelancing. There was this old site called the Fresh Xpress, that no longer exists. I was writing for them. Anytime I had an opinion on something, I was just writing for them, writing for them, trying to build my name. Some kind of way, an editor from Essence.com - I don't know if I pitched or they asked me to write something - whichever it was, I think she asked me to write something, and I did, and that was my first Essence.com piece. That piece led to a BBC news feature, and a spot on the Michael Baisden Show, and from there, I literally freelance hustled my way into the industry.

It led to bylines in Juicy Magazine and then, eventually, the website. It led to meeting editors at events and every time them assigning me something or me pitching something [and] turning around an almost flawless copy and being able to do it under a tight deadline, sometimes doing it early, so that they would remember me. That just, literally, spread, like building relationships, pitching, and being assigned stories based on my work ethic and just hustling my way. That is the true story of how I became a working journalist.

Oh, and there was Clutch, Clutch was big back then. I was writing for Clutch. We were doing various opinionated pieces that had a lot of reach. The internet and social media has really helped me take my career to the next level.

You have been published everywhere, you have interviewed incredible stories including your boo, Nas. I follow you. I follow your work. I know that you are down for Nas. How do you go from the hustling and knocking down doors to writing feature stories for Essence, the magazine not the website.

I moved to New York August of 2010. I did not land my first media job until April of 2012, which was at VH1. That was not based on any contacts. That was not based on a recommendation. That was based on my blindly applying. After VH1, I went to Centric. Again, it was just me on my own. I have not had hook ups where editors are like, "Yeah, come work for me."

Everything I have done has been on my own merit. I think it is important for people to know that. Sometimes, it takes longer to get where you are going when you don't have those connections and when you don't have people rooting for you. I literally know people who moved with every editor from job to job because of a relationship with one editor. That, just, has not been my experience. It took 18 months for me to get my first job. After VH1, after Centric, I always just maintained a working relationship at Essence. I had been doing news packages for the magazine, I was doing end of the year recaps, I was doing profiles, I had done this amazing Raisin in the Sun package with Diahann Carroll before she dropped out when Kenny Leon revived the play for Broadway. That was great.

What was the first cover story?

The first cover story was Shonda Rhimes. I had just been laid off, and it was May that year. Cory Murray emailed me, “Hey Bene, are you available? I need you to go to this shoot in the city. We are doing this big thing on Shonda Rhimes, and I just need you to go there and observe and stuff.” I am like, “Okay, why not, I don't have anything else to do. I am newly employed.” She sends me down there, I am still not really knowing what is going on.

The first day, we missed the first part of the shoot. I was like, "Okay, cool. Whatever." Cory hits me up again and was like, “You are going to have to do this story, and it is the cover story, and this is what we are looking for. You need to interview all of these people.” Mind you, I have never written a cover story. Not only am I going to interview Shonda, but I have to interview ten of the Shondaland “Thank God it's Thursday” crew and all fit that into a story.

I am completely overwhelmed. I know that I can not flub on this opportunity. They don't come around often. Cover stories are still very coveted in this industry, and I just can't disappoint Cory. The fact that she would trust me with a story of this magnitude, I have to deliver. I go the second day of shooting, and I am literally just in the midst of everything and pulling people to the side when they are free in between hair, and makeup and talking to them about Shonda. I had my questions prepared. I finally get Shonda, and she was just so amazing, and smart, and warm, which I didn't expect. She is like one of the most important show runners in television.

A few months go by after I turn in the story, and I don't hear anything from Cory at all. I am like, "oh okay, she probably hated it." I finally follow up with her like, "Hey, do you have edits for me, I am just wondering." She was like, “It was so flawless I barely changed anything. I sent it to the top editor, and we are good to go. You killed it.” When it comes in print, they get it before it goes live. The editor for Essence.com, Steven Styles, texted me. He was like, “You fucking killed it,” and he is very particular about writers.

by Tashira Halyard

He dived into the sunroof of my dad’s car like a shark attacking his prey. I was paralyzed from fear as a stranger exclaimed “gimme my money!” over and over again while grasping for my father’s neck.

At four years old, I rarely spent time with my dad, especially not alone. My grandmother was worried and repeatedly called my father’s car phone as I patiently waited for the Happy Meal that he’d promised. However, instead of a trip to McDonald’s, I spent the day sitting still as a statue while my father drove from place to place searching for illegal drugs. Don’t ask me how I knew we were on a mission to feed his cocaine addiction. I just did.
On our last stop, we pulled up to a convenience store with yellowed windows, when an older guy, missing teeth, with Rambo strength tried to collect on what was evidently my father’s unpaid debt. I was tired (of course I’d missed my nap), hungry (I’m still waiting on that Happy Meal) and petrified. Not only had I been driving around for hours in a car with a man I barely knew whose face somehow matched mine, but I was for the first time in intimate quarters with physical violence.

