Hello Ms. Lorde,

You knew what you were doing when you penned, “The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism” (1981).¹ You wrote this piece knowing how virulent the anger of Black women could be if we did not constructively release it. After the national end of chattel slavery via the 13^th amendment², many Black women, especially middle-class Black women, practiced the “culture of dissemblance” to protect themselves, their identities, and their private lives from public scrutiny, due to a rampant rape culture perpetuated by white men and sanctioned by white women.³ White men and women absolved themselves of their misogynoir by victim blaming “lascivious” Black women for white sexual violence during and after slavery. The “culture of dissemblance” had roots in the Reconstruction Era, however this culture of secrecy for many Black women continued well into the 21^st century.

Ms. Lorde, you went beyond this culture to reveal how constructively voicing one’s anger for all to see and hear could allow Black women to protect ourselves and our communities from intersectional oppression from the 20^th century to now and beyond. To be clear, different historical contexts dictated the freedom strategies marginalized people employed. The late 19^th century Black women who initiated the “culture of dissemblance” had to contend with the end of slavery and its modernized reinstatement via the nadir, Jim Crow Era. Their experiences led them down a road of further public stoicism. Many of our female ancestors were not silent on racism and sexism and/or elitism, yet their deeper feelings remained elusive in the public sphere for their protection. But the long civil rights movement and the radicalized mid-1960s and 70s that showcased a more militant Black Power and human rights approach to age-old Black issues inevitably shaped you. “Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud” became a mantra for the late 1960s into the 1970s. Thus, speaking truth to power loudly and proudly indubitably encouraged your thoughts. Fear riddled your thoughts as well; speaking up for yourself and others was always “fraught with danger.”⁴ Despite this, you recognized the need for full personhood for yourself and Black women. You understood that when we allowed fear-driven silence to reign, we diminished and denied ourselves and our deep-seated feelings, allowing them to fester until they exploded. Our anger needed to become palpable, seen, and heard, and correctly utilized for positive changes. Otherwise, we denied an avenue for personal and social healing. You knew public, anger-less stoicism would not address the incessant anger that swelled within Black women and our communities due to intersectional oppression. You knew why the “caged bird” had to sing, release its emotions, or let its song, its release and freedom, go perpetually deferred like an unrealized dream.

Ms. Lorde, your experiences taught you the myriads of ways in which Black women were/are used and abused without any regard for our humanity. My experiences taught me the same. We were/are considered the “mule of the world” with no recourse and barely a voice. Supposedly, our race and sex relegated us to “inferiority” from the start. Within the white supremacist, anti-Black power structure, we are the neglected, the obscured, the erased, and the silenced. You said, “[m]y response to racism is anger,” because “[my] fear of anger taught me nothing. Your fear of that anger will teach you nothing, also.”⁵ This resonated with me. The “Angry Black Woman” and “Sapphire” stereotypes made me afraid of my anger. These stereotypes taught me that Black women were not supposed to practice direct, no-nonsense communication and boundary setting. These stereotypes placed me at odds with myself, as I struggled to find a balance between being matter of fact and “palatable” without being a so-called “overbearing, unreasonable Black woman.” Now I know that it did not matter how I spoke (with or without constructive anger). To my oppressors, I was a Black woman challenging racism, sexism, even elitism, so I had no right to speak at all.

Well, I did not ask for your permission to speak and act. I did not need permission to support my healing as I constructively used my anger to voice the truth, publicly and privately. I did not need anyone’s permission for self-actualization (full personhood). Like you, I realized dangerous, silencing campaigns lurked in the shadows. Oppressors and their institutions try to crucify, assassinate, and even silence and/or alienate dissenters, i.e. Jesus, MLK, Malcolm X, Angela Davis, you, etc. White women tears, white men sneers, and other marginalized people’s fears will try to play the sun to my Icarus. Still, I can effectively utilize my anger for protection and to teach people how to treat me with respect without remorse. I do not have to fear constructive use of my anger and its implications because I am a Black woman. I can unapologetically set my boundaries for all to hear and see, refusing to allow even a pinky toe to cross them.

Therefore, I will not delegitimize my anger. I will not “hold space” to make you comfortable and secure, at my detriment. I will not be the “palatable Black woman.” I will not be silent. However, I will be angry, Black, and woman! Why? “This is my healing, so I’ll voice my anger if I want to.” Thanks, Ms. Lorde.

