“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.

I love the Benjamin L. Hooks National Book Award. That certainly will not be a surprise to hear from a Professor of English intent on getting people to remember the benefits of reading as part of a full life and not just one’s career. I love the Hooks Book Award because so many of the works offer us a deeper, and often even more inspiring, understanding of the people and events that often get ignored when discussing mid-twentieth century Civil Rights Movement. Since 2010, the year of Hooks’s death, the Benjamin Hooks Institute for Social Change has selected one outstanding work of non-fiction as its Hooks National Book Award winner. The Book Award honors works that explore the moments, people, and happenings of the Civil Rights Movement of the mid-twentieth century. The award winners offer a portrait of the movement that not only feature prominent leaders like Hooks himself in new and complex ways, but they often move beyond the major figures to the foot soldiers whose courage and dedication sustained the movement through victories and defeats.

Many of the award winners, such as Hands on the Freedom Plow: Personal Accounts by Women in SNCC, tell the stories of the unsung and unknown civil rights workers and activists. We see the struggle for civil rights occur just as often in small rural towns in the South as we do in well-known cities like Birmingham and Selma. The Hooks Book Award shines a light on the places and people who did hard work of fighting for social justice even after the cameras stopped rolling. Additionally, the award highlights the continuing importance of social justice and expands the sites where social justice work can take place and the methods by which social justice may be achieved. Award-winning books have chronicled the lives of African Americans seeking social justice through economic empowerment, rural settlements, and black theater performances in the Deep South.

The presentation of the Book Award, which also includes a lecture by the author, remains one of the most exciting and dynamic events at the University of Memphis. Its dynamism appears in the event itself, which looks different every time. Whether held at the lively Hattiloo Theater, the historic National Civil Rights Museum, or the University’s beautiful Student Center, the Book Award brings authors to Memphis to stimulate conversations about the national civil rights movement. When authors come in, we bear witness to a gathering of scholars and students exploring new perspectives and underappreciated figures in the fight for social justice. Perhaps most importantly, the event provides an opportunity for community involvement, outreach, and engagement. It encourages a well-informed, well-read public as part of our discussions and as part of our understanding of past and future social justice battles. The Book Award event, then, extends the Hooks Institute’s mission of drawing connections between the university and the community, between the scholarship in the Ivory Tower and the lived experiences of people in the city. As community members add the voices of Memphians, past and present, we remind others that stories in Birmingham and Jackson and Montgomery are also stories in Memphis. In these moments, both groups assess and memorialize the stories found in the book and each other. I celebrate these moments. Hearing the stories of community members who have stories of their own is inspiring. The stories echo forward into the present and remind us how close the past remains.

The echo of the stories we hear at the Book Award event shapes our present and has led to award winners that chronicle the years after the Civil Rights Movement. I am reminded of Hooks’s own words in 1977 that the movement was not yet over: “the Civil Rights Movement is not dead. If anyone thinks that we are not going to demonstrate and protest, they had better roll up the sidewalks.” His belief in an ongoing civil rights movement informs the book award winners whose work covers the period after the traditional years of the Civil Rights Movement and that informs the social justice issues of the twenty-first century. They signal, as Hooks did, that the struggle for social justice did not end with voting rights or civil rights legislation. Nor did the obstacles.

So, some works chronicle the movement’s impact on our contemporary moment, such as Franchise: The Golden Arches in Black America. Others pointedly detail the civil rights issues of our time, whether mass incarceration in Locking up Our Own: Crime and Punishment in Black America or educational inequality in post-Brown v. Board of Education. The books are often rooted in a recovery, interrogation, and celebration of the work that Hooks valued. Indeed, the winners reflect Hooks’s own varied career in his fight for social justice. Some works are consistent with his work in the SCLC and NAACP through non-violent marches and legal cases. Yet other works move beyond these traditional uses of activism to include his agitation for increasing minority owned businesses, or demanding equality in the entertainment industry.

The biographies of journalists Ethel Payne and artist Romare Bearden reveal the importance of news and art to inspire and inform in the face of violent oppression and structural inequity.. Their works, along with Julius Fleming’s Black Patience: Performance, Civil Rights, and the Unfinished Project of Emancipation, suggest that there are many paths to social justice and that culture is often is just as important as legislation and elections.

The two best moments for me remain the moment all the submissions arrive in my office and the day the committee sits down to decide on the award winner. The last two years have seen a record number of submissions from first-time authors to Pulitzer Prize winners. They speak to the respect for Hooks’s legacy and the growing prestige of the award itself. This makes deciding a winner incredibly difficult. Thankfully, that task falls to a committee of scholars who read, debate, and celebrate the five finalists. They are lively discussions, combining intellect and emotion, experience with curiosity, and they leave us excited to hear how the public will respond to the choice we ultimately make.

