by Mariah Williams

I am sure that most of us can scroll through our phones and pull up a group chat we are a part of with our closest friends, family members or even co-workers. I am all for a good group chat with girlfriends. In fact, sometimes I don’t know how I’d get through a day without them. They supply me will countless moments of laughter, endless memes to save for a rainy day and the sisterhood and camaraderie that I so often crave and require in my life.

Like most 25 year olds, I am still trying to figure it all out. Life. Love. Money. Career. Family. Myself. On most days, it is refreshing to speak with my friends in a chat around similar topics. Any sharing of a news article or Instagram post can spark a 2-hour round robin between all of us.

“200 messages??” I think as I look at my phone after putting it down for just 30 minutes.

But, admittedly, there was a point in time where I just could not indulge in the conversation.  Where it became too much. Instead, I’d see a string of text messages about how a girl looked on IG or a long thread of a friend giving relationship advice or summoning it and it all became too much information to take in. Not because I did not care about what was going on in my friends’ lives or about how an article made them feel, but the constant picking a part of something was more than I could handle. Someone would post their philosophies about men and relationships and I found that their comments made me anxious about my own. While the intent of this messaging space was certainly to be uplifting and supportive, it sometimes felt like the blind leading the blind in many ways, the spewing of thoughts and ideas we assumed made us “strong and impenetrable” black women, when in fact, we were all trying to figure it out.

Most of us were around the same age, had varying life experiences and wanted similar but different things out of life for the most part. But somehow, when the conversations began, our varying perspectives often got lumped into one category and fused into one way of thinking about the world. Again, not because we intended for them to. In our efforts to support and reaffirm each other’s thoughts and ways of being, it seemed like we forgot that we in fact didn’t really know how we were supposed to exist or be, in ourselves, in relationships, in life. Not yet.

I’d find myself second-guessing my own thoughts and philosophies on certain issues and becoming anxious about the way I was living, the choices I made or did not make with my partner. And it became exhausting, and perhaps the fact that these conversations began to exhaust me suggested that I had things I was working through. And this in fact was true. However, I think it also highlights the danger in sharing everything with people.

So I left the group. At first I thought it would only be for a day or two. But then it turned into weeks. At first I missed chatting with many of my friends who lived far away in this group setting, but I realized how much time I had spent in my head during and after our conversations (and how unproductive it made me at work). I realized that taking a step back, in the same way one steps back from work or a relationship, was what I needed to focus on myself and to develop and reaffirm my own thoughts, paths and relationships.

In an age where we are constantly plugged in and connected to others, there is a pressure to divulge everything. Group chats with our closest friends can certainly be a sacred and much needed space and the easiest way to stay in touch. I promote and love these spaces. But I also value time to embrace and live my own life, without the constant picking a part of one’s choices. It is okay to say, “not today” or “okay, you ladies are going on mute today” and to control what our eyes and minds absorb. And our friends, our sisters, shouldn’t take it personally. It’s simply another act of self-care and self-love. I think it is okay to acknowledge that we are sometimes fragile and impressionable beings, and that as much as we try to convince ourselves that other people’s opinions of our lives don’t matter, they sometimes do. As I continue to work through my own life, insecurities, hopes and desires, I recognize the need to unplug and not feel bad about it.


Mariah Williams is currently pursuing her Masters in Urban and Regional Planning at Virginia Commonwealth University. She is the founder of Black Girls Meet Up, an organization dedicated to creating spaces for the being of Black women and girls. She aspires to become an urban planner who advocates inclusive spaces and communities for people of color, specifically Black women and girls.

by Shawna-Kaye Lester

There is one thing I know for sure: time is an enabler of change. Time has taken me so far away from realities I once knew that it becomes difficult to remember them — it has cured heartbreak, erased joy, and brought along new friends and opportunities I never knew I needed. The West African Adinkra symbol Mmere Dane sums it up eloquently, “time changes.”

Recently I found myself thinking about January 2013. Back then, I was underemployed, often getting through a week on 10 or 20 dollars. Living in a cousin’s basement in Jamaica, Queens, I would wake up and fall asleep wondering when my reality would reflect the energy I had put into acquiring a quarter century of formal education.