With Love,

Chelsea Buggs
___________________
1 Audre Lorde, “The Uses of Anger: Women Responding to Racism,” in Sister Outsider (Berkley: Crossing Press, 2007).
2 The 13th amendment abolished slavery except as a punishment for crimes, hence disproportionate incarceration of Black people in an industrializing “New South” that needed their unfree labor.
3 To understand the “culture of dissemblance” review Darlene Clark Hine, “Rape and the Inner Lives of Black Women in the Middle West,” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 14, no. 4 (1989): 912-920.
4 Audre Lorde, “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action,” in Sister Outsider (Berkley: Crossing Press, 2007).
5 Lorde, “Uses of Anger.”

Dr. Chelsea Buggs
Bio: Dr. Chelsea Buggs is a recent graduate of the University of Memphis’s history department. She is also a recipient of the 2023-2024 Dr. William and Helen Lucille Gillaspie Scholarship, among several other awards. Dr. Buggs’s current research interests include: Black women, intersectionality, positionally, and self- and communal-determinism, identity formation and demonstration, Black women’s intellectual-activism, Black women’s agency and autonomy, the connections between white supremacy and Black equality strategies, and her concepts of the “Moral Matron” and “place” identities (not related to geography but socio-racial hierarchy).

Dear U.S. Black Women,

I dedicate this love letter to you on Valentine’s Day. Why? Because it is time we start making Valentine’s cards for ourselves.

I want to recognize and appreciate how deeply we have loved—especially others in our lives. From the period of enslavement to the eras of emancipation, Black women have always loved fiercely. In Margaret Walker’s Jubilee, do you know why Vyry Brown refuses to leave her children behind to escape with Randall Ware? Because, like many Black women in both fiction and real life, she would rather endure the cruel punishments of slavery than be separated from her children.

Do you know why Sethe Suggs tries to kill all her children in Beloved? Paul D. calls it “thick love,” but Sethe knows that if her children return to Sweet Home, they will be violated just as she was under its cruel, hellish conditions. Similarly, in Sula, Eva Peace throws herself out of a window to receive disability money so she can care for her children.

Or consider how Nettie Johnson watches over her sister Celie’s children while on a mission trip to Africa in The Color Purple.

Also, the necessary love that Meridian shows Truman in Meridian when she repeatedly hits him with her bookbag after he tells her he wants her to have his Black babies.

We see Black women’s love in the form of sacrifice—hiding in an attic for seven years just for a chance at freedom. Harriet Jacobs’ slave narrative continues to impact us today, reminding us that while her time in that attic was traumatic, it was worth it. She and her children escaped to the North. Once freed, Jacobs took control of her own story, recorded it, and left behind one of the most powerful slave narratives of her time.

Historically, through both fiction and reality, Black women have not had the privilege or right to rest. Our bodies, spirits, and souls have always been at stake. We have also rarely been afforded the privilege of hiding. But now, as time moves forward, we find ourselves at a critical moment in U.S. history. It is our time to hide and rest.

After November 4th, many Black women began to see how our labor—our fight for voting rights, our commitment to democracy—has been exploited. So many others have relied on us to carry elections, to secure the win of the first Black and Indian female president. And, as always, when democracy stood at a precipice, threatening to shift in ways that would harm us most, we showed up in droves to vote for Kamala Harris.

But this time, the disappointment was different. This time, some of us realized—despite our love for this country, this country does not always love us back. When I saw the election results and the breakdown of which demographic voted for Harris the most, I decided it was time to convince more Black women to step back—to hide and to rest.

For so long, I believed I did not deserve rest. That my mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being should be sacrificed—just as my foremothers, great-grandmothers, grandmothers, mothers, and aunties had done—to not only preserve our culture but save it.

We cannot preserve or save our culture if we throttle full speed to the ground, accelerating our deaths.

Black women, I am not saying we should give up or surrender to oppression. What I am advocating for is a new renaissance. A renaissance that Audre Lorde, Alice Walker, bell hooks, Adrienne Maree Brown, Tricia Hersey, and other Black women—including myself—see on the horizon.

We must break free from wake work by embracing rest work.