In celebrating the legacy of Benjamin Hooks, especially now in the year he would have turned 100, we not only have a responsibility to honor the man and his legacy, but also the work he supported and that continues to be necessary. While the Institute is committed to intensive study of social justice issues from scholars at the university, the Book Award offers the opportunity to examine the past as a way to understand the present and prepare for the future.

Author Bio: Dr. Terrence T. Tucker is Professor of African American Literature and Chair of the Department of English at the University of Memphis. He is the author of Furiously Funny: Comic Rage from Ralph Ellison to Chris Rock (University Press of Florida, 2018). His current research focuses on the African American middle and upper class in literature and film. He has also published essays on topics ranging from race and pedagogy to post-soul satire as well as the work of Ernest Gaines and Walter Mosley, The Boondocks, and African-American superheroes. He recently co-edited a special issue on journal on Afrofuturism in the College Language Association Journal (CLAJ).

January 20, 2025, is the national holiday celebrating the birthday of civil rights icon Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. On this day, we reflect not only on the impactful life King led but also on the enduring legacy he left—a legacy that remains integral to the progress of not just Black Americans but also marginalized communities across the United States who have benefitted from the battles he and many others fought for civil rights and justice.

Although President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863, declaring freedom for enslaved Africans, true liberation was slow and fraught with setbacks. At the conclusion of the American Civil War, the Reconstruction era (1865–1877) brought significant, albeit brief, advancements for formerly enslaved Africans. Key achievements during this time included the ratification of the 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments to the U.S. Constitution between 1865 and 1870. These amendments abolished slavery (13th), established birthright citizenship and equal protection under the law (14th), and granted Black men the right to vote while prohibiting racial discrimination in voting (15th). Despite these strides, the era’s progress was short-lived. As Reconstruction ended, the rise of Jim Crow laws across the United States systematically dismantled these hard-fought gains.

From the late 19th century until approximately 1968, Jim Crow laws enforced racial segregation in cities and states across the country. These laws, named after a minstrel show character (Morris, 2021), institutionalized discrimination and segregation in nearly every aspect of life, including separate water fountains, bathrooms, schools, waiting areas, and even laws restricting Black people from entering certain towns after dark, known as “Sundown Towns” (Loewen, 2018).

Amid this backdrop of systemic oppression emerged Dr. Martin Luther King Jr: a pastor’s son who became one of the most influential leaders of the civil rights movement. While figures like Marcus Garvey advocated for emigration from the United States and Malcolm X often promoted a more militant approach, King championed nonviolent resistance. His methods disrupted systems of oppression by targeting their economic structures, leveraging boycotts and other nonviolent protests as powerful tools for change.

Dr. King’s pivotal role in the civil rights movement began in 1955, catalyzed by the actions of two Black women, Claudette Colvin and Rosa Parks, who refused to give up their seats on segregated buses. The Montgomery Bus Boycott, which lasted 385 days, became a landmark event that brought King to national prominence. The boycott inflicted significant financial losses on Montgomery’s bus companies, local businesses, and city finances. During this time, King’s home was bombed, and he was arrested for minor traffic violations, demonstrating the personal sacrifices he endured for the movement. Ultimately, the U.S. District Court ruled in favor of desegregating Montgomery’s buses, marking a significant victory for civil rights activists.

In 1961, King led the Albany Movement in Georgia, and in 1963, he spearheaded the Birmingham Campaign in Alabama. Supported by the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), King organized sit-ins and protests to challenge racial segregation and economic injustice. In Birmingham, nonviolent protesters faced brutal repression, including high-pressure water hoses and police dogs. While imprisoned in Birmingham, King wrote his famous “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” articulating the moral imperative for civil disobedience against unjust laws. His resilience and leadership in Birmingham inspired national and international attention to the civil rights struggle.

One of King’s most iconic moments occurred on August 28, 1963, during the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom. Joined by leaders from the NAACP, the National Urban League, the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), and the Congress of Racial Equality, King delivered his historic “I Have a Dream” speech. Standing before the Lincoln Memorial, he envisioned a nation where people of all races would live in equality, judged not by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

At the age of 35, Martin Luther King Jr. accepted the Nobel Peace Prize, an honor that recognized his remarkable contributions as an agent of change and as the face of the Civil Rights Movement in the United States. This recognition highlighted how the world was watching the events unfolding in America and how standing up against oppressive laws could be achieved through nonviolent means. In his Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech, Martin Luther King Jr. reflected on the paradox of technological progress and moral regression, stating:

Yet, in spite of these spectacular strides in science and technology, and still unlimited ones to come, something basic is missing. There is a sort of poverty of the spirit which stands in glaring contrast to our scientific and technological abundance.

The richer we have become materially, the poorer we have become morally and spiritually. We have learned to fly the air like birds and swim the sea like fish, but we have not learned the simple art of living together as brothers.

