by Kwanzaa Imani


Being a black woman with a disability is a lonely endeavor—particularly if you’re like me, with a disease coded as being exclusive to “minorities,” and therefore not plastered across billboards, funded by races, and publicized to the country as an important illness. I was born with sickle cell anemia. To a younger me, it felt as though not even other black people knew of its existence. Because of this, I would wish I could trade my disease for one of the more “popular” ones like leukemia, because people would know I exist and know how to fix me. But what I discovered recently is that this sentiment is not just my own, nor is it exclusive to sickle cell patients (Sicklers). As it turns out, black women with disabilities in general are the least aided and supported in the country. And while some of you may not be surprised by this, it did come as a surprise to me.

Dominating a conversation isn’t natural for me. Instead, I listen. I enjoy listening – the inflections, the animation, the ebbs and flows that comprise the art of storytelling. It explains my major in English, my (seemingly) quiet demeanor, and my ability to attract folks with the gift of the gab. I got comfortable in that role—my role—of being The Listener. It was my way of asserting my true self without having to reveal too much. I doled out subtle rebuttals and “damn right!”s and shot the breeze – but at some point I stopped doling and shooting. The breeze turned to stagnant, stale air.

by Inda Lauryn


If we were to believe anything we hear and see in the media, then we would believe that no one wants to be with black women, not even black men. If we were to believe another myth the media perpetuates, then we would believe that single black women are a pretty desperate lot. Understandably, black women (single or not) are more than tired and frustrated with being given the short end of the stick when it comes to our perceived desirability and this unnecessary dissection of our relationships.

by Chanequa Walker-Barnes

Nobody saw the breakdown coming. And still fewer recognized it as a breakdown when it occurred. Veronica was the epitome of the StrongBlackWoman. So when in the span of one week, her mother died and her son was diagnosed with prostate cancer, she did what StrongBlackWomen do. She stuffed her feelings of anxiety and anger deep inside, kept a smile on her face, and doubled down on her commitments to work, family, and church. No one ever saw her cry. And when they asked how she was doing, she vomited a litany of Biblical scriptures and Christian platitudes: “I am blessed and highly favored indeed. I am standing on the promises of God. For they that wait on the Lord shall not weary, but they shall rise up like eagles. The Lord has been good to me and I know he won’t give me anything more than I can bear. So I know that everything’s going to be alright!”