One cannot save even a part of the world if one is no longer in the world. I am proud of my fictive and real-life Black sisters for loving in the best ways they know how. Black women’s love should be recognized as sacred and honorable. And to keep it that way, we cannot allow those who are careless with our love to desecrate it—to exploit us for their privileges and power. We cannot build a true collective until we recognize that we, too, are deserving of self-love.

Ultimately, Black women, I see you. I love you—because I am you. Yes, we have a complicated past, a lot of challenges in the present, and uncertainties about the future. But what I hold onto is this: we are learning to recognize, realize, and reflect on the importance of loving ourselves and each other. We must all admit that all we got left is each other.

And maybe, that is what we always had. US.

Your Be Mine Valentine,
Sophia

Sophia Flemming is a PhD candidate in Communication Studies with an emphasis on rhetorical studies. Generally, Flemming studies African American public address, specifically focusing on Black feminist and Womanist rhetorics from the 18th to the 21st centuries. Her research examines the topics Black women communicate about, their communication styles, how voice manifests in their experiences and epistemologies, how they interact and engage within and outside their communities, and, most importantly, how they communicate interpersonally and in public spaces.

With the release of the Wicked movie in November 2024, it became one of the highest-grossing Broadway musical adaptations worldwide, drawing moviegoers from across the globe.  What makes this adaptation stand out is not just its seamless transformation from a beloved Broadway play to the big screen but also its emotional depth and cultural significance.

The film resonated deeply with audiences, particularly through the character of Elphaba—a green-skinned woman who faces prejudice and discrimination. Many connected with her because she was different, an outsider who defied society’s narrow definitions of beauty. But for Black women, Elphaba symbolized something even more powerful—representation.

Representation is more crucial than ever, especially as attacks on Black history and culture continue to rise. With Black British actress Cynthia Erivo portraying Elphaba, this film is more than just an adaptation—it is a celebration of Erivo’s artistry and her embodiment of Black womanhood in Wicked, marking a historic moment in both cinematic and theatrical storytelling.

Cynthia Erivo is no stranger to the acting world. She has starred in numerous films and television shows that highlight the depth and complexity of Black women. In 2019, she brought Harriet Tubman to life in Harriet, showing audiences that Tubman was more than just a heroic figure—she was a daughter, cousin, aunt, friend, and fierce resistance leader. Throughout her career, Erivo has taken on powerful roles that have shaped her journey as an actress. Her talent and dedication have earned her numerous accolades, solidifying her place as a force in the entertainment industry.

Beyond her acting, Erivo is also an extraordinary singer with a powerhouse voice that has captivated audiences worldwide. A Grammy and Tony Award winner, she has proven her versatility across stage, film, and music, continuously redefining representation. However, her journey with Wicked wasn’t without challenges. Before the film’s release, Erivo and her co-star Ariana Grande faced media scrutiny during their press tour, with some accusing them of being overly “sensitive” about the film’s significance. But after seeing the movie, perceptions shifted.

In Wicked, Erivo embodies Elphaba, a green-skinned woman who endures relentless prejudice and discrimination simply for being different. Her journey is one of rejection, resilience, and ultimately, self-acceptance. But through Erivo’s powerful performance, Elphaba becomes more than a misunderstood witch—she reflects the struggles of those who have been cast aside by society.

For Black women, Wicked was more than just a tale of overcoming obstacles. It was about recognition. It was about feeling seen. They understood what it meant to exist in spaces that disrespected them, overlooked them, and scrutinized the way they looked, dressed, or carried themselves. They knew all too well what it felt like to be labeled the “angry Black woman” simply for asserting their existence. Seeing Erivo as Elphaba wasn’t just about a great performance; it was about representation. It was about culture. It was about the power of finally seeing themselves in a story that had always been theirs, too.

While on a press tour, Cynthia Erivo delivered a powerful message to an audience filled with Black women. Speaking with Essence lifestyle editor Domonique Fluker, she shared her hope that Black women stay true to who they are, recognizing their own power.

This sentiment is especially reflected in her performance of Defying Gravity, where she belts:

“Nobody in all of Oz
No wizard that there is or was
Is ever gonna bring me down.