I had been searching for a full-time job since September 2012, but I did not get an offer until March 2013—ironically, I received two offers in the same week. One obstacle was that I came to the United States as an international student, a category of job applicants some Human Resources departments are allergic to. My seven-month search was draining. Eventually, I started experiencing days when I was too tired to try. Being in that state surprised me as much as it saddened me, because if I am good at one thing, it’s trying.
There are four friends to whom I will forever be grateful for helping me bounce back from that dejected place: The one who played internet scrabble with me multiple times each week to keep me sharp and happy; the Dominican American who encouraged me with, “You are just a star baller who hasn’t been drafted yet”; and the one who wired me money to get a wardrobe when I eventually got a job. Three guys. Then there was my girlfriend, *Carissa.

I met Carissa when I was 11. We graduated from the same high school as 16-year-olds and kept in touch during my college and graduate school years. We both changed, but Carissa retained her hallmarks — kindness and optimism. She invited me to her Long Island studio apartment for a weekend while I was job searching. We discussed how far we had come, listened to Miguel croon “Adorn,” and cooked. She took me as her guest to the New York Sports Club where she worked out, and after exercising, we laughed the evening away in the sauna.

I returned to the cold basement, but Carissa’s warmth followed. She got me one month’s membership to NYSC as well as a pre-filled Metro card. Her gift moved me not just because it was thoughtful, but because I knew it was not one she could easily afford. I used the pass to take dance classes at the Forest Hills NYSC, sometimes two back-to-back. Most days I left the gym thinking about dance routines and feeling hopeful about the future.

I began my job on the first day of April 2013. One day, a co-worker there told me she wanted to do something encouraging for a girlfriend experiencing unemployment. Of course, I told her about Carissa’s intervention. I also gave her some ideas of my own.
Here are six ways you can support a girlfriend in pursuit of employment:

Invite her over for lunch or dinner

Affording a nutritious meal can be challenging when you are unemployed. Even if your friend is living with someone, she might not be consuming regular meals, much less her favorite ones. Help her stay healthy and happy by buying groceries, inviting her over, and allowing her to cook or share in a meal you have cooked.

Distract her with her lighthearted conversation

Does your friend like shady internet memes? celebrity love stories? womanist poems? texts from you? Occasionally send her material you are sure will make her smile. Remind her life still has simple things she can enjoy.

Remind her of her greatness

Chances are your girlfriend is every bit the ambitious achiever you are, but, Mmere Dane. So when “time changes” things in her world, remind her of how she overcame obstacles in the past. Tell her she won’t be jobless forever, because she won’t.

Offer to help her search for a job

Searching for and applying to multiple jobs requires great energy. This becomes especially true when continuing to apply despite having gotten sequential rejections. Offer to review your friend’s cover letter and resume; prep her for interviews; get to understand her qualifications and desires and send relevant openings her way; and of course, ask your family and friends if their companies are hiring.
Get her moving, Keep her mobile

Maybe it’s a one-month gym membership and a metro card. Or perhaps a weekly yoga class in her neighborhood and weekend walks with you. Getting your friend moving will help her stay physically and mentally sound. So too will empowering her with the ability to commute.

Ask her about life beyond the dream job

Sometimes a job is means to an end: You work because it enables you to create change in the world and/or in your personal life. Your girl’s next job is a vehicle, not her final destination. Ask her about what she sees beyond snagging the job. It will focus her on her legacy instead of on survival. It will keep her aware of what is possible for her life, which as you already know, is anything she can envision.

*Name changed for privacy.

Shawna-Kaye Lester helps ambitious college, graduate school, and job applicants stand out and win the opportunities they need to create the life and legacy they want. Her workbook How to Write a Memorable Personal Statement is available online. Follow Shawna-Kaye on Instagram @skayeonline.

by Kimberly Foster @KimberlyNFoster

Malia Obama is newly 18 and and taking her first steps outside of a fiercely shielded life in the White House. This Summer Malia attended music festivals across the country joined by friends and flanked by Secret Servicemen. Despite constant surveillance (by government employees and a nosy public) Malia appeared to enjoy herself. She even made headlines for, what mainstream media mistakenly dubbed, twerking.

