by Ashley Daniels


I have this thing. Whenever someone is talking to me about a subject that requires a bit of thought, I'll think of a song that applies to the question, as I'm thinking of an answer. For example, when asked, "Are you a feminist?" I think of Mya, while searching my brain for an answer: I'm so confused / I don't know what to do.

I have an answer, but it’s not as direct or simple as the question.

Growing up watching BET, MTV, and VH1 (before they became the holy ratchet television trinity), I only understood feminism to be three things: white, angry, and mostly lesbian. I watched scores of white women on a field wearing sundresses and combat boots holding hands with other white women wearing buzz cuts and flannel shirts, swaying to the spellbinding sounds of the Indigo Girls and Melissa Etheridge at Lilith Fair. I listened as Meredith Brooks told the world how she was a bitch, a lover, a child, and a mother. The news showed hundreds of White college coed girls with megaphones, candles, and makeshift signs in an effort to "take back the night."

All these sounds and images bonded together in my pre-adolescent understanding of one word: feminism.
From hearing that word tossed around in interviews and news reports, I developed an associative understanding of feminism. But because I rarely saw faces that looked like mine in these spaces, I didn't think that feminism was a "thing" for a little Black girl like me. Every once in a while I would catch a glimpse of artists like Tracy Chapman or Meshell Ndegeocello on MTV or VH1, but I was more in awe of their Blackness on a predominately white music network than their feminism. It would not be until my sophomore year of college where my mind would change (sort of).

Every year, my aunt gives me a book as part of my Christmas gifts. In tenth grade, I received Kevin Powell's Step Into A World: A Global Anthology of New Black Literature. I skimmed through the book but hadn't really read it until I was in my dorm room one boring snowy Saturday years later. Flipping through the writings of Robin D.G. Kelly, Ras Baraka, and dream hampton, I happened upon an essay by a writer named Joan Morgan, who introduced me to the concept of hip-hop feminism.

When reflecting on the treatment of women during the Million Man March with Farrakhan banishing us from the National Mall to our kitchens to "cook for our warriors" as noted by Kristal Brent-Zooks, Morgan cited the need for a new kind of feminism that is relevant to Black women of the present 20th Century (the essay was written in 1999). She understood that not too many Black women were checking for "the f-word" due to deep-rooted racism from White women. But honestly, that wasn't the part that resonated with me. What drew me was the idea of being a "hip hop feminist."

Despite knowing all the words to "Bittersweet Symphony" and "You Oughta Know" thanks to binge-watching MTV and VH1, I'm still an avid rap and hip-hop fan. Trips to class were included background tracks from A Tribe Called Quest, The Roots, or Missy Elliot in my ears. I can knowledgeably discuss the Roxanne Wars, the Bridge Wars, and how the Biggie/Tupac beef fucked all that up. I could tell you about the Zulu Nation and the significance of Afrika Bambaataa. So of course the notion of hip-hop feminism intrigued me.

But as a young Black woman, I was conflicted. This was around the time when sisters at Spelman were protesting Nelly's appearance on their campus after the infamous “Tip Drill” video. I applauded those sisters for standing up against the misogynoir that flooded our radio stations on a daily basis. But as a lover of rap and hip-hop, I questioned if I even allowed to do such a thing?

True, I wasn't constantly checking for songs that said Black women were nothing more than ass and titties wrapped in a quick weave. But I won't lie and pretend that my bitty booty doesn't automatically get ready to twerk a lil' sumthin' when I hear that Cash Money is taking over for the 99 and the 2000. Joan Morgan let me know that I was not alone. That there was a space (or there needed to be) where this intersected. We needed a kind of feminism that "was brave enough to fuck with the grays," as Joan Morgan writes in her classic text, When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost: A Hip-Hop Feminist Breaks It Down. As Morgan writes, we needed a feminism that understands how "truth can't be found in the voice of any one rapper, but in the juxtaposition of many… they lie at the magical intersection where those contrary voices meet—the juncture where 'truth' is no longer black and white, but subtle, intriguing shades of gray."

As part of my quest to find such a feminism, I ordered more books about Black feminism including those by Patricia Hill Collins and bell hooks. I perused through essays by Beverly Guy-Sheftall and Barbara Smith. I read feminist studies on the writings of Alice Walker and Zora Neale Hurston.

Feminism and I formed a “situationship.” Where in a relationship you relate to the other party involved, I could appreciate learning about Black feminism… but I still couldn't seem to shake the idea of how “white” it was. While Morgan, Guy-Sheftall, Smith, hooks, and Collins helped me see myself in the mirror of feminism, its reflection was still fuzzy. I found myself still in search of an ideology that I could relate to. Not knowing of anything else at the time, I reluctantly linked up with feminism.