“Stop, you’re scaring my daughter!” my dad yelled trying to push his creditor out the too small sunroof. Shockingly, the stranger stopped, looked me in my eyes and said, “baby, am I scaring you?” Too afraid to admit that I was afraid, I slowly shook my head no. Prompting him to continue his assault until my father could wrangle his light skin, pale eyes, dirty hair and tattered clothing completely out the car.  We drove off and never spoke about the incident, leaving me to process the trauma alone.

That day thirty years ago shaped my life. Through years of therapy, I now realize my interactions with my father while he struggled to overcome addiction, especially the violent occurrence at the convenience store, caused me to become less innocent, less trusting and less vocal. Most notably, I became too quick to suffer in silence. Like a balloon slowly deflating, my spirit shrank in a world where the adults charged with protecting me were allowed to fail.

In a world where violence and untreated addiction disproportionately affect communities of color, my story is not unique. Black girls are victims of historical trauma caused by interpersonal and systemic struggles. Daughters of the enslaved, nieces of the lynched, sisters of the incarcerated, our journey into womanhood is fraught with a load that’s often too heavy to bear. Not only are we intimately connected to Black male oppression, but our own oppression is intersectional, facing both sexism and racism at the least.

The weight of Black girlhood came crashing down on four-year old Daeanna when her mother’s fiancé, Philando Castile, was killed by a Fairmont Heights, Minnesota police officer before her eyes.

Footage of Philando slumped over, shirt stained with bright red blood, emerged on Facebook last week, just one day after Alton Sterling was killed by a police officer in Baton Rouge, Louisiana for selling CDs. I thought the video was a cruel joke, some sort of reenactment of a police shooting to get views. But when I saw a little girl in the backseat, wearing fresh cornrows with beads – the uniform of black girlhood that only Black mamas can create – I knew it was all too real.

I won’t forget the sound of Daeanna’s voice saying, “It’s okay Mom, I’m here,” as her mother, Diamond Reynolds, screamed, realizing Philando was dead. I won’t forget the picture her mother painted of how she and Daeanna were separated for hours without food after being taken into police custody for committing the “crime” of witnessing their loved one’s death.

At four, Daeanna had witnessed the murder of a father figure, comforted her mother over his death and been exiled from her mother’s arms all in the same day. This level of trauma inflicted on a small child is nothing short of state-sanctioned violence.

In light of Black women’s position on the margins of society, Daeanna’s treatment after Philando’s murder probably won’t be the last time she’s seen as subhuman while exerting superhuman strength.  She’s being called the bravest child in the world, but that’s not a compliment. A four-year old should never have to be brave due to police terror.

Our protests and rallies can no longer be singularly driven by the names of Black men murdered by state agents or their allies. When our cis and trans sisters like Sandra Bland, Rekia Boyd and Mya Hall don’t also anchor our will to fight a white supremacist system, what can we expect of our children’s stories who also suffer immeasurable loss when a loved one is killed by police?
Unfortunately, Daeanna isn’t the only small child who recently faced unimaginable trauma as a result of a violent interaction with police.  Reports have emerged from recently released security footage that Delrawn Small was killed by an off duty NYPD officer within a second of approaching his car to complain about the officer’s driving. Like Philando, his girlfriend and their three daughters were watching from the backseat when he took his last breath.

Brain science and research on child development are clear that a small child exposed to violence, like the murder of a loved one before their eyes, can have negative effects on their physical and mental well-being for a lifetime. Poor social, emotional and cognitive functioning are real manifestations of this form of trauma.

Our marches must lift up Black children’s experiences living in a society where the police perpetuate violence and their parents can’t protect them from a law enforcement officer with a gun. Our protests must lift up the emotional turmoil of black childhood and call for an end to the pipeline to their oppression. Our rallies must lift up the unique experiences of Black women and girls and give their experiences the same weight as our male counterparts.

It is our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to save our girls.

by Marilyn Rhames

I recently sat with four colleagues during a school-based professional development session on diversity. There was a Jewish woman, a Mexican woman, a White man, and me. We had to answer the question “Which part of your identity has had the biggest impact on you growing up? Race, class, or gender?”