King’s words emphasized his concern about the rapid pace of technological advancement contrasted with the lack of compassion and unity among humanity. This dissonance deeply troubled him, not only for the future of the United States but for the global community. Martin Luther King Jr.’s relentless fight for both equality and equity extended beyond Black Americans; it was a universal struggle for justice that inspired people of all races, religions, and creeds. His efforts, along with those of many unnamed and unsung heroes, created the foundation on which countless others would stand. Ultimately, it was this fight for civil rights that Martin Luther King Jr. loved and sacrificed his life for.

Tragically, on April 4, 1968, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee, where he had been advocating for Black sanitation workers demanding fair wages and working conditions. His untimely death left an indelible mark on the nation, solidifying his legacy as a martyr for justice and equality.

This Forum Post is not meant to be comprehensive biography of Martin Luther King Jr.’s life but rather a moment to reflect on his pivotal contributions to the civil rights movement and the sacrifices made to secure the freedoms many enjoy today. As we honor his memory, it is fitting to revisit a passage from his iconic “I Have a Dream” speech:

I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.”

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.

As we navigate the challenges of our time, let us hold fast to King’s dream of a just and equitable society for all. By embracing and celebrating our individual differences, we move closer to realizing the American dream that King envisioned for everyone—a dream of unity, justice, and equality.

References:

Loewen, James. Sundown towns: A hidden dimension of American racism. The New Press, 2018.

Morris, Wesley. Music. In The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story, edited by Nikole Hannah-Jones, 359-381. New York: One World Books, 2021.

Author’s Bio

Curtis Ladrillo Chamblee M.A. is a scholar specializing in media studies, critical cultural studies, and African American rhetoric, with a research focus on the representation and construction of Black masculinity in film and television. Their work critically engages with themes of place, identity, and cultural discourse, exemplified in their dissertation on the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Curtis is committed to fostering equity and inclusion through teaching, mentoring, and rigorous scholarship, while also reflecting on the enduring influence of personal experiences and relationships in shaping their academic and intellectual pursuits.

2024 was the second time I have had to teach first thing in the morning after a Trump victory. This time around, I was more seasoned, probably a little more pessimistic, and definitely less shocked than I was eight years prior as a mere 26-year-old, first-year teaching assistant, facing my students with thinly veiled emotions and a loss of words.

Since that first Trump election in 2016, a lot has changed. I have steeled myself against the relentless attacks on the political and human rights that my communities and I had previously held more certain. I became more aware of mutual aid networks, and I got more involved in direct community support and grassroots activism (in Washington D.C. of all places!) as some of our best response to these attacks. And I have also become a more veteran instructor of service-learning pedagogy, having trained in 2018 with the University of Maryland’s Do Good Institute to develop a community-oriented version of the standard public-speaking basic course. In this class, students individually choose a local nonprofit that they must research and speak about informatively before conducting a needs-based assessment through an interview with a staff member, and then creatively (and critically) pitching persuasively a small-scale community project that they might want to enact as a class in the last few weeks of the semester. My public speaking students, therefore, learn to not only speak well, but to also do good.

On November 6, 2024, I walked into my classroom at the University of South Carolina Upstate – a regional college in a very conservative state where I have seen students don anti-Biden/pro-Trump apparel – without any fanfare regarding the election, and quickly turned them to the task at hand: the launch of our service-learning inspired civic engagement projects. For the six years that I have been leading service-learning public speaking, “Group Kick Off” day is always my favorite day of the semester, as students transition from individually researching, analyzing, assessing, and speaking about community needs to collaboratively starting group projects to address those needs. Over the next few weeks, my students would spend the rest of the semester raising money to support the Public Education Partners of Greenville County, encouraging college-student literacy through a book swap event benefiting the minority-owned Hub City Writers Project, collecting Christmas gifts for the children and women at the Julie Valentine Center, and even doing a pet-rock race fundraiser for Children’s Cancer Partners of the Carolinas. Collectively, they raised nearly $1,000 and forged lasting partnerships between the university and local organizations. These projects not only helped meet immediate community needs but also empowered students to see themselves as active agents of change.”

This is what gives me hope in a sea of despair following the Trump victory. Students, some still high schoolers in dual enrollment, are working with joy and vigor to help their communities and make them stronger. They are working to help public school teachers, creative thinkers, survivors of domestic and sexual abuse, and children undergoing cancer treatment. They are helping to redistribute resources. They are using critical thinking to consider community needs and then putting their feet on the ground to address those needs. They are learning that we have so much more individual power than we ever really sit down and consider, and even more power when we work together.