As I read more about the history of feminism, I understood my apathy. Doing research prior to joining my sorority, I learned that the founders of Delta Sigma Theta were regulated to march in the back of the processional, because of their race during the 1913 Women's Suffrage March. When doing a paper on the history of Black women voting, I learned that the rift in the alliance between Frederick Douglass, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Susan B. Anthony was caused with the decision to either support voting rights for Black men or White women. While I wasn’t really trying to claim feminism, historically it wasn’t claiming me either. The situationship lasted for the remainder of my undergraduate tenure up until my second year of doctoral school.

That's when I met Womanism.

Props must go to my Black Political Theory professor. In a discussion with him about what I wanted to study regarding Black women, he suggested that I check out Dr. Clenora Hudson Weems's 1993 classic Africana Womanism: Reclaiming Ourselves. This book too was like looking in a mirror, but with a clearer reflection. Here was an ideal whose founding roots shared my own: being a woman of African descent in America. It was something I could relate to, therefore form a relationship with. I had dreamed of a "feminism" that didn't reluctantly acknowledge the racist roots of feminism, but that called it out on its bullshit. Dr. Weems did just that in her definition:

Africana Womanism is a term I coined and defined in 1987 after nearly two years of publicly debating the importance of self-naming for Africana woman. Why the term "Africana Womanism?" Upon concluding that the term "Black Womanism" was not quite the terminology to include the total meaning desired for this concept, I decided that "Africana Womanism," a natural evolution in naming, was the ideal terminology for two basic reasons. The first part of the coinage, Africana, identifies the ethnicity of the woman being considered, and this reference to her ethnicity, establishing her cultural identity, relates directly to her ancestry and land base: Africa. The second part of the term, Womanism, recalls Sojourner Truth's powerful impromptu speech "Ain't I A Woman," one in which she battles with the dominant alienating forces in her life as a struggling Africana woman, questioning the accepted idea of womanhood. Without question, she is the flip side of the coin, the co-partner in the struggle for her people, one who, unlike the White woman, has received no special privileges in American society.

As good as feminism could be, it still fails to address how intersectionalities—like race and gender—further complicated the realities of women of color. (An example of this is the recent discussions around closing the wage gap that white women like Patricia Arquette champion, without acknowledging that Black women make even less.)

Womanism does a better job at this, but it’s not perfect either. We have our beef, too. First there is a sense of exclusiveness, even among Black people. In reading about other Womanist works, there is a strong emphasis on spirituality and religion. By centering the concept around a particular religious belief, we are pretty much guilty of the same crime we accuse White feminists of committing: leaving folks out. I'm reminded of the approach Malcolm X proposed in his speech, “The Ballot or the Bullet.” Regardless of our backgrounds, we must all come together to realize that we are catching the same two kinds of hell in America constantly: being Black and being woman. We cannot afford to ostracize anybody from our cause—no matter how religious affiliation, sexual identity, class, or education background. Every type of Black woman is necessary and should be represented in our fight for liberation. It makes no sense that we vote at the highest rate of all voters, yet our social progress is still among the lowest.

There is strength in solidarity and inclusiveness.

Second, I take issue with Womanism being a belief more so than an ideology. A belief is based on faith or perspective. It is what a person thinks or perceives. As noted by Karl Mannehiem in Idelology and Utopia, “an ideology is a vehicle used to mobilize a belief.”

Womanism still lags behind feminism in its ability to mobilize around womanist beliefs. From modern feminism’s early origins within the Suffrage Movement, women mobilized around the issues they believed in by forming organizations such as National American Women's Suffrage Association (NAWSA) and the National Organization for Women (NOW). As history has tells us, these mobilization efforts have done a pretty decent job thus far.
Africana Womanism, to me, has not yet reached that level of influence yet. We still need a vehicle to move our agenda forward, and we still need to create a centralized agenda on our own terms. We need to be our own champions, and not rely on the examples set for us by white women or Black men. We need to move from the trajectory of margin to center, as bell hooks, famed Black feminist, would tell us.

So am I a Black feminist? Yes and no. Am I a Womanist? Yes and no.

I guess I'm like Joan Morgan, in a sense. I have a need. I need a Womanism that encompasses the spirit and passion of Black feminism. I need a Black feminism that truly advocates for us, understanding that Black women are quick to get lost in the shuffle of other issues.