I learned a lot about my colleagues that day, including one who admitted being afraid to walk near a Black man (I won’t say who said that). As for me, all three factors have deeply affected me.

Gender, however, is the the one I’ve explored the least.
Growing up, my friend’s older brother would call me “the young and the breastless.” Boys would form a cross with their fingers and run away screaming like I was a witch. I was tall, flat, and dark.

Ugly.

At least that’s how my male counterparts made me feel. (Girls weren’t as cruel.)

So poured my energy into being a top student. My fight-back strategy was to silence the bullies with my brilliance. Plus, I could imagine nothing worse than becoming an unsightly, broke, dumb Black woman like the one-dimensional characters I saw on TV shows depicting a rich, glamorous White man’s world.

The angst of my young reality was reflected in a recent Teaching Tolerance piece called Don’t Forget About Black Girls. It reminded me how invisible I used to feel at school.

While Black females have made significant gains in college enrollment rates, we are also the fastest growing population in the juvenile justice system.

Worse, no one seems to be paying attention. The report Black Girls Matter: Pushed Out, Overpoliced, and Underprotected argues that discipline and behavior studies tend to be laser focused on Black boys, and in the webinar accompanying the report, discourse regarding gender is largely centered on White girls in more well-off schools that don’t have zero-tolerance policies. Meanwhile, African-American females are traveling at full speed along the school-to-prison pipeline, a trend virtually ignored by researchers.

For example, the report found that Black girls are suspended six times as often as White girls and 10 times more in New York State.

I was one of the fortunate ones. Though I felt ugly on the outside, I never once doubted my inner beauty or acted out in school. When I wasn’t studying, doing chores, or jumping rope, I poured myself into church activities. I read the Bible and loved Proverbs 31, which praised a woman for her virtuous character, not her good looks.


But what about today’s Black girls who look “on fleek” but feel like broken glass?Where do they turn to when they have no faith and no safety at home or at school? What about the girls who mask their insecurities and pain with endless selfies plastered on social media? When their frustration with the past and fear of the future cause them to disengage or lash out at school, what happens?

Black girls don’t get the counseling they need. They get suspended. Then expelled. They go to juvie. Then, they drop out. And when they can’t find a job, they commit minor crimes. They get arrested. They go to court. They get sent to prison.

One African-American male principal in Chicago told me that based on the Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) survey, about 45 percent of his predominantly low-income Black students have a parent who is either dead or incarcerated. A whopping 90 percent of his students reported experiencing childhood trauma. During the past few years, he has seen an uptick in violent incidents involving girls.

“I used to worry about my Black boys, but now the girls are the ones fighting and causing the most trouble,” he said.

Historically, women have always been the quiet strength of the African-American community, so hearing about large numbers of Black girls falling apart in schools is a troubling phenomenon that must not go unaddressed.
By my senior year in high school, I had accepted my beautiful cocoa brown skin, thick braided locks, and brown eyes that slanted upward. I had curves, and the same boys who taunted me in elementary school were asking for my phone number. Moreover, I was ranked at the top of the class and voted “Most Likely to Succeed.”

This Black girl was on the top of the world, fairy dust all around me. That is, until I enrolled in a private liberal arts college that had little ethnic diversity among students or staff. None of the White boys had any interest in me (except one red-headed, freckle-faced basketball player who asked me out and then stood me up). And when I took my first science class, I realized that I wasn’t as smart as I thought I was.

My #BlackGirlMagic seemed to stop working. But coming home on the weekends and seeing the pride in my momma’s eyes always broke the spell of disillusionment. That’s what Black girls need. They need us to see them, affirm them, love them. Love produces the most amazing magic show.

by Tiffanie Drayton @DraytonTiffanie

Two Black teenage girls recently died, struggling to defend themselves against violent attacks from fellow Black girls. 17-year-old Ta'Jae Warner was jumped and beaten to death while walking her 11-year-old brother to the store in the daylight-filled streets of Brooklyn and 16-year-old Amy Joyner sustained a head injury that claimed her life after a brawl in the girl’s bathroom at Howard High School of Technology in Delaware.

As a 26-year-old Black woman who has not only been a witness to but a victim of violence within the Black community, it pains me deeply to be forced to revisit the horrors of those teenage experiences, and also to reconcile them with the vicious reality Black girls like myself faced and continue to face. A reality ridden with aggression, anger, fear, and exacerbated by feelings of helplessness from existing in a society that constantly disregards the physical and emotional well-being of young Black girls. A teen experience so precarious that I was both a victim of violence and a perpetrator of it.