In this regard, there was truly no need to directly address the election results in my class. My decision to focus on the task at hand – to direct my students to be resources for those without, to focus on “speaking well and doing good,” to start their projects for their local organizations – was the only rhetorical choice I needed. Of course, the suffering we face as Americans is intricately and intimately related to the policies driven by state and federal leaders, and I do not wish to discount that. A Trump victory has material and far-reaching negative effects on our quality of life, especially those in marginalized communities. As a teacher, I often find myself balancing the weight of these events with the need to remain hopeful for my students. It’s not always easy to reconcile the global political landscape with the local, hands-on work of education. But it’s in these contradictions that I find the most meaning: teaching students to be agents of change while navigating a world that feels increasingly out of control. And so, rather than direct our attention to the election results, I chose to direct it towards our collective action and our collective power.

In the face of an oppressive empire, we must build community. We must love each other. We must laugh together. We must care for and about each other. I am inspired by my students, and I hope you are too. 2024 has taught me that grief and action can coexist. In the face of insurmountable fear, you do what you can to turn it into love, hope, and belief. And I believe that by focusing on tangible, local efforts we can turn frustration into meaningful change. I’m not always sure on how to do it, but I know that I love my students for the caring justice work they are doing, that we are doing, together. When we care, we win.

Dr. Farzad-Phillips is an anti-racist and feminist scholar who studies at the intersections of public memory, space/place especially in the contexts of higher education controversies. As a teacher-scholar, she is known for her practices in civic engagement and for building student autonomy both in the classroom and out in the community.

Art and social change have never been seen as particularly divergent subjects.  It doesn’t take much study of the American Civil Rights Movement, or any social change movement for that matter, before one begins to find the artists – the musicians, the writers, and the visual artists – who stand shoulder to shoulder with activists to charge us with moving ahead with the critical work of justice.

As part of our mission of teaching, studying, and promoting civil rights and social change, the Hooks Institute recognizes authors who contribute to non-fiction literature exploring the civil rights movement with the annual Benjamin L. Hooks National Book Award.  This fall, the Hooks Institute launched a new initiative to recognize the role of artists in social change: the Frances Dancy Hooks Social Change Art Award and Exhibition.

It felt fitting to create a parallel award for artists in the name of Mrs. Hooks, celebrating her impact while also acknowledging the contributions of artists to the work of social change. In addition to being a dedicated partner in the work of her husband, Dr. Benjamin L. Hooks as the “First Lady of the NAACP,” Frances Dancy Hooks was a powerhouse who founded the Women in NAACP (WIN) to focus on issues pertaining to women and children.  She was also a dedicated patron of the arts, supporting the Memphis Symphony League as well as serving as a trustee of the Memphis College of Art.

Given only the theme “The Beauty of Change,” the first year of the Frances Dancy Hooks Art Award and Exhibition saw an incredible diversity of artists, topics, and media, including sculpture, paintings, photography, digital collage, pastel and mixed media. Twelve finalist artworks were chosen from the submissions for exhibition in the Hooks Institute’s new office and the Ralph S. Faudree Exhibition Space.

The winning piece, “The Story is Not Over” by artist D.Weaver focused on the landmark Brown v Board of Education decision and the educational inequities still present today. Beautifully painted in vibrant acrylic, the bright pink background featured a stylized rendering of a white protest against desegregation.  The foreground featured a modern-day young African American girl with an open book in hand. With 2024 marking the 70th anniversary of Brown, and continual battles surrounding best practices and management of public education, the topic could not have been more poignant, or timely.

James Baldwin counted many visual artists as friends, including Tennessee’s own Beauford Deleaney. Baldwin said, “Through their work, artists can motivate others to see the world differently, challenge preconceived notions, and inspire change.”   

If this topic interests you, there are so many incredible artists and works to be discovered. A few of my personal favorites include:

Jean Michel Basquiat: “Defacement.”  (Trigger Warning – police violence and trauma)

Banksy: “Girl with Balloon” and “Bomb Hugger.”  This mysterious street artist often explores themes of economic and political justice as well as military violence.

Ana Mendieta:  “Silueta Series.” Feminist and Sexual Justice (Trigger Warning – violence against women and sexual assault)

Pablo Picasso – “La Guernica.” This famous piece is a commentary on the horrors of war.

Art Shay – “Images of the Fayette County Tennessee Civil Rights Movement.” The Hooks Institute has a curated exhibition of the photography of LIFE Magazine Photographer Art Shay pertaining to the Fayette County Tennessee Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s.  This exhibition is currently on display in the Memphis International Airport.

Amy Ruggaber, MPA, is the Assistant Director of the Benjamin L. Hooks Institute for Social Change at the University of Memphis with expertise in nonprofit management, education, public policy, and strategic communication.  With more than twenty years of experience in the arts and culture field, specifically, her research and leadership focuses on initiatives aimed at advancing social justice and equity.

The TV cast a stark, brutal light over the living room, illuminating my mother’s face as we watched the video of Tyre Nichols’ assault together. She sat next to me, 60-something years old, a woman who has lived through her share of injustice and yet somehow, each time, the pain lands fresh. As the footage played, she shook her head, muttering words that pierced the silence between us: “They didn’t have to do that boy like that.”