As a lover of the Obama girls from afar, it’s been heartening to see Malia and her younger sister, Sasha, out in the world behaving like typical teenagers. But as their self-appointed big sister, I’m already concerned for Malia, in particular. On multiple occasions photos of the eldest Obama daughter doing normal, “I’m grown now” activities in private and semi-private settings have been leaked to the press.



And while I like to see what the girls are doing, I recognize the importance of having time post-adolescence to try on adulthood away from judgmental eyes. It appears that whenever Malia thinks she’s getting that, she’s sold out by her “friends.”

What strikes me about all of the photos that attempt to put Malia on blast isn’t that she’s drinking or smoking. It’s the complexion of the room. Each of these spaces is overwhelmingly white, and that can’t be a coincidence.

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

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

by Jacqui Germain

Zora Neale Hurston’s birthday was on January 7. Writers all over celebrated the 125th anniversary with favorite Hurston quotes and thoughtful commentary on the legacy of her writing. She’s most well-known for the seminal 1937 text, Their Eyes Were Watching God, in addition to authoring numerous other equally brave books, plays, short stories, poems, and essays. Their Eyes Were Watching God has been translated to the stage and the silver screen, and sits proudly on many bookshelves both in and outside of the academy. Today, few would dispute the book’s significance, or the gravity of its author’s wisdom and craft, but as is often true with artists of color, Hurston’s posthumous fame dwarfs the recognition she received while she was alive.


Few know that Hurston died in a Welfare Home, and was buried in an unmarked grave in 1960. Few know that her work went largely unread for years afterwards. In fact, Their Eyes Were Watching God was almost lost in its obscurity, as were her other works, and even the location of her remains. But do you know who looked for her? Do you know who found her and pushed her writing back into the literary light? Do you know who, with help from a friend, paid to have a headstone made 13 years after Hurston’s death? Alice Walker, another black woman writer, with her own impressive resume of work, most well-known for her 1982 novel, The Color Purple.

“We’re us with all of our parts…We have our Langston, we have our Dubois, we have our Zora, we have our Nella, you know—it’s a very good medicine, it’s a very good way to be—whole. We want to be whole.” – Alice Walker, from her 2003 lecture at Barnard College

But then, isn’t that how it’s always been? Black women are the ones who look for and find each other. We’re the first and sometimes only ones to notice our absence at all, to feel the void when one of us goes missing, is erased or shut out, is ignored or dismissed. Aren’t we so often our own search parties? The guardians of each other’s bones and legacy? Isn’t it always up to us to find each other? To say to one another, I see you. You are here—and mark the Earth with a rock or a hashtag in service of memory. Isn’t it always up to us to find each other?

The past couple weeks (the last few months, I mean, year and a half / couple years / decade(s) / so long for so many of our foremothers) have been especially rough for black women in this movement. Sometimes it’s white supremacy, and sometimes it’s patriarchy; many times, it’s both. Sometimes it’s neither.



Lately though, I’ve been overwhelmed by the amount of aggressive, violent misogyny being hurled at black women by not all, but still too many black men. Their brazen homophobia and transphobia is standard; their casual—even criminal—attitudes toward gender-based and sexual violence are regularly displayed. In too many of these cases, the violence and aggression comes from black men who claim some sort of pro-black posturing. The same black male comrades we black women have linked arms and blocked highways with. The same black comrades we’ve grieved for and with, exposing ourselves to all manner of gendered bigotry, harassment and targeting—all in service of a movement built to support and fight for collective liberation. And still, so often black women freedom fighters are met with violence from the very people we’re fighting for freedom with.