In my early childhood, I spent the vast majority of my time roaming the suburban streets of a diverse East Coast town, with predominantly Italian and Hispanic families, where my mother immigrated alone with her three children from Trinidad and Tobago. She worked hard to provide and for that reason, the streets-- and the children of them-- were my best friends. While my mother sometimes worked into the wee hours of the night, she knew we were protected; our neighborhood offered the security of friendly officers riding around on bikes with short pants during the summer, or other parents who would be sure to look out for us kids.

That all changed when my mother decided to move to an urban, mostly black neighborhood, after realizing she could no longer afford to live in suburbia as a single parent when I was 10.

While the environmental change was immediately palpable—the vast home-lined streets turned into a dilapidated apartment complex, where greetings were not friendly smiles but harsh, unwelcoming stares—it took quite some time for me to understand that I was no longer existing in the same psychological space. That I would have to adopt a survival mentality and survival could sometimes mean life or death.


And then the fights started.

I wish I could even remember what we ever fought for--for the most part, I don’t. Maybe about a boy? Or perhaps I "tried too hard to look cute" one day. What I do remember distinctly was the pressure to perform.

“Just hit her!” onlookers would scream.

“Ya’ll gonna fight already?” they taunted.

I never really wanted to fight. Raised in a home with pretty much no violence-- my mother never hit her children and seldom yelled or screamed in anger-- the idea of wanting to hit someone else was foreign to me. But I knew that I had to in order to protect myself. I felt like a magnet for violence-- it followed me everywhere. On the school bus. At the playground. By the neighborhood pool. At school. In front of my own home.

When 50 teens, ranging from 10-18 years of age, showed up in front of my family’s house for an impending fight in which I was supposedly a headliner, that was the first time I ever reached out for help. Supposedly, I was hanging out too frequently at the neighborhood pool with a boy who was "taken", and word spread through the complex that he liked me, to his girlfriend's dismay. I had yet to ever even have a boyfriend at that point in time of my life, so I was absolutely confused.

"You gunna let some little light-skinned girl think she can steal your man?" I heard one of the girls castigating the other girl who was to fight me.

"Imma fuck that bitch up," she responded, angrily.

My mother was at work and cellphones were not yet popular. So after the mob began to launch rocks through our windows, my siblings and I agreed we should call the police.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency,” a female voice questioned.

“There are some kids outside trying to fight us and they are throwing rocks through our windows,” I pleaded.

“Do you see any weapons?” the emergency dispatcher questioned.

“No, I don’t think so,” I answered.

The response? The sound of a click and eventually dial tone.

Frantic, we decided the next best option was to call the only uncle we had in the vicinity. He explained that he was too busy to come to our aid. This would become the norm. I never had any adult intervene on my behalf when I was threatened by violence. My school forced me to sit on the very same bus where children jeered at me or tried to instigate fights with me, after I started walking to a neighboring complex to catch the bus there and avoid those confrontations. Police never came when called. My mother never addressed the bruises on my face or body. Violence became a way of life and there was no one to protect me, but me. I felt lonely, isolated, fearful and confused-- those feelings eventually morphing into anger and rage.

“She’s a fucking hoe; I don’t know why anyone would want to be with her!” I taunted another girl, in front of a large group of children, as her boyfriend stood nearby. We fought that day, as other children watched on. I slammed her to the ground, punching her in the face as she pulled my hair.

And just like that, I could’ve been Ta’Jae Warner, Amy Joyner or any one of their assailants. Like so many young Black girls, my future could’ve been stolen from me because of violence, misplaced hurt and the loss of innocence and childhood. According to The National Center for Victims of Crime, Black youth face disproportionate rates of victimization and exposure to violence:

“Evidence suggests that Black youth ages 12 to 19 are victims of violent crime at significantly higher rates than their white peers. Black youth are three times more likely to be victims of reported child abuse or neglect, three times more likely to be victims of robbery, and five times more likely to be victims of homicide. In fact, homicide is the leading cause of death among African American youth ages 15 to 24.”

The initiative further explains that exposure to such violence makes Black children more likely to act out or suffer from a host of debilitating ramifications:

“Youth exposure to victimization is directly linked to negative outcomes for young people, including increased depression, substance abuse, risky sexual behavior, homelessness, and poor school performance. Youth victimization increases the odds of becoming a perpetrator of violent crimes, including felony assault and intimate partner violence, doubles the likelihood of problematic drug use, and increases the odds of committing property crimes.”

