by Bee Quammie

Historically, important Black women are determined. They’re risk-takers. Their art inspires culture and their culture inspires art. They defend their people, encouraging us to dream bigger, stand taller, and speak louder. They rewrite history, urging their community to embrace the authenticity within our birthrights, even when others say we shouldn’t be proud of who we are. They may do one or some or none of these things, but there is one woman who did them all: the Honorable Dr. Louise Bennett-Coverley, better known as Miss Lou.


Her life began in Kingston, Jamaica in 1919. And Toronto, Canada was where it ended in 2006. Her 86 years on this earth were marked by notable achievements like being the first Black student to attend England’s Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, and being the inspiring force behind Harry Belafonte’s “Day-O” song, which he styled after Miss Lou’s recording of “Day Dah Light.” An award-winning Jamaican folklorist, writer, and educator, Miss Lou was many things to many people, yet one could argue that her greatest impact was in her ovation of Jamaican patois, or Jamaican Creole.

“Creole” is defined by the Oxford Dictionary as “a mother tongue formed from the contact of a European language (especially English, French, Spanish, or Portuguese) with local languages (especially African languages spoken by slaves in the West Indies).” The Collins Dictionary describes it as “a language that has its origin in extended contact between two language communities, one of which is generally European. It incorporates features from each and constitutes the mother tongue of a community.” The community of West African slaves who were forced into servitude in Jamaica created this mother tongue from the languages of their colonizing masters and those of the homes they left behind. Speaking patois was an act of survival, an act of solidarity, and an act of rebellion—and patois itself has grown and morphed from those days until now.

“Miss Lou made Jamaican Creole valid,” states Marlene Gaynair, a doctoral student at Rutgers University studying Black Atlantic history. Miss Lou’s life spanned the days of Jamaica’s staunch British allegiance through its independence in 1962, and from her time as a Kingston girl to her time as a Jamaican in Britain, in Canada, and beyond. Her work reflected those experiences. In a climate that was rife with the effects of colonialism alongside bubbling Black pride, Jamaica tried to assert its identity through the perception of social conservatism. The country that has more churches per square mile than any other country in the world cloaked itself in respectability imposed upon it via colonialism. Patois, the language of the community, was cemented as something undesirable, improper, and “broken.” It is because of these things that Miss Lou’s work was so radical, and so necessary.

In her 1944 poem “Bans O’Killing,” Miss Lou speaks to a figure intent on “killing” the dialect of Jamaican patois, and illuminates the fact that so-called “proper English” consists of many dialects itself. Invalidating Jamaican patois while celebrating Cockney slang or Irish brogue was simply a way of centering the superiority of whiteness, and Miss Lou did not shy away from making her audience confront those beliefs. “Formerly colonized spaces are automatically seen as backwards or primitive or regressive. But Jamaicans like Miss Lou were going back into Jamaica's history to find something worth celebrating or being proud of,” says Gaynair.


Miss Lou’s work explicitly focused on instilling pride in Jamaican culture, folklore, and language. Her method of writing, speaking, teaching, and performing in patois was intentional and unapologetic. In the face of her critics she pressed on, becoming one of the Caribbean’s strongest advocates for the rejection of colonial thinking and investment in cultural pride. Miss Lou’s influence is in the background of conversations defending Rihanna while music critics call her dancehall-tinged single “Work” gibberish. Her upliftment of Afro-Jamaican patois and culture is reflected similarly in discussions of the nuances of AAVE and Black American culture, linking with the literary expressions of noted authors like Zora Neale Hurston. Her presence inspired and continues to inspire others to embrace the essence of who they are, motivating us to “walk good,” as she often said as a farewell.

Miss Lou described her motivations by saying:

Some thought Jamaican-English was vulgar, out-of-order language. It came out of the African heritage and at that time anything African was bad: hair, colour, skin, language, music. But I thought it was fascinating. Everything had a rhythm. It was a creation of the people. One reason I persisted in writing in dialect in spite of the opposition was because nobody else was doing so, and there was such a rich material in dialect that I felt I wanted to put on paper some of the wonderful things that people say in dialect. You could never say 'look here' as vividly as 'kuyah.'