I need "the intriguing shades of gray" of both, I suppose.
Ashley Daniels (also known as Ashfronomenal) is a third year Ph.D. student in Political Science program at Howard University in Washington, D.C. She is currently featured in the book, "The Miseducation of..." from the Ignorant Intellectuals. To purchase, please email ignorantintellectuals@gmail.com.

by Gabrielle Clark

It is within the context of Black feminist spaces that I found language to articulate the deeper politics of being black and being a woman. But as a human being who is always changing, no label fits my resistance quite right…

Black feminism and womanism are two blooms stemming from the rich soil of Black Women’s Thought. Two distinct manifestations of Black women’s lived experiences, intellectual and community work. They share important tasks, including collecting the undervalued philosophy of our maternal ancestors and giving space to empower ourselves by centering Black women’s thought in our lives. Although these schools of thought both spring from the same source and share a goal of liberation for Black people and all beings -- they differ in their methods of unpacking the oppression that follows being black and a woman at the same time. Still, there are other important things to consider when engaging Black women’s philosophy than distinguishing one theory from the other. More importantly is acknowledging that black women face inferior conditions because we live in a society that dehumanizes blackness, womanness and queerness. Due to this imbalance of power, there is a deep need for Black women’s philosophy. Also important is recognizing that the existence of multiple modes of Black women’s thought mirrors the sheer diversity in our lived experiences. When we look to Black women’s theory, we must pay attention to the places where the ideologies overlap; there we find the heartspace of black women’s wisdom about liberation.


Rooted in Resistance
The Black feminist is a warrior resisting structural racism and misogynoir- not only in practice, but uprooting very the logics that justify its existence. For her, racism is not theory; racism is marked by frequent events that never allow her to forget her Blackness. Beyond that, she recognizes the link between her individual experiences and those of other Black women. When she looks at the world around her, she notices that Black people, her people, have to survive inferior conditions and she is at the bottom of the pecking order. She acknowledges the way Black men access power through male privilege and how this impacts her personal relationships. Her philosophy is bold and rooted in resistance, like she is.

Womanist is to Feminist as Purple is to Lavender
Centering the experiences, needs and thoughts of Black Women, womanism stands as a philosophy all its own. The womanist is a whole human being that centers herself, loves other women (sexually and/or not) and recognizes her interdependence with men and the larger community. She is intuitive and honors Spirit. Likewise, her philosophy is intuitive, inspired in its fluidness and ambiguity. She is futuristic in her optimism, knowing she can help restore her community to balance. The womanist explores the positive aspects of black life, love and thought.

Alice Walker’s womanism situates itself in a positive dialectic with Black Feminism. By defining womanism as “A black feminist or feminist of color,” she creates a fluid relationship between the philosophies that allows an exchange of thought. This statement centers the importance of Black Women’s existing philosophy to the foundation of the womanist space. When Walker states “womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender,” she highlights the relationship between the two by using the same color family. A deeper hue than lavender, the color purple may represent deeper thought, a sharpening in perspective that allows for a richer theory.



The Power of Black Women’s Thought
I get it. Identifying as a Black feminist may be uncomfortable for some Black women. The word “feminism” has been dirtied by white mainstream society and is held in contempt in the black community. Now it smacks of male-bashing, bra-burning and white women struggling to achieve a more powerful place in the colonized world order- with or without their men. We don’t necessarily want to be attached to the politics of white women who were and continue to be complicit in our oppression. We have been ignored, abused and misunderstood by white feminists who do not want to learn how our struggle is more nuanced than their own. Despite creating a distinct space for Black women’s thought, there is a misconception that Black feminist thought is a byproduct of white feminism.

by Jaimee Swift

• Women still earn less money than men with the same education level.
• Women are still under scrutiny about what they are allowed to do with their bodies.
• Violence against women is a global epidemic. 
• Cultural and societal norms prohibit women to advance in various avenues of life, and gender discrimination is rampant across countries and creeds.
  

In 2009, the Reverend Dr. Leslie D. Callahan was called to be the 5th and first female pastor of the historic 119-year-old St. Paul’s Baptist Church in Philadelphia. Callahan, who was once faculty at the University of Pennsylvania, leads her congregation with a focus on advocacy and community activism and a womanist slant.

By Jaimee A. Swift

With our current state of affairs, the mental, emotional and even physical fatigue that is ignited by the onslaught of racism, racialized gender violence, sexism and other harrowing issues can be utterly overwhelming. Although it is important to engaged and conscious to the horrific events and news occurring in our world, it is equally important to maintain our peace, manage our self-care and to continuously manifest our Black Joy.