Her voice held the weight of every incident, every assault, every silent and not-so-silent act of violence she’s witnessed in her lifetime. There was a world of exhaustion in those words, an unspoken reminder that, in all her years, justice and mercy have too often felt like distant promises, even in moments when they were most desperately needed. As we sat together, it felt like the weight of generations bore down on us, each one grappling with this sickening realization: that for all our progress, so much still remains unchanged.

Moments like these remind me why, as a Black woman, I cannot afford to sit back during an election year. Watching Donald Trump’s influence on our nation—the rhetoric that emboldens hatred, the policies that dig deeper into our wounds—feels like a constant, chilling reliving of the Jim Crow era. It’s a modern-day public lynching, inflicted through policies and powers that harm us in ways that feel calculated and cruel. The phrase echoes in my mind: “He don’t have to do us like that.” Yet, each day, we see him and others in power act as though there’s a silent permission to disregard us, to dismiss the calls for change, and to double down on practices that uphold systemic inequities.

This is why our vote is vital. For Black women, 2024 is not just another election cycle—it’s a reckoning, a moment when we have the opportunity to push back against the tides of racism and misogyny that are dressed up as politics as usual. Voting isn’t just a right; it’s a tool of survival, a way of demanding acknowledgment and respect, of claiming the justice that our mothers and grandmothers dreamed of but often never saw. It’s our chance to hold leaders accountable and to say, Enough is enough.

The struggles that my mother has endured, and that I have witnessed, fuel my determination to make sure that my voice, my vote, and my resolve count. Watching that video reminded me of our pain, but it also reminded me of our resilience. Black women have always been a powerful force in our nation’s history. Our votes have led to shifts in policies, inspired movements, and disrupted the status quo. We are a force to be reckoned with—and this election is no different.

In 2024, we must stand together, casting our ballots not just as citizens, but as stewards of a legacy that demands to be seen, heard, and honored. We must channel our anger, our grief, and yes, our hope, into action. We vote because we cannot watch another generation inherit the same brutal realities. We vote to demand a future where Black lives matter in every sense, and where justice is not just a word spoken but a right lived.

This year, as we approach the polls, let’s remember my mother’s words: “They didn’t have to do that boy like that.” Those words are both a painful reminder and a call to action, urging us forward. We vote because we know we deserve better—and we are determined to see a world that reflects that truth.

Kirstin Cheers is the deputy director of public relations at KQ Communications. She holds a master’s in communications studies from the university of Memphis. She lives in Memphis, TN.

If you were to ask anyone on my campus to describe November 6, the day after the presidential election, they would likely respond with the word “unremarkable.” For this reason I think it is more important than ever to tell the unremarkable story of my Appalachian campus, cozily nestled in a sea of red, one day after the 2024 presidential election.

In the weeks leading to Election Day, I visualized campus on November 6 with one candidate elected and then-the other. In one scenario I imagined campus in turmoil, an externalized expression of feelings including scenes of protests, riots, and unrest. In the second scenario, I imagined the same turmoil but within myself as a form of internalized grief knowing I would be in the minority. Regardless of whether my candidate won, I was loathing the day after the election because of my uncertainty about how campus was going to react. My coping method for dealing with anxiety was to extinguish fearful fantasies the minute they ignited and ignore this major historic event that was about to happen.

Fast forward to Wednesday, November 6. I walked into my office at 8 am having had very little time to reflect on or process the election. In an ideal situation, I should have had a day to digest the results and gauge students’ demeanor, but I did not have that privilege. I had to jump in with the belief that the world’s worst topic I could discuss the day after the election was how to build a persuasive argument with logic and credibility in a public speaking course. I had one hour to figure out how to address this sensitive topic in a way that did not inflame a potentially already agitated audience–students. My head was not clear after a sleepless night of watching election results and I was doing a miserable job of keeping my emotions composed. I was nervous and foolishly unprepared to teach an already difficult topic to a public speaking class with what I imagined to be a room full of happy students as the majority and a small group of sad students as the minority.

In my anxious and frantic state, I resorted to talking through my thoughts with my Dean by using her as a sounding board at 8:30 am. I had a few tears of anxiety but she remained stoic. Her reaction to my anxiousness was so muted that I began to wonder if I needed to be as nervous as I was. Thankfully, in a few minutes we brainstormed a way to teach logic through lighthearted topics like, why our town should serve free ice cream once per month. This simple approach nurtured my feelings and convinced me to have courage to face students and the day’s topic. My goal was to carry business on as usual without causing emotional instability. I have been especially sensitive towards the emotional tone of my classroom since the pandemic where dark clouds of social isolation and anxiety loom; where concealed weapons on campus have recently been made legal; and where students of an Appalachian community college struggle with real-world issues like poverty, caring for terminally ill loved ones, and drug addiction. By the time I arrived to class at 9:30 am, only one of my colleagues had mentioned the previous night’s election.