Cynthia Erivo embodied Blackness in its authenticity—she made sure that Elphaba was for Black women. She ensured that micro braids were incorporated into her character’s look to honor Black women and made certain that her image was portrayed accurately. Before the movie was even released, a so-called “fan” altered the movie poster, covering Erivo’s entire face while leaving Ariana Grande’s untouched. This blatant erasure was not just an act of disrespect but an attempt to obscure the fact that Elphaba was and is a Black woman in this portrayal.

At a time when Black women were cast in supporting roles, Erivo made sure that Elphaba’s representation was rooted in Black womanhood. Elphaba’s story, though wrapped in fantasy, is a powerful metaphor. She is green, yes, but that green skin and her identity as a witch make her a target of discrimination, much like how Black women are marginalized for their power, intelligence, and presence. She is both feared and exploited for her gifts—Mr. Oz manipulates her abilities against her and incites an insurrection, much like history has repeatedly shown how Black women’s brilliance is used while they are vilified.

For Black women, this narrative is all too familiar. Black women are often the first to call out injustice—whether it be racism, sexism, classism, or any form of discrimination. In Wicked, Elphaba is no different. When the animals in Oz are mistreated and marginalized, she is the first to recognize the injustice and fight against it. Just like in real life, Black women refuse to stay silent in the face of oppression.

The significance of Erivo’s casting speaks to the lived experiences of Black women who have long fought for recognition in spaces designed to overlook them. Through her unwavering commitment to authenticity, Erivo has redefined Elphaba and reinforced the power of storytelling as a tool for representation and social change.

Wicked is no longer just a story about an outsider seeking acceptance; it is a declaration that those who have been marginalized, silenced, or erased will no longer be ignored. And through Cynthia Erivo’s groundbreaking performance, Black women everywhere are reminded that they, too, have the power to defy gravity.

Aniya Gold is a Ph.D. student at the University of Memphis, specializing in African American history, with a focus on the lived experiences of Black women. As a public historian, she has curated exhibits that center Black narratives and works to amplify underrepresented voices in historical and cultural spaces.

“Black girls cannot genuinely think of their futures until they feel safe in the present.”

These are the words of Dr. R Nicole Smith, now an assistant professor at the University of Memphis, in the English Department. I heard these words spill from her lips when I attended her job talk the spring that I received my Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (Poetry). A tear stood in my eye from being seen in the research of another Black woman. Before her visit, I had no clue Black Girlhood was even an actual area of study. Her words made me even more excited about sticking to my decision to go straight into pursuing a PhD in Literary and Cultural Studies right after the masters.

Fast forward to the week after dancing across the stage to shake President Hardgrave’s hand and firmly grasping my diploma, I find myself shaky about that decision. I went to lunch with one of my instructors to celebrate my recent accomplishment and brought up the fact that I would have to find funding outside of the department. I was baffled at this, considering the fact that I spent the past two years teaching for the department and was under the impression that I’d instantaneously be considered for funding in this place I’ve come to call home. She gently emphasizes the complication of budget cuts, low enrollment university wide, and a host of other factors as an answer for my devastation.

“Well, that’s academia for ya.”

This statement she offers a-town stomps around my ear and I’m left to reconcile whether it should land as warning, encouragement, or a challenge in my mind. I did not fully understand the heart and beast of this statement until the eighth week into my program. For a Black woman pursuing a PhD that has no family members or close family friends who have obtained a doctorate, let alone a bachelor’s degree, this is a terrain that continually terrifies yet emboldens me.

One week, I’m asked to meet with an instructor due to the ‘tension’ felt from an in-class discussion around the topic of slavery and the next, my proposed topic for a conference paper that challenges a traditional poetic form is dismissed by another instructor in front of my peers in a different course. Oh, and that’s just the giants I’ve had to slingshot on campus. I’ve had to navigate and knuckle up against the personal feats of grief, assault, mental turmoil, and growing in faith and creativity. For the past few months, I have pushed so much of myself down in order to have capacity for the academy and I. AM. EXHAUSTED.

Being a PhD student is being expected to consume material and produce manuscripts as if you are a machine. Being a Black doctoral student is to constantly be aware of how hyper visible and invisible you are in every room you step in. It is living in a realm where you must choose between butter or battle ax as your response to being in spaces where others thrive on intentionally and unintentionally misunderstanding, undermining, and erasing you. It is being told and expected to separate your personhood from your professionalism to continue fueling this cult-like enthusiasm that blatantly mislabels what really is abuse and discrimination as tradition. It is having to hopscotch in your head which thoughts and theories you choose to offer in discussions for fear that they will be misconstrued and/or appropriated.

