Madison Givens M.A. Bio:
Madison Givens is a current PhD student whose research explores the intersections of 20th-century African American history, classical studies, and gender, with a focus on how social movements and revolutions shape collective memory across generations. With a deep commitment to examining the enduring impact of generational trauma, Givens’s work bridges historical scholarship and cultural analysis to better understand the roles of women, resistance, and legacy in shaping Black life and liberation struggles.
“The wounded child inside many females is a girl who was taught from early childhood on that she must become something other than herself, deny her true feelings, in order to attract and please others.”- bell hooks
Socialization and indoctrination are two of the greatest enemies that the world has ever seen. Why? When a person or group of people have an agenda that he/she/they desire to teach, disseminate, and engrave interpersonally and/or hegemonically, socialization and indoctrination become the tools. They are the tools of our wounding, our oppression, domination, and debilitation. They become the exacto knife, etching a premeditated agenda into the minds and hearts of people, creating the “wounded child” who is taught to deny themselves and the truth. For women in general, gendered thinking and expectations dictate every aspect of women’s lives and experiences, engendering the “wounded child.” For Black women, specifically, race and gender collide to teach us who we are, what we are, and why we are (exist). Effectively, we are taught to denounce our true feelings and identities from early childhood onward to stunt our growth into healthy, self-actualized adults. We are taught to be “palatable.” Then once wounded, we remain trapped and unable to see the path that leads to our transition from “wounded childhood” to “healing adulthood.” We also become blind to supporting members of our community finding their pathway to healing.
According to the late, renowned scholar bell hooks, “attracting and pleasing others,” denying our true feelings, becomes the crux upon which many girls and women build their whole identities and personalities. For Black women, who are treated as threats to the agenda of oppression and domination, our intersectional socialization and indoctrination requires the premeditated murder of our self-determinism and love. Therefore, we are socialized and indoctrinated to believe we are valueless until we seek our value through others’ expectations, we are given “value” based on others’ expectations of us, and we perform others’ expectations of us to their standards. This is the first stage of our wounding, being taught the lie of our “inferiority” and “dispensability” until we become “palatable,” then perform our palatability well. The second stage comes from us believing the lie, and the third is how we put the lie into action. Stages 1-3 are palatability politics. We are taught to debilitate ourselves; debilitation is most effective when we support our own demise. Then our personal debilitation blocks our work for communal-determinism and love, because we are vital parts of our communities. We are taught to distort, silence, and incapacitate ourselves, other Black women, and by extension our communities. We are socialized and indoctrinated to do the job of our enemies and keep our enemies and their ill-gotten, hegemonic power secure.
Wounding can be premeditated, constant, sporadic, circumstantial, or unintentional. But the results are the same. Our wounding rots us from the inside out. We become unable to transcend our Achilles heel, our need to be palatable to appeal to the supposed “superiors,” the people whose “value” is unquestioned or less questioned. By practicing palatability politics, we become the mammies, who support the white supremacist agenda, which includes racism, sexism, classism, and a plethora of other socio-cultural issues. We practice anti-Blackness, anti- womanness, and other harmful ways of thinking to be acceptable to the white and/or male gaze.
We say things like, “that’s ghetto,” “she/you sound uneducated,” “you’re too loud and aggressive,” “you ain’t going to catch a man looking like that,” “women/girls don’t act like [insert gendered thought here],” “you look better/professional when your hair is [insert imposed comment here], “if you dressed up and wore a little makeup, you could [insert “possibility” here], or “you make us look bad; who is going to respect us if you, [insert complaint here].” We create an intra-communal “they not like us” mentality, ostracizing Black women who are not “palatable.” We implicitly and explicitly demonstrate that going outside of white and/or male prescribed expectations is detrimental to us, instead of seeing the toxicity of that mentality. Our socialization and indoctrination distances us from constructively using our anger to question why palatability politics exist and how and why we must challenge, then kill the “need” to be accepted and validated for our healing. By killing palatability politics, we stop debilitating ourselves and our communities when we internalize and disseminate white supremacy.