The relentlessness of this aggression wears on black women and can produce a kind of exhaustion that threatens to engulf and swallow. It’s an exhaustion that can weigh down our tongues and take up so much space, we nearly disappear—and all our work, wisdom and voice along with us. So in resistance to that, let the following letter be me mounting a virtual search party. Let it be a floodlight and smoke signals all at once. Let it be two warm hands cupping your face, holding your cheeks saying, I see you. You’re here. Let it be the thing that lets you feel found, if you need it, and encourages you to look for and find others. Ashe:

Letter to black women freedom fighters, the black women movement-building and resisting in all the ways we’ve come to understand resistance:

I know you’re tired. We’re all tired of this shit. Of hearing it, of experiencing it, of being asked to prove it, of fighting against it, of dying from it. Of dying from it. We remember the casual sexism in movement meetings, the homophobic slurs tossed around at protests, being cat-called in the middle of an intersection while facing off with rows of riot police. We see the black men who make light of inter-personal violence, even suggest it as a viable option, but mask it as a joke so they can name our frustration something else. We see all of it and we remember all of it. Many of us understand this violence intimately, tangibly. And by many of us, I mostly mean all of us, though I don’t have the numbers to back that up, aside from the knowledge of this world being what it is for black women.

But I see you. You’re here. You exist. Even in spite of the world being what it is for black women. The black men who are sick of your resistance and leadership, who might wish you elsewhere, and who perhaps embody that wish with their harassment and vitriol, want you to disappear. And if you have disappeared, it’s okay. Our bodies, despite what they’d have us believe, are made to survive, and sometimes survival means shrinking, and folding into ourselves for a kind of conditional safety. We mustn’t be angry with our bodies for how they’ve learned to survive, but we should teach our bodies how to survive better.




For such lessons on survival, I turn to our history. Our foremothers left us these gifts. Our struggle is part of a long, winding legacy of continuously fighting this shit. Whether they talk about it in the documentary or not. Whether there’s a chapter in the book on us or not. We know this already. We’ve been experiencing violence and oppression from our black male comrades for generations in the midst of participating in collective movement work and building our own resistance spaces. The exhaustion that wears us thin is not new. We come from a long line of black women freedom fighters who’ve been erased from the history of black resistance and survival. But we also come from a long lineage of black women search parties. We’ve been looking for and finding each other for decades, even across time and space, even across languages. We find each other.

This is how we survive—by black women persistently looking for and finding each other. Since August of 2014, I’ve relied heavily on this to survive. Time and time again, other black women have found me, made me feel seen, and encouraged me to look for other black women who had been pushed into the void. Being lost and found again and again teaches me how be braver with love; all the most successful search parties are drenched in it. Being lost and found again and again is also a lesson in collectivism. After all, we have to be willing to look for each other. Continuing this sort of legacy isn’t inherent; it requires that we work to continue it until, hopefully, we don’t have to anymore.

But in the meantime, take comfort in the fact that some of us are actually invested in learning how to love all of us better. We’re queering our search parties. Becoming brighter flood lamps. Excavating our own histories to make sure all our foremothers have headstones. This is the work of continuing legacy. “We are each other’s harvest; we are each other’s business; we are each other’s magnitude and bond,” declares another foremother, the inimitable Gwendolyn Brooks.

And indeed, we are.

Front porch with wooden boards and meshed screen housed conversations, revelations, and remarkable storytelling that shaped my world as a young girl child growing up in Wilcox County, Alabama. My mind fancies soul-stirring memories of the gathering of Black women who sought solace on my grandmother’s small porch and the scattered oak trees in the barren yard that danced to the rhythm of the wind. Paint rusting on the rocking chairs as my grandmother, women-relatives, and sister-womenfolk from our small town rocked, hummed, and bared their souls. I remember the inflection in tone and the power and deep affection delicately wrapped around their voices as they shared their stories. My grandmother’s front porch served as a safe haven for a community of women who shared their lived and learned experiences—soul stories that fostered glimpses of freedom, healing, and survival. Those rich narratives told by Black women—who were uniquely similar—are forever embedded in the basement of my mind and etched in the art of my own form of soul-searching storytelling.