Being a Black PhD student is roaming, seeking fertile land and floor plans only to feel the weight of knowing that you are the blueprint and must build for a future sometimes only you have the vision to see.

To be Black woman, doctoral student, poet, goofball, and everything else that I choose to be under the Sun and over the moon, is absolutely necessary and will not go hushed or overlooked. I am both butter and battle ax and refuse to be split in half for the sake of others comfort. I belong exactly where I am, as I am.

Dear Black woman pursuing that degree, whether it’s your first one or your hundredth, heed James Baldwin’s words:

“The place in which I’ll fit will not exist until I make it”

Keep showing up. Bloodied. Bold. Brilliant. You are a trailblazer who does not have to be another trope of strength or independence to be taken seriously. You take yourself seriously and you take yourself out for ice cream. You are just as beautiful as you are complex. You live wildly and wisely, in the dualities, between the contradictions, and trust that your choice to keep going belongs to you. Be as fire as you feel, be as feather as you float. It won’t be easy and sometimes you’ll lose hope. And when hope goes to let herself out, show her this note when you’re at war with your doubts.

Bio: Madison ‘Mocha’ Hunter, a Detroit, MI, native, is a spoken word artist/poet, tutor, consultant, copyeditor, traveler, and professional vinyl record hunter. She is currently pursuing a PhD in Literary and Cultural Studies and a certificate in Women’s and Gender Studies at the University of Memphis.

“The time for scared, lip-trembling, word-changing/Self-denying, compromising/Knee-shakin’ black people is over/If you have something to say/Speak up with authority and conviction/If not, sit down and shut up/We have to have the power to tell the truth.” – Sister Souljah, “The Hate that Hate Produced”

When I first heard these lyrics from Sister Souljah, I was shocked. Never before had I encountered a female rapper speaking with such command and resoluteness. Her voice shouted at me to “tell the truth.” Sure, I’d heard other female rappers discuss weighty topics. Songs like Salt-N-Pepa’s “Let’s Talk About Sex,” Queen Latifah’s “U.N.I.T.Y.,” MC Lyte’s “Cappuccino,” and Lauryn Hill’s “Doo Wop (That Thing)” offered social commentary. However, none of them carried the same amount of rage and resistance as the words blasting from my speakers during my first listen to 360 Degrees of Power. The work of these other emcees described the symptoms of institutionalized racism, but Sister Souljah’s rhymes and rhetoric openly named white supremacy as the root cause of those ailments.

As the sole female member of Public Enemy, Sister Souljah refuted colonial historiography, articulated Black intellectualism, and promoted Black revolution, all while embodying the role of Queen Mother. Her lyrical activism was an amalgamation of critical race theory, Afrocentrism, Pan-Africanism, and Black militarism that captured the anger of Black Americans and stoked the fears of white ones. Souljah’s invocation of Black nationalist thought and moral persuasion, combined with her passion for public speaking and youth culture, helped her break down intellectual, educational, and social barriers. This approach fundamentally changed media and politics and arguably led to her becoming the first female rapper to be “canceled.”

Growing up as a Black youth in the post-Civil Rights, post-industrialist era of the 1970s and 80s, Sister Souljah experienced the hardships of a broken family, unemployment, public housing, and the welfare system. Rather than succumbing to these challenges, she transformed them into motivation. Before her rap career, Souljah dove wholeheartedly into education, beginning with teaching herself African history as a young teen. A star pupil throughout K-12, she attended the Cornell University Advanced Placement Study Program and studied abroad in Europe and Africa through the University of Salamanca in Spain. In 1985, she graduated from Rutgers University with a degree in American History and African Studies.