After I gave a quick lesson on logic and had students work in groups to create an argument with their lighthearted topics, I realized everyone seemed astoundingly normal. Not one group brought up politics or strayed off topic to discuss election results. They were all very focused on the assignment but were struggling significantly. They could not figure out how to take a stance and build an argument. One group even begged me to tell them what their stance should be on their topic of what season is the best of all. I began to realize the majority were struggling with the assignment because they were terrified to form an opinion among peers whom they had been building relationships with for over 13 weeks. Then I realized their reticence on the election results was for similar reasons. I wanted to be certain that this was true, so I talked to one of the small groups that seemed “safe” to unleash my thoughts.

I explained that it bothered me that there was inevitably both happiness and sadness in the room but not a soul would know. I told them I imagined this being extremely lonely. I explained that I could not imagine anything worse in the world than to feel unable to share a feeling of any kind with anyone and that is what I imagine their experience being with the election. I visualized feelings of emptiness and loneliness as more terrifying than any election results and explained that my wish for them is to take my lesson on how to build an argument to build confidence in learning how to share an opinion and even more importantly how to share an emotion with others. As I was talking, I could tell my words deeply resonated with the students. Students agreed, not through their words, but through their nonverbal reactions. This may not sound like much; but in my post-pandemic days of teaching, the biggest struggle I have is eliciting any kind of verbal or nonverbal response. For the first time this semester, I felt like I was truly talking to humans with real feelings and opinions. Not a single student found the courage to discuss this further but I knew I had left them feeling validated for their undisclosed feelings.

I came back the next day with a new group of public speaking students and tested what I had said to the small group the previous day. I wanted to be sure my perception was accurate. This time, I got one brave student to raise a hand and say, “That is a very kind way of describing us but do you feel deceit when students don’t express themselves?” I responded, “Of course not; I believe that fear to express an opinion and feelings is a very real experience and I want more than anything to empower them to conquer those fears. Loneliness is more terrifying than any elections results.” I could tell I had touched another group of students who were also silently struggling for a voice but were lost in how use them.

To this day, November 14, only one colleague has initiated a conversation about the election results with me and not one single student has. If any election results were discussed on campus, it was because I initiated the conversation. It appears someone has pushed the mute button on my campus for all voices. So, there we have it, a seemingly unremarkable story with a strong message about Generation Z, our inability to engage in meaningful dialogue, and the future of democracy.

Biography

Dr. Mary Beth Held is an Associate Professor of Communication Studies at a community college in Appalachia, where she has dedicated over thirteen years to fostering student voices and academic growth. Dr. Mary Beth Held holds an M.A. in Communication Studies from West Virginia University and a Ph.D. in Higher Education Administration from Ohio University. Her passion for empowering students through effective communication continues to be the driving force of her work, as she remains committed to helping her students develop the skills and confidence to succeed both in and outside the classroom. If you would like to reach Dr. Mary Beth Held, they can be emailed at mheld@wvup.edu.

As a Nurse Practitioner (NP) in primary care, I see firsthand how the health of African- Americans in Memphis is shaped by social, economic, and systemic factors. Memphis, a city rich in culture and history, is also a city where health disparities—particularly for African-American communities—are stark. Despite advances in medicine and healthcare delivery, African- Americans in Memphis still face significant barriers to achieving optimal health outcomes.

As a healthcare provider on the front lines, I am continually reminded that these disparities are not just the result of biological differences, but are intricately tied to socio-economic conditions, historical inequities, and the structure of our healthcare system. In this post, I will explore these health disparities, provide insights based on my practice, and offer thoughts on how we can move forward as a community.

The Scope of Health Disparities in Memphis

African-Americans make up approximately 65% of the population in Memphis. However, this majority population experiences some of the highest rates of chronic disease, such as hypertension, diabetes, and heart disease. According to the Shelby County Health Department, African-Americans in Memphis have significantly higher mortality rates from conditions like heart disease and stroke compared to their white counterparts. These health issues are often diagnosed later, managed less effectively, and result in worse outcomes.

Chronic Diseases

Memphis is often ranked among the top U.S. cities for obesity, and within the African-American community, rates of obesity are disproportionately high. Obesity is closely linked to conditions like hypertension and diabetes, both of which are prevalent among African-American patients I see in primary care. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), African-Americans are 40% more likely to have hypertension and are twice as likely to die from it as non-Hispanic whites.

I routinely encounter patients who present with blood pressure readings well above the target range for hypertension. Often, these individuals have not seen a healthcare provider in years—sometimes due to lack of access, other times due to distrust of the healthcare system. The long-term, unmonitored progression of hypertension contributes to heart disease and stroke, leading causes of death among African-Americans in Memphis.