The reason for our wounding was for our oppressors to oppress and dominate us as Black women. Our socialization and indoctrination was never meant for our betterment. To seek actual betterment for ourselves and our communities, we must learn to love ourselves, without seeking others’ acceptance and validation. To bell hooks, the appropriate response to our wounding is not “to endure unkindness or cruelty, to forgive and forget,” but instead we must love ourselves and our people enough to practice a “healthy, loving response to cruelty and abuse” by “putting ourselves out of harm’s way.” We must commit to a life-long journey and practice of genuine love for ourselves by not allowing anyone to invalidate us (including ourselves), by knowing our worth and exhibiting our greatness. Despite their attempts to devalue us and make us feel as if we must seek their validation or perish, our oppressors know we are great. We are indispensable and valuable beyond measure. Otherwise, as the late, great Cicely Tyson once said people who demean you would not “bother to beat you down if you were not a threat.” Black women, we don’t owe anyone anything. Oppressors, we owe you nothing. Black women, other people’s perception of us is not our problem. Oppressors, your perception of us is not our problem. It is a you problem; it has nothing to do with us. Black women, we do not have to seek or use a toxic “remedy” (palatability politics) to address a non-existent “problem” that delusionally exist within the minds of people who seek our destruction. Let’s genuinely love ourselves and heal the “wounded child” within.
Love,
Chelsea Buggs
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).
It shouldn’t have been hard for me to write a love letter to the strong, Black women in my life.
It shouldn’t have been hard to write a love letter to a woman like my mother, whose quiet spirit showed me how to love through actions and not just words. My mother encouraged my every interest by shuttling me to various practices and enduring every performance with a smile and a hug.
It shouldn’t have been hard to write a love letter to a woman like my mom’s mom, whose proud spirit showed me how to fight against injustice and animosity every day. My granny served as a Black principal in a white city, and she used her interminable strength to fight injustices for her students and eventually for her community as a county commissioner.
It shouldn’t have been hard to write a love letter to a woman like my dad’s mom, whose powerful spirit made her seem so much bigger than her small stature. My grandmother was a feisty woman with a large heart, and she spoiled her grandkids as much as possible.
It shouldn’t have been hard for me to sing the praises of the community of women who poured into me with love, courage, determination, and (when necessary) discipline to make sure I had everything I needed to succeed in a hostile world.
When I was in middle school, I remember one of my teachers telling me, “You have two strikes against you in society – you’re Black, and you’re a woman.” At the time, I had no clue what she meant. But as I got older, I realized she was telling me this to prepare me for the road ahead. Black is beautiful. Black is powerful. Black women are magical. But when the default is set to white and male, anything that deviates from the default is considered imperfect.
So, this love letter is dedicated to all the Black women who taught me how to walk the tightrope of being a Black woman in a world that despises my existence.
The world may not acknowledge the battles you faced and the struggles you endured, but I did, and I still do. As I watched you move through spaces that didn’t welcome you, I learned how to navigate this world as a strong, confident, unapologetically Black, Black woman. Through each of you, I learned how to hold my head high with grace and dignity. I learned how to love myself, with that love sometimes being an act of resistance against the world around me. I learned that I had the love and support of the women around me and protection from God and the ancestors guiding me every single day. And I learned how to share that love with those who needed it the most.
To me, these words I write don’t do justice to the things I learned from you, the love I received from you, and the support I feel from you even if you’re no longer here with me.
To my mom, my grandmothers, my aunts, my cousins, my play moms, and everyone else who laid a foundation for your children to build on, I love you. I am me because you were you. You are love, strength, and beauty. You are wit, grit, and determination. You are hope, healing, and peace. You are sass and class. You are sanctuary and solace. And I pray that my girls see the same things in me that I saw in each of you. Thank you.
Bio: Natonya Listach, Ph.D. Is an Assistant Professor at Middle Tennessee State University and the Assistant Director of their award-winning Speech and Debate Team. Her research interests focus on rhetoric, race, religion, and gender. In her free time (HA!), she enjoys practicing new ways to rest and relax.
My Students Refused to Let Me Cancel Class Last semester, in Fall 2024, I attempted to give students a “research day,” thinking they would appreciate the extra time to work independently. Instead of relief, my announcement was met with awkward hesitation. One student asked, “Can we still come to class if we want to?” Another added, “This is one of the few places where I actually get to talk to people. I’d rather still meet.” Their responses were a powerful reminder that, for many, the classroom is more than a space for lectures and exams—it’s a place of connection and community.
I quickly adjusted the plan, turning the day into an informal working session where students could brainstorm research ideas, ask questions, and collaborate in a low-pressure environment. The result was one of the most fulfilling sessions of the semester. Students worked in small groups, shared ideas, and were energized by simply being together. That day reinforced for me that teaching isn’t just about imparting knowledge; it’s about creating a space where students feel grounded, supported, and part of something larger than themselves. In a society increasingly defined by isolation, the classroom remains a vital place for human connection.
