by Ashley J. Hobbs

In 2009, at the New Jersey Governor’s Conference for Women in Atlantic City, I sat under the sound of one of most beautiful voices I had ever heard. She was assisted onto the stage, and into a chair where her body, though frail, sat tall. Her shoulders evoked an eagle’s wings - broad, regal. She was everything I had imagined her to be when I read her work and teary-eyed, I remember thinking I would never forget this moment. Ever.

As she shifted for comfort in her seat, Dr. Maya Angelou recounted an old African American spiritual that had meant so much to her through the years:

“When it looked like the sunWasn’t gonna shine anymoreGod put a rainbow in the clouds.”

She reminisced about the many instances in her life where clouds hung over her, threatening to outshine any spot of good.

“But I’ve had so many rainbows in my clouds. So many people have been rainbows in my clouds.”

She told of the plethora of times when she entered a classroom to lecture or stepped onto a stage to perform and how in those moments she brought with her every single person who had ever treated her kindly. She brought their kindness, their being with her for help, hope, and strength. She encouraged us, the sea of professional women, students, politicians, and teachers to be a rainbow in someone else’s cloud no matter the differences or distances we see between ourselves and others.




Last week, as we - Black Women's Blueprint - traveled to Oklahoma City I was unsure of what to expect. I had never attended court except to sit on a small-time jury a few years ago. I was praying for traveling mercies for us and the gifts of justice and peace for the survivors of former police officer, remorseless monster, Daniel Holtzclaw. I was remembering the way in which my Aunt Gigi used to sit quietly, prayerfully, waiting on a word from God, that the path she needed to travel whether spiritually or physically would yield the fruit of triumph no matter the obstacles sure to arise along the way.

With upwards of 20 years of social anxiety slowly beginning to dissipate, I looked up into the cloud-filled sky, somewhere between Illinois and Missouri and blinked hard. I looked around the van at my co-workers/sistren to see if anyone else was noticing what I was noticing. Around the edges of each cloud - and there were clouds as far as the eye could see - there were bits of color. I squinted. No mistake - there were small rainbows laying themselves down along the edges of the clouds. It amazed me so much that I sat, mouth open, for a few moments. I was remembering every miraculous thing I had ever seen, every divine confirmation I had ever received.

I was searching for a sign. Anything God wanted to grace me with to show me that this trip was blessed and exactly our purpose would be. Not that I didn’t believe in the work we were going to do but sometimes (most times, for me) I need God to shine a light ahead of me, to draw my attention to what matters most and fade out the background.

Looking up and seeing those beautiful bits of color adorning an otherwise dreary sky transported me back to the Atlantic City Convention Center in May of 2009. A first-year business school student then, I had no idea that those words I heard that day would come full circle to have unmeasured meaning in my life on a justice ride to Oklahoma City, some seven years later. We were braving a 22-hour ride to Oklahoma City to simply but powerfully be rainbows in the clouds of these survivors. We were riding through sleet, passing overturned tractor-trailers, and storm-born desolation to simply be present for sisters we knew only in spirit.

Contrary to popular opinion and practice, we didn’t have to know their names or hail from the same county. We didn’t need to know their pedigree or check out their backgrounds. Their religious affiliations did not matter nor did their political leanings. You don’t have to know a sister to be a sister. Sisterhood extends across miles and generations. It binds where blood cannot. These were indeed our sisters and it was indeed our duty, nay, our privilege to stand with them - as Black women, as descendants of queendoms, and as survivors ourselves.

The overwhelming drive to constantly be DOING and CREATING and PROMOTING can force us into a corner of believing that our simple presence is not powerful. That our commitment to being supportive is of no value. I choose to believe that we were meant to be rainbows in this, perhaps, one of the greatest clouds that might ever hang over those women's heads. If that meant traveling 22 hours simply for them to see our faces and feel the love and light we brought with us, we had done well.



A calm came over me as I looked into the sky. No matter what turn of events lay ahead of us, I had a peace that was fairly unshaken. No distance is too far to sojourn when sisterhood is called upon. No battle is too daunting when our kindred are hurting, broken, or dying.

The two days that we spent in Oklahoma City were cloudy, cold, and wet. The morning we packed up the Sprinter to head back east, joyful that 263 consecutive years had given some semblance of justice to our sistren, the sun shone brightly, fiercely, and in all its glory.