By Shannon M. Houston for Salon

I’ve never liked the word “revolution.” It brings to mind the act of going around in a circle. Or, as a friend of mine used to say, it’s exactly the thing to do if one wants to end up right back where you started. For that reason, I hope what’s happening in America right now is not, exactly, revolutionary.

 The weight that a single word can carry is thrilling, and sometimes terrifying. Literature lovers—even non-believers—can’t help but get a tingle of delight at the start of the Book of John: “In the beginning was the Word…” Forget Adam and Eve, the Heavens and the Earth—for some of us, language is the genesis and the revelation, and the words we use are, for that reason, never arbitrary. This is especially true for the words we use to describe a movement, or words used to self-identify. “Feminist” is one of those words that carries a lot of weight, but it’s almost laughable how so many people—especially women—are repelled by it. In a recent interview with Vulture, the great Emma Thompson broke it down like this:

While sifting through the latest updates on my Facebook feed earlier this week, I saw the first mention of a horrible “joke” from a show in which Amy Poehler is the executive producer. Poehler, whose rise to fame included a regular spot on the Saturday Night Live series and Parks and Recreation, has also created a feminist organization called Amy Poehler’s Smart Girls. However, in her latest role as a producer of Hulu’s show Difficult People, she made a painfully careless choice.

by Candace Simpson

“The tragic loneliness Black women consistently face as we stand before judgmental others — sometimes white but sometimes Black; sometimes male, but sometimes female — demands that we have some wisdom, experience, and some passion with which to combat this abuse.” —Karla Holloway

by Suzanne Forbes-Vierling, PhD

I’ll never forget the day that one of my friends babysat my 9 year old daughter, Jasmine, for a few hours. I returned home to a hilarious sight: There was my German friend Jeannine looking up at me with a resigned look on her face and her waist-length hair slicked back with Ultra Sheen. My daughter had a big 'ole brush in her hand vigorously brushing the oil into my friends hair. My daughter looking up at my awe-struck face and said “Hi Momma!” as she continued brushing, braiding and oiling away.

by Altheria Gaston

Over the last few days, I’ve been thinking a lot about Brittany Ann (Bree) Newsome, the social justice activist who, in an amazing act of defiance, scaled the pole and removed the Confederate flag in front of the South Carolina Statehouse. In many Internet circles, this courageous Black woman has been rightly accorded hero status. When I first heard about Bree, I immediately thought of Alice Walker’s description of womanist. In her multifaceted definition of womanist, Walker includes the following meaning:

by Candace Simpson

“In the process of consciousness-raising, actually life-sharing, we began to recognize the commonality of our experiences and, from that sharing and growing consciousness, to build a politics that will change our lives and inevitably end our oppression.”

Disclaimer: I have long identified as a Black Feminist and a Womanist. These are two separate schools of thought. In this essay, I use these labels interchangeably, because I happen to identify as both. Not everyone does. (It’s always best to ask a woman how she identifies before you label her.)

I was sitting at a happy hour last summer. In the midst of good drinks and good food, someone asked a bad question, followed by an equally bad statement: “Don’t you think feminists are destroying the Black family? We need to go back to the days when women weren’t bitter and worked for Black empowerment.”

by Altheria Gaston

Feminism: this term and I have endured a long, complicated, and at times confusing relationship with one another. For a long time I didn’t know if I liked feminism. I grew up with images of feminists as white, man hating, braless, ranting women and I wasn’t quite sure if I wanted to be that.

by Tonya Ladipo, LCSW

The Washington Post article by Alexandra Petri “Sorry Megyn I am pretty sure you're a feminist” is a perfect example of why I am not a feminist. In the article she commented on a television interview and declared Megyn Kelly a feminist. This is after Ms. Kelly very clearly said that she was NOT a feminist. What gives her the right to label or create an identity for someone else? What makes her think that she has the right to tell someone else who they are?

It is Women’s History Month and what better way to celebrate than to showcase the lives of our own beautiful, dynamic, bold, Black female activists. Each step of the way these women have transformed society—striking national and international blows against socio-political and economic systems that would have otherwise shut our voices out! Holding fast to their unwavering principles they have uniquely molded new forms of consciousness-raising narratives that continue to transform thousands of individuals daily.

Three weeks ago, I declared via Twitter that I am a womanist. It wasn’t the simplest conclusion to arrive at, despite the fact that I attend a historical black college designed to educate and empower women. I had never identified as a womanist, feminist, or what I perceived as a “bra-burning, equality-seeking, angry woman who hates men.” I considered womanism and feminism to be direct contrasts to the values I cherish as a woman.