Diabetes is another pervasive issue. African-Americans are twice as likely to develop type 2 diabetes, and in Memphis, complications from this disease—such as kidney failure, amputations, and blindness—are tragically common. In my practice, I work diligently with patients on lifestyle changes, medication management, and diabetes education, but the social determinants of health make long-term control difficult for many.

Mental Health

Mental health disparities among African-Americans in Memphis are equally concerning. African-Americans are less likely to receive treatment for mental health issues, even though they experience similar rates of conditions like depression and anxiety compared to other racial groups. Structural racism, economic disadvantage, and the trauma of living in poverty-stricken neighborhoods contribute to high levels of stress and mental illness.

In my role, I often serve as a first point of contact for patients who are struggling with their mental health. It’s not uncommon for African-American patients to report somatic symptoms—such as headaches, fatigue, or unexplained pain—that are tied to stress or untreated depression. Yet, due to stigma and lack of access to mental health professionals, many patients do not receive the treatment they need.

The Root Causes of Health Disparities

The health disparities in Memphis are not solely the result of individual behaviors. They are rooted in broader social determinants of health—conditions in the environments where people live, learn, work, and play. Many African- Americans in Memphis are, unfortunately,  more likely to live in poverty, experience unemployment, and face food insecurity—all of which contribute to poor health outcomes.

In my experience, the lack of access to healthy foods is a major issue in predominantly African-American neighborhoods. Many of my patients live in food deserts, where fresh fruits and vegetables are hard to come by, and fast-food options dominate. When I talk to patients about managing their diabetes or hypertension, I often hear the same response: “It’s hard to eat healthy when the only grocery store near me doesn’t carry fresh produce.”

Another major barrier is access to healthcare itself. Many African-Americans in Memphis are either uninsured or underinsured. Even those with insurance often face long wait times for appointments or live far from healthcare facilities. This delay in accessing care leads to late diagnoses and complications that could have been prevented with earlier intervention.

Solutions and the Role of Nurse Practitioners

As a Nurse Practitioner, I believe that we are uniquely positioned to address health disparities, particularly in primary care. Our role allows us to form long-term relationships with patients, focus on preventive care, and address not just the symptoms of disease but the root causes as well.

Culturally Competent Care: One of the most important aspects of reducing health disparities is delivering culturally competent care. In my practice, I make it a priority to listen to my patients’ concerns and validate their experiences. Building trust is essential, especially for African Americans who may have a history of mistrust with the healthcare system. This trust allows for better patient-provider communication, which in turn improves adherence to treatment plans.

Community Outreach and Education: I believe that healthcare providers must go beyond the clinic walls. In Memphis, community-based programs are crucial for reaching those who may not regularly access care. As an NP, I participate in health fairs and community education events that focus on preventive care, particularly in African American neighborhoods. These events help to raise awareness about chronic disease management, the importance of regular screenings, and mental health support.

Advocacy for Policy Change: Addressing health disparities requires systemic change. Nurse Practitioners can be powerful advocates for health equity. By pushing for policies that expand Medicaid, increase funding for community health centers, and address food deserts, we can help dismantle the barriers that disproportionately affect African Americans in Memphis.

A Path Forward

The health disparities among African Americans in Memphis are profound, but they are not insurmountable. As a Nurse Practitioner, I see the potential for change every day in my practice. By providing culturally competent care, engaging in community outreach, and advocating for policy changes, we can work together to reduce these disparities.

But this effort requires more than just healthcare providers. It requires collaboration across sectors—education, housing, transportation, and food systems must all work together to create environments that support health. In Memphis, where the challenges are great, the opportunity to create lasting change is even greater.

As I reflect on my role in primary care, I remain hopeful. Hopeful that with sustained effort, we can create a healthier future for African Americans in Memphis, where disparities in health outcomes are a thing of the past, and every patient has an equal opportunity to live a healthy, fulfilling life.

References:

1. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC). (2022). Health Disparities: African Americans. https://www.cdc.gov/healthequity/race-ethnicity/africanamericans/index.html
2. Shelby County Health Department. (2023). Memphis Health Status Report. https://www.shelbytnhealth.org/
3. Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. (2023). The Role of Social Determinants in Health Disparities. https://www.rwjf.org/

Jimarie Nelson, MSN, APRN, FNP-C

Originally from Detroit, Michigan, she has called Memphis home for over a decade. J Jimarie holds an MSN with a concentration in Family Nurse Practitioner from the University of Memphis Lowenberg School of Nursing, a BSN from Louisiana State University Health Sciences Center, and a BA in Biological Sciences from Wayne State University.

Her passions for science, community service, and dance fuel her commitment to helping clients look and feel their best while driving growth and wellness in the community.