Richness. Rhythm. Creation. Uniqueness. Strength. These are pieces of what makes Blackness great, and parts of what made Miss Lou tell us to be proud of “fi wi language.”


Bee Quammie is a Toronto-based health care professional, 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.

by Bee Quammie

“Ah feelin’ sexy,
Ah feelin’ sexy,
Ah feelin’ sexy,
Heyyyyyyy! Ah feelin’ mehself!” 

by Maryann Adedapo

My first name is Maryann, a name that is almost exclusively given to White girls. It was the most popular female Anglo name in the 1900s. My mom wanted to give me a Yoruba name, but my dad was already thinking about the benefits an Anglo name would provide me in the workplace.

by Felice León

I am a Blacktina. Get it: Black [La]tina?

A friend gave me this nickname years ago, and it has stuck. My father is Afro-Cuban, and my mother Afro-American. I identify with both cultures and have tried to balance both, but I’ve found that I associate more so with my blackness, particularly while living in the United States.

It happens every few months: black youths create a new dance phenomenon or phrase, share it on social media, and it becomes a hit in the black community. A few weeks later, however, mainstream media has once again caught up with the trend, drives it into the ground, and the cycling mill of genius black creativity is put to work creating the next craze.

This piece was written in response to another essay entitled: “Culture Shock: How Straight Black Women Steal Black Gay Men’s Slanguage” written by Rashid Darden for the blog Dopalicious District.

In his article, Rashid Darden talks about how it’s inappropriate for straight black women, some of whom are homoantagonistic, to appropriate gay black male culture, drawing from the popular reality show Real Housewives of Atlanta for examples of this behavior. While I don’t watch RHOA, and am therefore unfamiliar with the characters and their respective behaviors and backgrounds, I don’t think that matters here for two reasons. First, the argument that black women (esp. straight ones) are culture jacking black gay men is an old one and predates this ridiculous show. Secondly, I am not here to defend these women or their unacceptable homophobic behavior, but to offer a different perspective about the idea that black women are “stealing” from gay men (or vice versa).

By Marissa Jackson, Esq.
Visiting Scholar, West African Research Center (CROA)

I hate the Harlem Shake. The meme is amusing, and the execution thereof occasionally hilarious or adorable. The song is, in my opinion, of negligible cultural or artistic value, but where the YouTube videos are concerned it gets the job done. In fact, if I were not so offended by the Harlem Shake, I would probably take a couple hours of out my day to make a Harlem Shake video here in Dakar, Senegal, where I recently moved (from a certain New York neighborhood). Just because.

I, like many of my friends and counterparts, would consider myself a well-rounded Black person. I grew up in a working class Black neighborhood, graduated from college, constantly engage in intelligent banter, in person and with online communities, yet know when and how to turn my ratchet on. A few years ago, “Boughetto” would have been the perfect term to describe people like us, but it appears that new terminology of “sophistiratchet” is on the rise.

Since the 21st century commenced, claims of Black art’s alleged demise, from television to film to music, have littered the internet. I’ve witnessed impassioned conversations surrounding the state of Hip-Hop and rap music happen almost weekly on social networking sites and in barbershops alike. Quite often during these heated exchanges, participants on both sides of the debate agree to banish ‘90s babies to the back of the proverbial roundtable, deeming them unqualified to participate in music discourse for the sole fact that they’re existence began amidst the apparent decline of Hip-Hop.

My parents met in the early 70’s at the height of the “I’m black and I’m proud” movement. Everyone was embracing their blackness, wearing afros, dashikis and everyone was naming their daughter’s Tameka or Keisha and son’s Raheem and Abdul (which were not even African names). I guess it was their way of connecting to their “blackness” finding out about who they were in a country they often felt like sub-citizens.

If you follow the media and American ignorance, you'll think that Haiti was simply a black colony that fought the French, dabbled in black magic, descended into extreme poverty and suffered an earthquake. Growing up in a Haitian family filled with lawyers, doctors, clergy men and entrepreneurs, I always felt frustrated that my homeland always was painted as being this dark land inhabited by barbarians. I knew the truth. I knew that this gorgeous land, filled with people of all shades and ethnic backgrounds, was special and wished that those who slandered us and belittled us for our pride and courage could just get a glimpse of what I and so many others know as the truth.