Storytelling Enriches Engagement
One of the most enriching pedagogical strategies I have embraced is storytelling. Storytelling offers students an opportunity to connect their personal experiences with course material, making learning more meaningful and relatable. For example, in my Gender and Society course, I ask students to reflect on at least three interesting concepts, ideas, or insights from the text and relate them to their own lives or something they’ve observed in society. One prompt invites students to recall specific incidents from their childhood or adolescence in which they learned what it meant to be masculine or feminine, a boy or a girl. They are encouraged to write a story or account of those moments, examining how they internalized gender roles. Another assignment asks students to analyze how gender is presented in popular media—like a movie, music video, or video game—and reflect on the gendered messages conveyed. These assignments are intentionally informal and unstructured to encourage freewriting and creativity.
In my Race and Ethnic Minorities course, I incorporate a photo essay assignment where students submit 3 to 5 original photos that reflect how their racial, ethnic, regional, national, and/or cultural identities are expressed in their daily lives. Each photo includes a brief caption (two to three sentences) explaining the image’s significance. As the first major assignment of the semester, this exercise is meant to encourage students to engage with the material in a deeply personal way. The goal is to foster self-reflection and help students make meaningful connections between their lived experiences and the concepts we explore in class.
Supporting Student Well-Being
Teaching with empathy in 2025 also means prioritizing student well-being in ways that go beyond academic achievement. The past few years have revealed the deep toll societal unrest, economic instability, and global crises have taken on students’ mental health. In response, I aim to cultivate a classroom culture that encourages self-care, compassion, and resilience. In practice, this involves offering flexible deadlines, allowing extensions when necessary, and providing mental health resources. I’ve also made mindfulness exercises a part of my teaching toolkit. This might include a brief moment of silence after an intense classroom discussion about the Battle of Wounded Knee or a freewriting exercise to help process lecture material on gentrification. These practices create space for students to engage with challenging topics without becoming overwhelmed.
I also integrate small group discussions to help encourage a sense of community and shared responsibility for learning. After a lecture, I often divide students into small groups to discuss and process key concepts, share their perspectives, and ask questions they might not feel comfortable posing in front of the whole class. For example, following a lecture on systemic racism, students might discuss in groups how historical inequalities manifest in their local communities or how these issues relate to the material covered. Overall, I aim to develop classroom practices that help students manage stress, regulate their emotions, and process the course content.
Communication as Connection
Finally, I cannot overstate the importance of clear and intentional communication in creating a stable classroom environment. Bi-weekly update emails act as consistent touchpoints, ensuring students have guidance on expectations, deadlines, and resources. In my online courses, I integrate “Reminders” pages at the start of each module to summarize essential tasks and deadlines. In my in-person classes, I display “Reminders” slides at the beginning of class. These practices help students manage their workload and hopefully reduce stress and anxiety.
Providing personalized feedback is central to my teaching philosophy, though it remains a challenge when teaching four or more classes with large enrollments. Fortunately, I have been able to rely on a graduate assistant to help alleviate the workload while still prioritizing my students’ growth. One student evaluation noted that I “do not just give feedback” but “engage with their thoughts,” adding that they “looked forward to writing papers” in my class. The student’s comment speaks to my efforts to demonstrate attentiveness to their ideas.
To Conclude…
Teaching with empathy in 2025 means fostering an environment where students feel seen, supported, and connected. My students have shown me that the classroom has the potential to be a sanctuary where a meaningful community can thrive. That “research day” I tried to cancel? It taught me that being present, offering support, and creating space for connection can be enough to foster learning. Those students turned out some phenomenal papers.
Bio
JoAnna Boudreaux is an Assistant Professor of Teaching and Internship Coordinator in the Department of Sociology at the University of Memphis. With a PhD in Communication Studies and a Master’s in Sociology, Dr. Boudreaux combines insights from both fields to develop her classroom strategies. Dr. Boudreaux is dedicated to promoting inclusive, supportive learning environments that encourage personal growth and meaningful academic inquiry. She teaches various courses including Race and Ethnic Minorities, Gender and Society, Marriage and Family, Medical Sociology, Social Theory, and Writing in Sociology.
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 13th 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 21st 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 20th century to now and beyond. To be clear, different historical contexts dictated the freedom strategies marginalized people employed. The late 19th 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 SisterOutsider (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:JournalofWomeninCultureandSociety 14, no. 4 (1989): 912-920.
4 Audre Lorde, “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action,” in SisterOutsider (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).
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.
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).