And, like myself, many Black children are left without support from institutions or family when threatened with or exposed to violence:

“Youth who are victimized during the complicated transitional period of adolescence may experience serious disruption of their developmental processes. These effects are worsened when youth perceive institutions as unwilling or unable to help or protect them, and adults’ failure to intercede confirms youth victims’ sense that they must cope with an unsafe environment by themselves and leads to delayed reporting and recovery for youth.”

For far too many Black children, recovery is not an option. Some of the physical and emotional scars left from being a victim of or witness to violence may fade with time. Others do not. And these are not merely physical wounds, but wounds of the heart, soul and spirit that are left untreated, eventually festering and ulcerating, corrupting the body and mind. It is this deep hurt, pain, fear and anger that took the lives of girls like Ta’Jae and Amy and the freedom of their assailants.

While we mourn the loss of these two beautiful young women whose lives were tragically stolen from them, we must also mourn the loss of our children’s innocence. Look into the eyes of our youth and see and feel the violence that has been seen and felt. When will we be able to protect them from it? Until we can, the Black community will continue to lose it’s children to violence. And we-- the adults, parents, leaders of institutions-- are at fault for that.

Photo: Ta'jae Warner - left; Amy Joyner - right

by Michelle Y. Talbert

Prom. High school graduation. College graduation. Motherhood. Adulthood. Yet another of our daughters will never experience any of these or the other milestones that make life so rich.

by Syon Davis @syononae

I had a great childhood. Looking back, I never seemed to mind being the token Black kid in an elementary school filled with mostly white and Chinese students. At times, I think I even preferred it. It was just one more thing that made me feel special. This isn’t to say that I was exempt from typical nine-year-old token Black girl frustrations (like not being able to wet my hair at slumber parties and feeling uncomfortable when my peers would ask me if I was related to MLK) but overall, I was fine. I thrived both socially and academically and genuinely loved my friends and my life.

I did, however, have another life, outside of my Monday-Friday routine filled with GATE classes, girl scouts meetings, and a sea of pale faces.




“When are we gonna start the discussions?” Twin number one impatiently questions as the rest of us stuff our faces with chocolate-filled crescent rolls and physically fight over the blue sour patch kids.

We are at a sleepover.

We are grown ass women.

The term “Discussions” is the Twin’s formal way of referencing the unplanned, yet inevitable, lengthy and usually heated conversations we end up having at these things. These “discussions” have always been a highlight of our sleepovers, second only to quoting Mean Girls in its entirety.

Somewhere around ’96 or ’97, we all began dancing together at a small, Black, Pentecostal church and somewhere around ’99 or ’00 we started having sleepovers every summer and winter, a tradition that we continue to this day. During the early years of our tradition, since we saw each other 4 or 5 times during any given week our sleepovers always felt like a capstone of sorts, celebrating another successful few months of being friends, of dancing, of going to middle school, to high school, to college. A time to argue about boys, complain about parents, and pry secrets out of one another.

But now, we’re lucky if we see each other every other month. Our sleepovers have shifted into something equally fun but more intentional, weighted with a tangible significance, a time to celebrate weddings, babies, career moves, a time to cry about failures, losses, and relationship mishaps.

Having black friends is important, y’all.

This may seem like a given, but it’s something I didn’t realize until fairly recently during our last sleepover when we were time traveling and laughing about stories from our almost two decades of knowing each other.

Shame on me, I know. But better late than never, I suppose.

Growing up with a solid group of black women as friends has empowered me in ways that I am still discovering. Here are a few things I’ve discovered so far:

Kenzie Kate Photography

It is important that Black women have a space where they can be an angry Black woman without being labeled and written off as an angry Black woman.

I am afraid of being a stereotype. In non-Black circles I overcompensate often. I speak of my love of country music and swimming, I enunciate well and emphasize my i-n-g’s. I limit saying anything that could be interpreted as me using the (non-existent) race card. I fear being labeled an angry black woman.

At our sleepovers, the subject matter is always candid and nothing is off-limits. We make our disapproval for someone’s significant other known, we debate the perks and downfalls of going to an HBCU, we talk about Black men dating white women, we talk about why we should move to Atlanta, we talk about why we should not move to Atlanta. We don’t have sidebar conversations. If two people are arguing, we are all there. If someone is crying, we are all there.
We yell at each other. A lot. We hurt each other's feelings. We apologize. We don’t apologize. We argue. We always hear each other out. We interrupt. We intervene on each other’s behalf. We continue to interrupt. We know that no amount of yelling or arguing or ranting or tears could ever make anyone else in the room doubt our intelligence. We know that we are all smart.