 

 

Ida B. Wells-Barnett is recognized throughout history for her late 19th-century antilynching campaign. Her activism—through numerous essays and pamphlets—contributed to a decline in lynchings during her lifetime. Ninety years after her death, President Joe Biden’s administration passed the Emmett Till Antilynching Act, a federal law that defines lynching as a hate crime. While Wells-Barnett’s laborious efforts eventually bore fruit, we must ask ourselves: at what cost did it take for the U.S. to finally pass a federal law prohibiting lynching? (Tianna Mobley, “Ida B. Wells-Barnett: Anti-lynching and the White House).

I often reflect on the personal and professional sacrifices that Wells-Barnett made in order to speak truthfully about lynching. In this piece, I want to discuss one of the highest prices she paid to report on lynchings in the South: her exile from Memphis, Tennessee. According to her autobiography, diaries, and biographies, Wells-Barnett had no plans to leave Memphis. She decided to return to the city after realizing that staying in Visalia, California, with her aunt would not work out ((Miriam Decosta-Willis, The Memphis Diary of Ida B. Wells: An Intimate Portrait of the Activist as a Young Woman)). At that time, Wells (who would later marry Ferdinand Barnett and become Ida B. Wells-Barnett) found that Visalia lacked the social and political life she was accustomed to in Memphis. As a young Black woman, she knew she would not thrive in Visalia, prompting her return to Memphis ((Ida B. Wells, Crusader for Justice). We can assume that Wells intended to settle down and start a family there. However, after returning to Memphis from a trip to promote her newspaper, The Free Speech, she received devastating news: her best friend, Thomas Moss, had been lynched. Motivated by his murder, Wells embarked on a path that would begin her antilynching activism, fundamentally altering her plans to make Memphis her permanent home (Nathaniel C. Ball, “Memphis and the Lynching at the Curve”).

Wells began this journey by writing an exposé that revealed the true reasons behind the lynchings of Thomas Moss, Calvin McDowell, and William Stewart. This exposé would later transform into one of the most impactful pamphlets of her career, Southern Horrors (Ida B. Wells, The Light of Truth: Writings of an Anti-Lynching Crusader). In the South, Black men were typically lynched on the pretext of having raped white women. Wells’s exposé dismantled this “threadbare lie,” exposing the rape myth narrative surrounding Black men. Her reporting revealed that Southern white men used this narrative as a red herring to obscure their true motivations: to prevent Black men from advancing in economic, political, and social spheres. Many Southern whites were threatened by the rapid gains made by emancipated Black people during Reconstruction and post-Reconstruction, especially those who resented the South’s loss in the Civil War.

Wells’s exposé enraged white Southerners even further. After her article circulated in Memphis, white mobs planned to lynch her. They descended upon the Free Speech office in search of her, but she was away on business (Paula J. Giddings, Ida: A Sword Among Lions: Ida B. Wells and the Campaign Against Lynching). They destroyed her office and threatened to lynch her upon her return. As a result, Wells’s career in Memphis ended, along with her dreams of a permanent settlement there. Yet, despite this setback, Wells bravely continued her fight against lynching by traveling to Britain for her antilynching crusade tour, which proved to be a success. She also found love with Ferdinand Barnett in 1895, and together they started a family in Chicago, Illinois, where they were well-respected politically and socially.

However, we should contemplate the “what ifs” of Wells staying in Memphis. When Southern Blacks like Wells were exiled for exposing racial violence, we need to consider what Memphis truly lost. While it is important to commemorate the impact that Memphis had on Wells, we should also ponder the further impact she might have had if she could have remained there. Instead of Wells’s family being based in Chicago, what if they had established roots in Memphis? Would there have been an Ida B. Wells Homes? What about Wells’s Black Women’s Clubs? Instead of the Ida B. Wells Homes being demolished in the early 2000s, could they have survived in Memphis? Perhaps the Ida B. Wells Woman’s Club and the Alpha Suffrage Club would have thrived in Memphis due to the deep Black Southern roots in the city.

I conclude with this thought: the past is immutable; we cannot change it. Because of her exile from Memphis, Wells became even more motivated to continue her social justice activism, which included public writing, speaking, and traveling. My aim is to highlight the imaginative possibilities of what could have been had Wells stayed in Memphis, while also addressing a larger reality. This reality is that Wells-Barnett and many other Black women sacrificed immensely for social change. We can admire their bravery, but we must also acknowledge the significant loss represented by the “what ifs.” I urge us to examine history not only through the lens of Black women’s courage but also through their sacrifices for the places and communities they cherished—motivated by a belief in a greater purpose: the freedom of Black people. I encourage us to consider how we can develop strategies to protect Black women without forcing them to abandon the places, spaces, and people they love, while still fighting for the advancement of their communities.

Sophia Muriel Flemming M.A.
PhD Candidate, University of Georgia

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.