During these formative years, Souljah actively participated in protests against racial injustices, such as international apartheid, and initiatives for medical aid and education in the Third World. The knowledge she gained and her experiences in various student and community organizations led her to the hip-hop scene, where she sought to use the universal language of music to reach young Black people globally. As she later explained, “I thought that if we could create a vehicle that educated black youth to be knowledgeable, proud, aggressive, intelligent, and rooted in protecting the interests of African people, then and only then perhaps we might make genuine progress.”[1]

In 1989, she began featuring on music projects for the revolutionary and iconic hip-hop group Public Enemy. Three years later, she officially joined the group as the “Sister of Instruction.” In March 1992, they produced her debut album, which included powerful tracks like “360 Degrees of Power,” “Survival Handbook vs. Global Extinction,” “Umbilical Cord to the Future,” “My God is a Powerful God,” and, most famously, “The Hate That Hate Produced.” However, that June, following the brutal beating of Rodney King by LAPD officers and the subsequent LA riots, Bill Clinton used Sister Souljah’s portrayal of Black street logic and her calls for criminal justice reform to appeal to moderate White voters. Instead of addressing police brutality, Clinton criticized Souljah, framing her as the embodiment of angry Black womanhood and reverse racism. This move gained him favor with conservatives and is seen as a key factor in his 1992 election victory. The incident, now known as the “Sister Souljah moment,” has since been adopted as a media strategy for many politicians seeking to distance themselves from more radical elements of their political base and ultimately affirms the enormity of Souljah’s reach.

Following Clinton’s remarks, newspapers like The Washington Post and The New York Times crucified Souljah in the press, while record stores and entertainment platforms like MTV banned her albums and music videos. In response to the negative press surrounding her comments on the LA Riots and her album, 360 Degrees of Power, Sister Souljah held a press conference, where she stated, “As Sister Souljah, I reserve the right to fight against White racism—My album creates pressure on White America—a lot of pressure, and pressure is what America needs, deserves, and inherited—no justice, no peace.”[2] Souljah continued to give speeches on university lecture circuits and appear on talk shows to clarify her thoughts. Yet the trivialization of her experience and validity as an intellectual and activist persisted. In fact, the backlash following Clinton’s repudiation of her words and music was so thorough that it effectively ended her rap career after just one album.

However, it couldn’t end Souljah. In 1994, Sister Souljah reemerged as a writer and became a herald for the second wave of “street literature.” As an author, she re-established herself as a voice for oppressed Black communities, sparking a “renaissance of reading” among youth. Her books, including No Disrespect, The Coldest Winter Ever, Life After Death, and Midnight: A Gangster Love Story, purposefully narrate the perspectives of those she loves most: the Black urban poor. This love for her people motivated her to create stories that portray the humanity of Black lives while imparting invaluable wisdom often overlooked amid systemic racism’s challenges. Ultimately, it was this love that established her resilience amid the firestorm of the 1990s’ culture wars.

Sister Souljah’s journey—from the Bronx to the booth to the bestseller lists—is a powerful testament to resilience and unapologetic Blackness. Her lyrics, speeches, books, and public appearances gave voice to truths often silenced, boldly exposing the realities of Black life and the weight of white supremacy. Through her work as a community organizer, “rap-tivist,” and author, she set a precedent for artists to use their platforms to confront systemic injustice, regardless of the consequences. Souljah’s story reveals both the triumphs and challenges of being unapologetically true to one’s identity, offering inspiration for those who dare to speak truth to power. Whether seen as radical or revolutionary, her legacy demands recognition as a reminder of the lasting impact of her courage and the strength it takes to challenge injustice.

[1]Sister Souljah, No Disrespect (New York, NY: Times Books, 1994), 258.

[2] Sister Souljah, “Rap Artist’s Response to Clinton Remarks,” C-SPAN, 2024, https://www.c-span.org/video/?26613-1%2Frap-artists-response-clinton-remarks.

Ashley Harris is a historian specializing in African American history, gender studies, and hip-hop culture. She earned her M.A. and B.A. in History from the University of Memphis, graduating magna cum laude, and holds a B.M. in Vocal Performance from Xavier University of Louisiana. Her research explores the intersections of identity, politics, and culture, with works like “Let’s Talk About Sex, Gender, and Hip-Hop” and “A Souljah’s Story: The Rise, Fall, and Reinvention of Sister Souljah.” Ashley combines her scholarship with public engagement, contributing to podcasts and community initiatives with organizations such as Memphis Wesley and MICAH Memphis. She currently serves in the College of Communication and Fine Arts at the University of Memphis, supporting academic initiatives, faculty development, and strategic communication. Recognized for academic excellence, Ashley is a member of Phi Kappa Phi and Phi Alpha Theta honor societies, bringing a dynamic and interdisciplinary perspective to historical scholarship.