This is a problem for several reasons -- first, it presupposes that Black women are not capable of independent thought and contextualizing our experiences without borrowing the logical frameworks of our colonizers. Black feminism is inherently black because it comes from the experiences and thoughts of Black women. Period. Second, it falsely positions Black feminism amongst the waves of the white feminist movement. Black feminism is an organic philosophy that is intergenerational and complex. Because of the transatlantic slave trade, postcolonial conditions that forced immigration from Africa and our systematic dehumanization, Black feminism and womanism reconnect us with lost ancestral knowledge by incorporating not only Black women thinkers that identify as feminists, but historical Black women who embodied resistance in their liberation work. This has never been a project of white feminist theory. Finally, it ignores the fact that the white feminist’s understanding of intersectionality depends upon studying Black feminists and women of color. Although women are an oppressed group, white women’s whiteness affords them a position of power that shelters them from knowing racism and misogynoir firsthand. White feminists are only able to learn intersectionality through observing the oppression of women of color and developing empathy.

Black feminism and womanism have more in common with each other than they do with white feminism. Because black women feel our intersecting oppressions intensely, our philosophies value Black life at the core. A white feminist may or may not understand our social conditions and may or may not engage in work that helps black people and black women achieve liberation. The white feminist has the privilege of concentrating her efforts on eliminating sexism alone. Unlike them, Black women’s survival depends upon eliminating ALL of the oppressions. Simultaneously.

Resurrecting Our Deep Thought
When I took my first class as a Philosophy major in university, it became painfully clear that Black women are not believed to have contributed anything of value to the intellectual landscape of the modern world. The demographic makeup of my classes reflected the scholars we studied- mostly entitled straight white men. It’s no surprise the world has slept on and excluded our ideas for so long. Part of our intellectual heritage’s work is collecting the fragments of wisdom that have been obscured by racism and misogynoir. Alice Walker’s womanism elevated Zora Neale Hurston’s work and allowed us to recognize a grandmother that the ivory tower neglected. Black feminism pieced together the remainders of Maria W. Stewart’s work, admitting us to learn about the first woman in America to give public talks on race, gender and class struggles. The presence of Black feminist and womanist scholars means that there are, and will continue to be, women committed to the practice of restoring our ancestors’ voices to power.

“None of these authors created something new; rather, each named something that had been in existence for some time, functioning below the academic and activist radar and outside the dominant histories of consciousness.” - Layli Phillips

We are involved in a process of naming, renaming and cultivating a tradition that Black women have been valuing in spirit and service for generations. This is important because naming empowers us with self-determination. Naming helps us to more easily identify those with commonalities and makes space for our work to be done in community. However, we must not be so preoccupied with the naming itself that we lose momentum in working on what it is we are naming. We render ourselves stuck on the “linguistic treadmill,” to borrow Patricia Williams’ language, dissatisfied as changes in academic trends and society heaps shame on the names we choose for ourselves. What would be a more effective use of our time? Patricia Hill Collins advises “revisiting the reasons why Black feminist thought exists at all.”


You don’t have to call yourself a Black feminist to empower Black women. You don’t have to be a womanist to contribute to the healing of Black people. My grandmother did not have the privilege of learning Women’s and Africana studies in a university. She did not have access to the technology that makes exchanging these ideas easy now. But naturally, her love, wisdom and intuition have instilled within me the desire to value my womanhood and serve my community. Is that not what Black feminism and womanism look like in practice?

Learning about our philosophy is empowering because we can become more conscious of the similar conditions we face as Black women. We realize we do not have to be caged by the current dynamics of the world. We are powerful enough to do the work to manifest magical changes. Change will not come solely from renaming ourselves, though. We must commit to doing the work that our ancestors have done and build upon their ideas. In the age of hashtags and retweets, it is easy to mistake the mere appearance of Black feminist and womanist thought with practice. Still, we are living in an era where we are able to transcend geography to educate and empower each other through ideological frameworks that we have built… what a time to be alive.

Photo: Shutterstock

Gabrielle Clark is a child welfare paralegal, independent writer and community-conscious creator on a path of liberation. She is a graduate of Temple University with Bachelor of Arts degrees in Philosophy and Journalism. You can find her at inloveandlogic.com and follow her @allwolfnosheep.

My husband, stepson, and I recently went to Alabama to visit my family. We flew to Jackson, Mississippi (the nearest major airport to my hometown) and took the two hour drive home. We passed through Meridian, Mississippi, a town where my late grandmother worked as a nanny and housekeeper in the homes of White families for many years. A few miles and a few dozen magnolia trees down the highway, we were in Kewanee, Mississippi, the last town before crossing the Mississippi/Alabama state line.