Photo: Courtesy of Ashley J. Hobbs

Ashley is a writer, teacher, creative, and advocate for Black women who thrives in the service of her faith, her community, and her passions. Follow her creative works on Twitter: @templeandriot

by Altheria Gaston

In a more equitable world, 19 year-old Christian Taylor of Arlington, Texas would be preparing for his fall semester at Angelo State University. After spending the night in jail for [allegedly] breaking and entering and destruction of property/vandalism at a car dealership on August 7, 2015, his parents might have bailed him out and perhaps scolded him for his seemingly erratic actions. In a few years, after graduating from college, Christian might have looked back on this incident as a stupid episode performed by an immature, reckless teen. But this world is far from equitable, and instead of this hypothetical situation, Christian’s family gathered with hundreds of loved ones a couple days ago for his funeral.

by Marena Bridges

One of my favorite moments in The Simpsons comes when Lisa is forced to join a cult by her dad and attend school at their headquarters. She becomes so fed up with the propaganda she endures that she stands up and declares, “The whole damn system is wrong!” as she kicks over her desk with a scream. Why am I talking about The Simpsons in an article about anti-Black police brutality? Because, lately, I’ve often felt like Lisa Simpson must have in that moment; fed up knowing that every day it’s different actors following the same script. A police officer brutalizes and/or murders one of us. That specific officer faces backlash. And we either feel we’ve been denied justice if they get off scot-free or served justice if they’re indicted.

by Anna Gibson 

In the wake of the Sandra Bland case, the black community was outraged and prepared to take action against a system that continues to subject us to violence. They drag our teenage girls to the ground at pool parties. They shoot us for carrying skittles, or even knocking on doors. Despite this, we continue to fight against a culture that seems to get off on dehumanizing us then ignoring the consequences, claiming that we live in a “post racial society.”

by Matlaleng Babatunde

When does a Black female victim of violence become worthy of empathy? Is it after she has been "humanized" by the mentioning of a family and by the realization that she could've been you, or is the fact that she is a person-- a Black woman, enough. For many on social media it seems to be the former. Thursday morning, as I scrolled through my Tumblr, I was overwhelmed with the lingering wave of anger, grief, and pain that I've become accustomed to this summer. Another hashtag, followed by the name of yet another Black person violated and killed at the hands of state sanctioned violence.

by Ariel C. Williams


For the women who’ve been kidnapped, abused, or killed due to gender-based violence: We speak to honor you.

Statistics show that every nine seconds in the U.S., a woman is assaulted or beaten. Even more horrifying, more than three women are murdered by their partners every day in the U.S. More times than not, children of victims are present when their mothers are abused and stand a greater chance at abusing others or becoming victims themselves in adulthood. Carrying the memories of watching their mothers being verbally, mentally, emotionally and physically abused is a heavy toll that no child should have to endure, yet it happens every day in this country.

As a high school student, I remember sitting in a packed sanctuary where politicians, scholars, and clergy shared reflections at a town hall meeting on the state of Black America. A young Black girl asked the question that silenced the entire sanctuary.

Today, as we reflect upon Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s legacy and ultimate sacrifice in his quest for equal rights and freedom for all, I am reminded of a video snippet from an episode of “Oprah’s Master Class,” that was recently heavily circulated. In the clip, Jay-Z lays out why he believes hip hop has done more for “race relations” than any other cultural movement. He also states that Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “dream” was realized when Obama was elected President.

Over a period of three months, Piper Anderson and Marlon Peterson, two friends, wrote to each other about love. Piper is a writer, educator, juvenile justice advocate, and cultural worker who grew up in a family that struggled with drug addiction and domestic violence. Marlon is a writer, social justice advocate, and community justice strategist who spent the past 15 years of his life in prison and parole. 

by dream hampton

When 19-year-old Renisha McBride was shot in the face after knocking on a White man's door in suburban Detroit, I tweeted that her death would probably not mean as much to Black people as the then recent shooting of 24-year-old Jonathan Ferrell. I doubted aloud if her murder would mean as much as Trayvon Martin's, for whom we'd united to demand justice. I tweeted that Black male bodies mean more to us than Black female bodies.

Today we can all be thankful that Marissa Alexander was released from jail on bond last night at around 10:30 PM. Alexander, whose bond was set for $200,000, was granted a pre-trial release where she must adhere to special conditions.