It is important to have a space where you don’t feel like you are speaking for the entire African-American population.

Whether in corporate America or in a university classroom, as a black woman voicing any opinion, you are speaking for black women (and sometimes black people) everywhere. People will take your opinion as truth, as “the black perspective.” I have literally been asked to give “the black perspective” on multiple occasions. That is a LOT of pressure. I do not know all of the black people in America.

Yes, I have insight into A black perspective, but too often, people mistake it as the only black perspective.

On many past occasions, as a result of being the sole black perspective, I have failed black people. When given the mic, I have been quick to say the easiest thing, to make the people around me comfortable, to manipulate the truth, to not be the downer in the room.

When I’m with my girls, I am only required to speak for myself. My opinion only belongs to me. There’s so much freedom that comes with that.

It is important to have a space where you don’t ever feel like you could talk about race “too much” and a place where wearing a scarf to sleep is the norm and ain’t nobody wettin’ their hair.

Whether we like it or not, hair is a big part of a young girl's’ life in America, no matter what race. Your hair is your beauty, your hair is your identity. I now know these things aren’t true, of course, thanks to the 2005 hit track by India Arie, I Am Not My Hair, but as a little girl with barrettes, as a preteen with cornrows, as a high schooler with braids, it was my truth. It was all of our truth.

On the playground, I remember my nine year old self filling with envy whilst watching all the little white girls put their hair up in a ponytail to play soccer, and then take it back down and splash some water in it to go back to class. It was magic. My hair had to stay in its four ponytails, hair balls hanging on ends, lest I receive a beating when I got home. My hair was not magic.

But on Saturdays, as we’d prepare to dance at church on Sunday morning, my mom was running a pressing comb through all of our heads, gelling down our kitchens, changing afro puffs into curly ponytails, loose edges into defined twists. Our hair was magic.

Even still, as adults, we revel in each other’s hairstyles: the bobs, the braids, the afros, the twists, the locks, the ongoing discovery of how our hair can shape shift into something else. Our hair is magic.

We are magic.




Little did I know that growing up with black girlfriends, meant growing up surrounded by mirrors. Reflections that looked just like me and constantly showed me who I was and who I could be. Mirrors that know me for me and constantly remind me that I am fucking magic.

We don’t see each other four times a week like we used to and our phone calls and text messages are sometimes far and few between, but we hold on tightly to our bi-annual sleepovers, because we know that we need each other to survive in this world. Black women need each other in this world.

Syon is a writer living in Los Angeles, CA who hates kale as much as she hates traffic. She loves Beyonce and considers Black Twitter to be her family.

Header Photo: Kenzie Kate Photography

When I was 13, I was arrested and sentenced to 90 days in a youth detention center (otherwise known as a YDC).

When I first arrived “up the road,” I hesitated when my turn came to undress, squat, and cough because I was menstruating and there was a male guard in the room. He wasn’t looking, but he was still there. Finally, a woman guard told me, “Come on, girl, I ain’t got all day.” That was the day I realized I was no one special, and it took about a decade to regain the little self-respect I had before that incident.

While detained, I surprisingly enjoyed going to the dentist. I had braces, so saying a band popped would get me an appointment onsite within two days. I valued my time in the dentist’s chair because he separated my character from my circumstances, and talked with me versus at me. In everyday life, it isn’t typical for black girls to be supported or esteemed, but this is especially true within the juvenile justice system.


One day, I asked him, “You think girls who come here get the help they need?”

I explained how a lot of the girls had real problems back at home and I wondered how being sent there was helping them. I kept it vague, fearing details would summon too many questions—including names. It took a while for him to answer, but he finally came around and suggested that I just worry about myself because some people will never learn—they’re set on their excuses.

I couldn’t look at him the same after that. I even started judging him for falling for my put-on. As a “delinquent,” you get used to being pigeonholed, but I was pretty good at climbing out of boxes. When I first met the dentist, for example, I changed his mind about me by simply asking which colleges he graduated from and sharing that I planned to go to Georgia Tech to be a computer software engineer. I didn’t really want to; it just sounded impressive.

He didn’t know that a few days prior to my visit with him, I was on lockdown for fighting. Again. I had a pretty bad temper, and it had played a big role in my being sent to the YDC. When two girls showed up at my doorstep strapped with belts, I didn’t call the police. I went outside and stabbed one of them. That’s how the prosecutor explained why my case didn’t qualify as self-defense.

