by KV Thompson

“Don’t let the birth of your black daughter be the first time you respect a black woman” - Always Be Woke on Tumblr

My dad put me on a pedestal. In his eyes, I could do no wrong. I could tell that he cared for me by how present he was in my life. He was at every basketball game, every awards ceremony, every play, anything else that centered around his only daughter.

He respected me as an equal. He believed in my potential so much that many conversations were spent on talking about how much I was going to achieve and how successful I could be. My dad showed me how to be treated by a man, but he was flawed.
How he treated his daughter didn’t always transfer to how he treated women.

My dad was, for a lack of better words, a player. He was charming. Very charming. Growing up I noticed how women gravitated towards him. Women. Plural.

When I was a teenager I witnessed my dad have several women rotating in and out of the house. Sometimes it seemed like he had a new friend for every day of the week.

I don’t want to disclose all of his business (God rest his soul), but I witnessed him exhibit characteristics that he warned me about, the ain’t shit men I should avoid. For me, he was the perfect man. For women he courted (or whatever he was doing), he was exactly the type of man he didn’t want me to end up with.

He taught me to be strong and never fall for the type of man he was to other women. He taught my brothers that women were disposable.

The cognitive dissonance I experienced growing up caused me to rationalize the constant misogynoir I witnessed. Misogynoir from the hands of my father and brothers and close friends and other family members. It seemed all the men I knew were indoctrinated in the same poisoning patriarchal system.

I rationalized, “Maybe those women deserved to be played, but I’m different. I’m my father’s daughter.”

When he died I ended up with the exact type of guy my dad wouldn’t want me to end up with. Worse even. I had to realize I am not above any woman. I am every woman. We all deserve to be treated better.


We are bombarded with images of Black men holding guns with their daughter and her prom date. Black men are saying, “Respect my daughter, or I will end your life,” but are teaching their sons to be sexually irresponsible. Teaching their sons to be unemotional and detached with women and in their relationships, forgetting that we have to meet up one day.

Who will protect your daughter from someone’s son? A son that was brought up the same way you were. The same way you raised your son to be.

In Beyonce’s “Daddy Lessons,” she explores how her dad taught her to be strong with men. In the chorus she repeats:

“With his gun, and his head held high
He told me not to cry

Oh, my daddy said shoot/
Oh, my daddy said shoot”

Her dad told her to “shoot.” Which is reminiscent of images of daughters and their gun totting dad’s in prom photos.

Later she says:

“When trouble comes to town
And men like me come around”

Her father is preparing her to protect herself from men just like him. Like my father did for me. Like many fathers do for their daughters.
But daughters who have a great relationship with their father want a man just like their him. Daddy’s girls are going through the world looking for men that can live up to the expectations they set,  an expectation that can never be realized because not even our fathers lived up to the hype.

Don’t let the birth of your Black daughter be the first time you respect a Black woman because her being your daughter won’t stop her from being affected by your sins.


Photo: Parkwood Entertainment

KV Thompson grew up in St. Louis, MO and graduated with a BA in Cultural Anthropology from Webster University. She currently teaches 4th grade in St. Louis.

by Bee Quammie

Dear J,

On June 21, 2014, life as we knew it shifted, ballooned, and took on new shape. Our daughter burst into the world accompanied by the summer solstice sunrise, bringing with her the gift of new identities for the two of us. Taking on the roles of mother and father, we were immediately thrust into on-the-job training with this beautiful brown baby as our only guide.

by Nneka M. Okona

I am the daughter of an immigrant. I am a seed. I was planted here years after my father left his native land, Nigeria, in search of education, in search of opportunity, in search of a better life.

Last week,  a video of a Black father who assaulted his daughter’s male friend after finding the pair alone together in his home presumably engaging in some form of intimacy, made the rounds on the Internet. The father defends his actions in the video under the guise of wanting “to protect his [17-year-old] daughter;” and since then, many fathers have joined in on the conversation to defend his behavior. On social media, particularly, men have contended in unison that “protection” equates policing when rearing their daughters—further perpetuating the notion that fathers are the de facto authority when it comes to the sex lives of their daughters. But, au contraire sirs (and madams), your daughters will have sex, and there’s absolutely, positively nothing you can do about it… except support and educate her.

by Ayana Crichlow


Although I currently live in the U.S., I grew up in Trinidad in the 80s and 90s as a black girl. To be black in a country that idealizes a mixed ethnicity aesthetic, was rough to say the least. Although I shared the same parental genes as my sister, she was considered mixed, whereas I have dark skin. I also had kinky hair, whereas my sister and all my cousins had curly hair, or “good hair” according to Trinis. It didn't matter that my heritage also included French, Scottish, East Indian and African; I was black to everyone who saw me. This wouldn’t have bothered me, if I hadn’t been treated as less than my sister for most of our childhood because if it.