Though there was nothing in particular that I wanted to purchase, I insisted that we stop at the Simmons-Wright General Merchandise Store and Café, founded in 1884. As I walked aimlessly around the historical store, I was transported back in time to my childhood when as a little girl, I peered on tip-toes over the counter to see what Grandma was purchasing, most likely, bologna and hoop cheese by the pound, coconut cookies that cost a few cents each, Sunflower flour and cornmeal, or the soft peppermints that she always carried in her purse. During this visit, I purchased cheese and pork skins for my mama and banana pudding for me. I pointed out to my husband that the cash register the cashier used had been there since I was a little girl. I browsed a few additional items as we walked toward the door, looking for any reason to stay a bit longer.


As our drive into Alabama commenced, a roadside stand with massive watermelons caught my eye. We stopped to purchase several to give to family. My husband asked, “Where do I pay? Nobody’s here.”

“It’s an honor system,” I said, “Just drop the twenty in the box. We’re in Cuba, Honey.” Cuba, Alabama, specifically the small community of Morningstar, is the land my forefathers worked as slaves and sharecroppers for generations. It’s where they birthed and buried children. Where they worked and worshipped. Where they lived and died.

Though I have lived in another state for twelve years, Alabama will always be home. As I walk over stones with rough edges on bare feet, my “citified” husband no longer asked, “Where are your shoes?” He knows, “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.” In fact, the qualities he appreciates most about me were cultivated in the U.S. South. My gratitude, kindness, simplicity, strong work ethic, and respect for elders are a result of being raised by poor people who appreciated what they had instead of complained, who valued people instead of things, and who believed that “Yes, Ma’am,” “Please,” and “Thank you” could take you a long way. I take pride in being an Alabama girl. And although my family tree’s roots grow from Southern soil, I consider myself “strange fruit” with deeply ambivalent feelings about the South.

While I love certain aspects of my home—our dialect, our food, our manners, our hospitality—I am an outspoken critic of the continued racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism and overall conservatism of the South, home of the “Good ‘ol boy system.” Our legacy of systematic oppression was recently thrust to the forefront of our country’s consciousness as a result of the terroristic hate crime that happened at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, SC.. Race and religion in the South intersected on center stage as Black people saw the massacre as a racial attack and Christians viewed it as a religious affront. Insisting on distinguishing it as race hate crime or a religious hate crime, most people did not see it as a violent act against Black Christians who were mainly female. The South is described by scholar Reta Ugena Whitlock as a place “where race, class, gender, religion, and sexuality interact continually and comprehensively.” Unfortunately, many in the South do not recognize these intersections and, consequently, are limited in the ways they seek to dismantle institutional subjugation.

I am troubled by the way some Southerners allow their religious beliefs to cause them to work against the liberation of other minoritized populations. They use justifications similar to those used by White supremacists and racists to withhold equal rights from their own people—mainly from Black women (who deserve the right to have autonomy over the bodies and to be treated equally with men) and from Black queer people (who deserve to marry as they please and to have all the rights of heterosexuals). Many misogynistic, heterosexist Southerners, blinded by their religious faith, fail to identify the ideology of White supremacist capitalist patriarchy as the supreme oppressor of people of color, people who are queer, people who are poor, and women. White supremacist capitalist patriarchy is the ideology that needs to be dismantled—NOT JUST RACISM.


Even though I scream the lyrics to the top of my lungs whenever I hear Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama,” in my heart, I know that Alabama has never been and is not so “sweet” to many individuals and groups who call it home. I have disdain for my region because of the sheer brutality inflicted upon my ancestors in these states and because of the unrelenting physical and moral violence still perpetrated against Blacks and other minoritized groups. Despite its troubles, it is my “sweet” home.

A friend texted me a few weeks ago and asked, “Are you excited about the Confederate flag being removed from the Alabama capitol in Montgomery?” I recalled a few of the many civil rights battles that took place in Alabama--the Selma to Montgomery march, the bus boycotts, the sit-ins, the freedom rides. Perhaps this flag removal ordered by the governor is the latest in a succession of civil rights victories for Blacks in Alabama. Though liberation is not achieved through the removal of a symbol, I am, in fact, proud of Alabama. But in a state where 30% of Blacks lives in poverty (12% of Whites) and many Black children still attend poorly funded segregated schools, parity is far from a reality. Progress of this nature happens slowly—over generations and not without struggle. When I shop at the Simmons-Wright General Merchandise Store, I don’t have to enter through the back door, nobody calls me “girl,” and I’m not at the mercy of the owners to allow me credit. Progress.

Black|Southern|Liberal|Religiously Skeptical|Heterosexual|Woman. I am each of them and my identity sits at the intersection of all of them—making me “strange fruit” indeed. And I’m coming to terms with my strangeness. 

Like most fathers, mine would do anything possible to keep his little girl safe. One of the ways he kept me safe is by teaching me how not to become the prey of young boys. He told me not to wear tight pants once my hips came in. I also couldn’t wear tops that were fitted or had low necklines once I developed breasts. I had to make sure all the markers of my femininity were de-emphasized, so boys didn’t look at me or think I was “fast.”