Let's get this out of the way. I adore Viola Davis. I adore her gravitas, intellect and fearlessness, but above all, I adore her prodigious talent. For her merits, Davis deserves to be named alongside screen legends like Meryl Streep and Robert DeNiro. But alas the black, female body she inhabits prevents her from reaching the professional heights she so deserves. Ms. Davis as a radiant, 46 year-old woman, only came close to fully realizing her potential on film 3 years ago in her limited but remarkable role in Doubt. In a part so small it could nearly be called a cameo, Viola Davis wrought a compelling performance that earned her an Academy Award nomination.

Last year, Davis' lauded work in the film adaptation of The Help propelled her back into the spotlight. The magnificence of her portrayal of Aibileen is unquestionable though the film itself has been poked, prodded, and picked apart particularly by concerned black audiences and academics.

Pushback against the film forced Viola to take the defense.  In an interview, she told Tavis Smiley all the way off saying his disdain for the film was a mindset that's "killing the black artist." Davis was nothing if not beautifully eloquent in her assertion that "the black artist cannot live in a revisionist place." You couldn't help but nod along as this brilliant Black woman argued her case.

Davis, of course, fails to take into account that Aibileen occupies the most loathsome of revisionist locales. Historians have noted that the tale of Minnie and Aibleen are not even close to accurate depictions of life in the Jim Crow south.

The most intelligent criticism of the film is based not on the fact that the women play maids but that they play mammies. Maids, you see, are real women whose stories deserve to be told with dignity and without shame. Mammies are fictive martyrs whose love for their white employers eclipses the economic and often sexual exploitation domestic workers endure(d). The Black women of The Help are the latter. (Melissa Harris-Perry explores this in our book club pick, Sister Citizen) The critique is a rejection of the ways white filmmakers have manipulated our stories to assuage their guilt or to suit their interests.

Related: Black Women Should Come Out of Hiding In Honor of Viola Davis

The story of The Help is appalling; the acting is sublime. Both Black and white filmgoers loved it which makes criticizing the movie in any manner like navigating a minefield.

I wanted so much to side with Davis during her showdown with Smiley, but she sidestepped the primary point.  There's no doubt that film critics overwhelmingly celebrate the debasement and pathology of African Americans. While the more than 94% white and 77% male Oscar voters award the varied, complex performances of white actresses, it seems Black women are only visible when we are playing out our most damaging cultural mythologies. Smiley makes it clear that his frustration lies with the racist Hollywood system that dictates what makes it to theaters. Conflating that criticism with a dismissal of the actresses is misguided.

This is all none of Viola Davis' or Octavia Spencer's concern really. We place an unfair burden on black actors by asking them to constantly justify their professional choices. They are actors not activists. This is their craft, but it is also their job.

So when those of us who understand and appreciate the importance of media representation express our frustration at the film, its fabricated history, and the racist film industry it signifies, it is really, truly not personal. We want black actors to flourish and to explore the depths of humanity in new, untold stories. That is our tribute to great Black artists who spent their entire careers encaged, and that is the battle we all must continue to fight.


Kimberly Foster is the Editor and Publisher of For Harriet. Email her at Kimberly@ForHarriet.com with comments or find her on Twitter.

Literary icon Ntozake Shange sits for a brief interview with The Root's Harriete Cole. In the 10 minute clip, Shange discusses:

• -How For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf made it Broadway
• -How she forbid Madea from making an appearance in Tyler Perry's For Colored Girls
• -Her writing process
• -How She's overcome her recent health challenges

Shange's latest novel Some Sing, Some Cry (written with her sister Ifa Bayeza) is now available in hardcover.

Bassey is a phenomenal spoken word artist who has been featured on HBO's Def Poetry Jam a number of times. She captivates and delights each time she takes the stage, so choosing a single performance to feature was difficult.

This poem is terse yet soaring. A truly stunning piece of work. Visit Bassey at her blog Bassey's World.