by Michelle Talbert

Last week, the Federal Detention Center in Miami held its first “Father-Daughter Dance” for inmates who are nearing release, in an effort to aid re-entry into society and reconnect with family members. I couldn’t bring myself to read about the story at first, because I knew when I read it I would cry. I had this same hesitation when my friend and For Harrier sister-writer, Diana Veiga penned this amazing amazing ode to her daddy, speaking of her father’s presence and conscious decision to be a strong figure in her life.

by Diana Veiga

The other day, I went into a Black-owned neighborhood bar and restaurant to pick up some wings and fries. They were playing what seemed to be a documentary of local Black teen girls talking about growing up without their father. Yes, it’s that kind of slightly hood rich spot, but I love it.

by Alice Faye Duncan

Iyanla,

Before your show I never felt like just one of 34. I have always had a great and close relationship with the eight of my siblings that I do know. We have a very supportive and loving family overall. We are in constant contact, so it has always felt totally normal. Sure, I always knew that I had an unusual amount of siblings out there, and yes, I resented my father for it. I never, however, despised what he created. All of my siblings are a blessing, and they all matter, but I resented what he would not do. Yes my mother is the first, and she is an amazing woman--nothing short of an inspiration. She has done great on her own despite my father’s absence and having so many children. It would be asinine to say he wasn’t necessary. It was just extremely difficult for us to expect anything from him at all. Let’s be honest, you cannot expect a man with 34 children to do something as ordinary as tucking you into bed every night. You certainly cannot expect that same man to put you and your 33 siblings through college. You cannot expect to see him during the holidays, your birthday, or even at your college graduation. Zero expectations. Sero consistency. What does a person like that teach a child about how to socialize? Have no expectations? Have no voice? Set no boundaries? I will admit that I have had to ask myself each of those questions at different points in my life, but the reoccurring question was always: “When will the day come when my Father will be held accountable and how?”

by Jewanna T. Carver

My father’s first name was Henry. My mother chose not to give me his surname, though she never doubted I was his child. I don’t know how certain he was of his paternity, but the likelihood was strong enough to notify the Social Security Administration and have me added to a long list of his dependents. The process was nothing new for him. Though married, Henry had more than a few “outside children.” I wasn’t the first or the last of his indiscretions. However it’s been my mother who has dealt with the brunt of my judgment. How could someone so smart, make such a poor decision to have a child with a married man? Why did Henry have to be my father?

by Amber Wright

I am not a daddy’s girl. From what I understand, carrying that title is something many women cherish well into adulthood. I’m familiar with the idea that once you become one, you will always be a daddy’s girl. I think that’s something really special!

Kandi Burruss’ conversation with her father on last Sunday’s second episode of Kandi’s Wedding was likely déjà vu for many viewers. For me, it was reminiscent of the many "wha-ha-happened" conversations I have had with my own father. During the scene, the once estranged father and daughter discussed what may or may not have occurred during Kandi’s childhood. Titus Burros, now a pastor, explained there were “undercurrents” of the situation Kandi could not understand.

There are only two positive things that I can remember that he has ever said me unprompted: 1) “I like that,” referring to something I did while driving, and 2) “She has great comedic timing.” The former was nice, but didn’t carry much weight as I have always been pretty assured of my driving skills. I don’t talk an exorbitant amount of trash behind the wheel for nothing. I’ve seen bad driving, and ninety percent of the time, I don’t do it.

by Erica Harris

by Crissinda M. Ponder

I don't know how long it took, reaching this epiphany. I just know that I'm grateful I've arrived.

Growing up with an absentee father was hard – is hard. The emotions that resulted from the void he left are even harder. I can't count the instances I got my hopes up for quality time only to be let down, the tears I've cried for blaming myself for his absence, and the years of anger that festered within me from not letting go of the hurt.

by Ellen Usher

I do the same thing every Father’s Day. I wake up. I thank God for my grandfather. I reflect and think about the many times my grandfather was there for me when my own father abandoned me physically, emotionally, and financially. I make no phone calls to wish my father a Happy Father’s Day. I turn on my music and I mourn for the ten year old Nicole. I think about what her life would have been like had he made better choices. I cry a little and think about the day she stopped being a Daddy’s Girl.

I'm a self-proclaimed daddy's girl. My most vivid, early childhood memories are those of my father gently caressing my hair and telling me how pretty it was and then gifting to me brown dolls that I was supposed to love just as much as he loved me. After over a year of therapy, tearful nights and long adult conversations with him, I can truthfully say that my father was my first love and my first heartbreak.