I don’t remember what the fight was about that landed me in a 24-hour lockdown, but I recall the girl I fought with screaming and kicking at her door all night. The next day, a guard called herself punishing us by making us watch her eat McDonald’s. That was another level of lowness, and I’d seen correctional officers behave in some pretty jacked up ways, like taking their bad day out on us or being too aggressive when they had to get physical with us.

All guards weren’t trifling though. We weren’t allowed to call them outside of their formal titles, but if we had been, there were a few of them I know we would’ve referred to as Auntie and Maw-Maw. Even when they were upset or disappointed, it was still obvious that they cared. Some guards even read my stories, which I began writing as a way to pass time.

I changed a few proper nouns to disguise my life as fiction. The popularity of my writing began when one friend read and liked a story. Then, the other girls began reading my work, and then eventually guards too. It was like journaling out loud. Confessing. The need to be heard and understood was one of our common denominators, as some of the girls started writing their own stories. Others would ask me to write for them in exchange for snacks and cornrows.

While munching on potato chips and getting my hair parted and plaited into works of art, I realized how much we had in common. For some time, I felt that I was better than the other girls. I figured having specific goals, big dreams, and having been to Disney World a few times situated me a little higher up. I assumed being black and female, which most of us were—and maybe having a crush on Usher—was all we had in common.

If I had to guess, I’d say at least 80% of the young women detained in my YDC were black. This may seem like a high percentage, but it’s the norm. Today, girls are the fastest growing group in YDCs. Black girls are twenty percent more likely to be detained than white girls and three times more likely to be referred to court. White girls might get into the same kind of trouble that we do, but they’re treated much differently.

Because storytelling so awesomely makes you dig deeper, I realized more with each story how similar we all were in terms of our vulnerability. Most of us had been sexually assaulted, and just as many were runaways. In fact, many of the girls were serving time in the detention center for running away from home. Some had been raped by family members, a few were physically abused at home, and others would rather shack up with a pimp than be in an overcrowded house with no food or lights. I too had a habit of running away to get what I was missing at home and to relieve some of the pressure of expectations.

That was another common thread: We were all muted in some capacity. Always expected to think or behave a certain way, but never accepted for who we were. Once I realized that, my eyes opened to just how flawed the system really is. I would cringe when the counselor would act like joining extracurricular activities at school would solve our problems, or that sharing how we felt with our guardians would lessen our emotional burden.

No one was taking the time to resolve or respond to the root causes of our issues. Even in the facility, our only resources for support were the counselor, who was as overworked and underpaid as a court-appointed attorney, and a chaplain, an old white man whose only shared experience with us was probably speaking English.

Alice Walker once wrote that the most important question in the world asks why the child is crying. If my 90 days taught me nothing else, I learned why black girls cry. I also learned that wiping those tears ain’t exactly a priority for the justice system, which is structured to pull girls in, rather than to use available “off-ramps” to divert them to more appropriate interventions.

Too often, these off-ramps aren’t even available. Because the system isn’t equipped to provide the help needed, putting girls away is seen as the “answer” as a means of protecting them. It’s a temporary solution with long-term consequences of added emotional trauma. In most cases, being detained in a juvenile facility once clears from your criminal history after you turn 18. Any more than that and you’re stuck with a record… and the limited opportunities that go along with it.

Eight years after my release, I was hired as a communications operator for the city I lived in, serving as a liaison between the police and the public. Whenever an officer radioed in that he had a runaway or a girl who was put out of her home, my job was to call group homes to see who had room. If none, then I had to call a YDC. Many times, I felt like I was calling for the younger version of myself, letting them know that a 13-year-old black female was en route.

This isn’t just my story or their story. And it isn’t just happening in my city, but in all cities across the country.


Remember Shakara, the 16-year-old from Spring Valley High who refused to put her phone away or leave class, and was then violently attacked by the school resource officer? Even after the video circulated, the officer was fired, and the fact that she’s in foster care was released, she still faces up to 90 days in jail and a fine of up to $1,000.

Remember 16-year-old Kaylan Ward, who was found dismembered on the side of I-10 in New Orleans? In so many words, her mom expressed that she was a troublemaker too. Could juvenile detention have saved her life? It makes me wonder how many background stories go untold and unhealed. How many incidents weren’t filmed, or how many were filmed but didn’t go viral?