by Delilah Johnson

We've all heard the African proverb, "It takes a village to raise a child." But have you ever thought of what it takes to raise a woman?

by Michelle Y. Talbert

My French Creole features speak to a long history of miscegenation: green eyes, skin the color of a white peach and a sharp Puritan nose to match my thinly drawn Vermillion lips. Still, my blackness is always in question because of my lightness, especially among my darker sisters. Imagine if you will, having an appearance that, if we're honest, harkens an antebellum era in which black women were viewed as a cross between farm equipment and an outlet for other's deviant sexual desires. A time when light and dark black women were separated and pitted against one another in the hopes of forever severing what should have been an unbreakable bond -- creating envy, disdain, self-loathing and unnecessary competition.

As black women we are both blessed and a blessing to others. And often, we choose to share our blessings with one another in the form of sisterhood. This sisterhood in action is witnessed by taking care of each other. But what does taking care of each other really mean, when we so often see examples of black women tearing each other apart in the media? I offer that it is when we place value in our ability to bring a moment of peace and connection to another sister in distress. After all, we never know when the tables will turn and we’ll find ourselves needing a sister’s hand. We should do this for and with each other from the heart and with good intention, for good returns good.

by Bee Quammie


"What was your biggest heartbreak?"

There is something about turning 30 years old that thins the hair and increases stress levels. More and more women I know find themselves crying in the car after work, battling with their parents, struggling to find a mate that “gets it,” and frustrated about their slow economic progression as full-time employees as we approach ten years since the glorious days of undergrad ended.

by Nancy Laws

American Black women have always been painted negatively in the U.S. media, which also influences the international community. From the Mammy to Jezebel to Sapphire, these stereotypes have affected society’s view of the Black Woman, setting the tone for her treatment by other communities before she is even given the opportunity to prove otherwise.

by Eve Everett

I love relationships, especially friendships with my girls. My girls represent the different facets of who I am-the right, the wrong and the in between that is not so easy to explain. And, no matter how bizarre a relationship may be, there is some commonality and difference that makes it exist and blossom. So, when I lost both of my relationships with my best friends, I was confused, sad and even more confused the more I thought about the issue that terminated our phone calls, text messages, celebrations and consolation moments. I would have never thought in a million years that my relationship with my best friends, the women who were going to be auntie to my future children, wouldn’t be able to stand the test of time. I guess I had fallen victim to the myth: best friends forever.

by Tara Hughee

Sadly, on numerous occasions I have heard women claim that they don’t have many female friends because they are catty, disloyal, and full of drama. They claim to prefer the friendship of men because they are amicable, loyal, and drama-free. I find this troubling on many levels, as it reminds me of patriarchal dichotomous thinking which implies that women are the negative opposites of men.

I love Orange is the New Black. The writing, dialogue, and character development are superb. It is one of the first shows to honestly depict the complex and intersecting realities of women, significantly women within the prison industrial complex. Many critics celebrate its significance in employing actresses from diverse backgrounds. As a matter of fact, I do not know if there is another scripted television show today that represents such a wide range of women.

In this white supremacist capitalist patriarchal society, as bell hooks names it, we women are taught and encouraged to hate ourselves and other women. We are encouraged to be in competition with each other for men, for jobs and for attention. We are also taught that the only spaces in which we can be appreciated and valued as pseudo-human beings is while serving men or by being on the arm of a male significant other.

That's bullshit.

by  Amber Wright

With all of the drink throwing, hair pulling, cursing and childlike yelling done by the casts of most of the non-scripted cable television shows featuring Black women, it’s no wonder that people still don’t believe that Black women can get along with each other. It has long been thought that we have a “crabs-in-a-barrel” mentality that prevents us from lifting our sisters up when they need a hand or championing them toward success without feeling jealous or envious.

by Janice Fuller-Roberts

The enormous popularity of certain reality TV shows would have us believe that true friendship between African American women is as anachronistic as rotary telephones and record players.  From the dramatic cuss-out, smack-down scenes featuring Nene, Phaedra, Kenya or K. Michelle, you’d think Black women were incapable of being friends at all.