Instead of solely pointing the finger, community accountability is an important factor in how we protect and bring up our girls. Speaking up for their justice in our prayers, polls, and protests is an option. Creating safe spaces for them to be heard is another, and so is supporting the platforms that already exist to serve this purpose.

If our young black girls are not free, then you aren’t either. Auntie Audre taught us that.
Photo: From the photo essay, "Life Inside a Juvenile Detention Center for Girls" by Mike Fritz / PBS News Hour

Trelani Michelle was the little girl beneath the covers with a flashlight and a journal. Now, she embraces the power of personal writing as a rich resource for understanding and expressing herself in the world. Visit her website at SoFundamental.com.

Last weekend The Soul Train awards aired on BET and Centric. The ceremony, named for the long-running weekly broadcast that showcased the best in R&B and Soul music, was an unapologetically Black and Proud event filled with our most talented and treasured entertainers.

The terrifying, brutal attack on an unarmed 16-year-old black girl at Silver Valley High School in South Carolina has polarized consciousness around the issue of police brutality. A student who did not pose a threat, and whose decision to hold onto her cell phone and not leave a classroom when asked resulted in her being choked, dragged, and thrown across a room with no regard for her as a person. As a black woman my soul cries out in angst and I feel every denigration that has been sent her way by way of social media, op-ed pieces, editorials, and random posters.

By Moiyattu Banya

Michelle Obama’s recent remarks at an appearance at the Apollo Theater emphasized the importance of educational opportunities for girls around the world. It is so important that we nurture the future generation of young girls. We are proud of women around the world who are making a change in their corners of the world to uplift Black girls and to give them hope for a better future. Several organizations around the world owned and run by Black women do just this. This isn’t a list to just browse through, but we hope that you reach out to these organizations and lend a hand, volunteer, donate or just spread the word about this important work. We celebrate these organizations doing such critical work!

by Liz Alexander

See Her.

As we continue to grieve the lives of Black women and girls who are murdered by state and systemic violence as well as confront the invisibility and marginalization of those lives in larger discourse, black and brown girls are being silently swallowed up by the juvenile justice system.

by Anna Gibson

When “B,” a Black girl from Detroit, MI was diagnosed with autism, she was very young. When her mother, Kristen, spoke with me, she told me about the first time her child got on a roller coaster, despite the environment that would normally over-stimulate her.

by Thahabu Gordon for Rookie

When I was 13 years old, the most striking aspects of my appearance were a blue weave, thick eyeliner, and a wardrobe full of dark band T-shirts. My peers had conflicting ideas about me: I didn’t fit the image of how they thought a black girl was supposed to look and act. My white friends often reminded me that I was “above” most black kids because I spoke “proper” English, but they were quick to exclaim how ghetto I was whenever I raised my voice or expressed my opinion on a heavy topic. My black counterparts let me know that having colorful hair made me ratchet, because “only white girls can get away with that,” and felt I should’ve been listening to Lil Wayne instead of All Time Low. The only thing both my black and white classmates could agree on was that I’d always be ratchet, which meant I’d never be worthy of their full respect.

by Inda Lauryn 

by Kimberly Foster

There are few places where Black children, Black girls in particular, are safe—not on unfamiliar streets, not in frequented neighborhoods, not in chaotic classrooms, and often not even in the place they call home. Those of us who care for these children recognize this and try to prepare them for the unwarranted hostility they will face. We give them “the talk” and careful instructions on “appropriate” behavior knowing these are not adequate remedies and likely won’t guarantee survival.

by Khadijah Costley White on Quartz

This past weekend, millions of people watched a terrible scene unfold—we held our breath as a white police officer grabbed a black girl in a bathing suit by her hair and sat down on her. We heard her sobbing, we watched the officer pull out his gun and point it at two boys as they responded to her cries.

by Brit Bennett for The Paris Review

In 1864, a nine-year-old slave girl was punished for daydreaming. Distracted by rumors that her brother and father would be sold, she failed to remove worms from the tobacco leaves she was picking. The overseer didn’t whip her. Instead, he pried her mouth open, stuffed a worm inside, and forced her to eat it.

by Kimberly Denise Williams

We all believe that no children’s television program will ever be as good as whatever we watched as a child. But anyone growing up in the 1990s or before can probably count on one hand the number of cartoon characters of color featured on the various networks of the time. Save for the occasional children’s cartoon that explicitly featured characters of color—like Fat Albert, WayneHead, or my personal favorite C Bear and Jamal—cartoons have largely been a place for mainstream white images to dominate, much like the rest of American media.

by Raisa Habersham