“That sense of the sacredness of words, of writing, has been inside my mind, heart and imagination for such a long time.
I can no longer remember a world without words on the page calling me…No passion in my life has been as constant,
as true as this love”
– bell hooks
No truer words could have been said to describe my own journey as a Black girl with an affinity for reading and writing. I’ve known since childhood that my devotion to literature and writing was unique, and that my desire to put words to the stories that arose from my depths was a calling.
This yearning for storytelling and books was instilled by my third grade teacher, Ms. Coston, who read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to our class. From the moment I was introduced to the magical world of Narnia, my obsession with books ensued and my world was transformed. Every week, I anticipated the days we would go to the library and looked forward to earning money doing chores to buy books from the Scholastic Book Fair. I became engrossed in the world of stories, telling my mom about the characters in such detail she thought I was speaking of people I knew personally.
Frequent trips to the mall resulted in me begging to be left in Walden Bookstore, where there was a reading nook set up in the Children’s and Young Adult section. This space became my haven and escape from the world. My mother would return to find me demanding she purchase the book I had become engrossed in while she shopped. I now realize I was actively practicing escapism through the realm of literature. “Escapist literature” references fiction that provides a psychological escape from the depressing and grave realities of everyday life, transporting readers to an imaginary world. While I had an enjoyable childhood, I found the worlds created within books to be vastly more interesting than my day-to-day and was fascinated that someone could create a world with words.
The point of contention for my taste for books was when I was caught staying up late to read in the bathroom, or when my teacher informed my mom that I hid books in my textbook to read during class. While my parents reprimanded me, they couldn’t be too upset. As I matriculated throughout my formative years of education, I read at a more advanced level than most children my age. Some of my favorite female authors were Judy Blume, Ann M. Martin, and Francine Pascal. At the time, there was no convincing me that these women weren’t the best writers in the world, delivering notable books such as Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, The Baby-Sitters Club series, and the YA series Sweet Valley High.
But, even then, I wondered why the protagonists were all white, except for Jessie from The Baby-Sitters Club series, whose experience was marked by the isolation of being the only Black girl in a group of white counterparts. While I enjoyed the stories, the characters didn’t offer anything I could directly connect with. I questioned Jessie’s sense of belonging in a group of girls in which no one looked like her, and the main storylines never featured her character alone. Questions arose within me:
Do Black girls’ stories not matter?
Why does a Black girl have to be a secondary character?
Why can’t we have stories where we are the main character?
At the time, I wasn’t fully aware of the implications of my questions, but they reflected an early awareness that most spaces, even in literature, center whiteness. In those moments of yearning, I made a commitment: one day, I would write stories that represented Black girls and their lives. I wanted to read a character who reflected my lived Black girlhood experiences and nuances.
The first book that provided this representation was Flyy Girl by Omar Tyree. While it wasn’t written by a Black woman writer, the coming-of-age story of Tracy Ellison spoke to my teenage soul. The influence of this character propelled me to find other books in which the main character was a Black girl. Glory Edim summarizes it perfectly, “Yes, the practice itself is riveting—it’s always been that way for me. I continued to read more and more stories, and, growing up, I developed an unrelenting trust in my authors. The sentences offered satisfaction and a newfound sense of awareness. The worlds they created allowed me to look for parallels in my own life. With every book I read by a Black woman, I attempted to fully acknowledge my own triumphs, fears, and pain, without reservation.”
Soon, I discovered Winter in The Coldest Winter Ever by Sister Souljah, Payton Skyy in the Payton Skyy series by Stephanie Perry Moore, and Janie in Zora Neale Hurston’s classic Their Eyes Were Watching God. The list continued to expand. Reading works by Black women, for Black women, awakened a commitment to writing. I realized that if these women could write about Black girlhood and womanhood, I could too; I could follow in their footsteps and create literary spaces for Black women and girls, knowing our stories matter.
This knowing and my passion for writing manifested first in the sacredness of a diary.
I was introduced to the practice of keeping a diary, or journaling, from the hit sitcom, “Moesha,” starring the gregarious 90s R&B singer Brandy. Each episode would begin and conclude with her writing in her diary—a perfect form of self-therapy for the angst of my teen years.
My first diary was pink patent leather with a key lock on the outside. I remember loving the motion of unlocking the diary every night to write down my innermost thoughts. A secret to myself and with myself. I found my voice there. Initially, the voice was poetic, as if I intended to be the next Maya Angelou or Nikki Giovanni. These women are living legends; I’ve only had the pleasure of meeting one of them.
My adoration for poetry became my catalyst for joining the literary magazine in middle school. I would write poetry about anything. I vividly remember being mortified when my eighth grade teacher, Ms. Henry, confiscated a poem I wrote about my crush and informed me I would need to speak with her after class. This ironically turned out to be painless. We made an agreement that she would allow me to write, only if I completed my class assignments first. Ms. Henry encouraged my dreams of being a writer daily, and at the conclusion of eighth grade wrote a heartfelt message in my yearbook:
To a wonderful person whom I see as a daughter. I am proud of you.
You are going to be very successful. Keep your strong outlook about yourself and life.
Do not allow anyone to stand in your way. Remember to always keep a good attitude and it will take you a long way.
Keep up with all of your poems and when you complete your first book, I want one!!”
This note would stick with me through my high school years and later guide me to another teacher who impacted my literary journey: Alyssa Montooth, eccentric and brilliant, who would open my mind to literature and expand my diction, resulting in me becoming a wordsmith. Through Ms. Montooth’s instruction in my Advanced Literature and AP English classes, I wrote my first essay, “Self-Actualization of Janie Crawford in Their Eyes Were Watching God.” She praised my writing and convinced me to consider majoring in English. Ironically, Ms. Montooth wasn’t a Black woman, but everything she taught me about writing stuck with me throughout college, and often when I had subpar professors who projected their biases on to Black girls who wrote well, I would miss her greatly.
In the English 1101 course I took in the predominantly white institution I attended for the first two years of my undergraduate career, my professor gave me a failing grade on an assignment. She had asked us to write a personal narrative about transitioning from high school to college; I wrote about being a first-generation college student and the weight it carried. Her feedback obliterated my belief in my writing abilities; she believed I should have chosen a better topic and grading was at the instructor’s discretion. I struggled significantly in this course and, even when I tried my hardest, I came up short with this instructor.
Although it may not have been her intent, I felt that my stories and narrative didn’t hold value, leading me to sense that if I wanted to write, my work would be measured by standards of whiteness. The irony of the educational system lies in the emphasis on becoming educated; but when Black and brown girls seek to further our education, we repeatedly encounter barriers and messages that we aren’t good enough. This impacts our sense of belonging, resulting in the internalization of the belief that we are unworthy of influencing spaces in which we wish to exist, specifically in English departments where aspiring writers are held to the standards put in place by white predecessors.
Ultimately, I learned that if I wanted to write I would be subject to a maxim that I write according to the tastes of those who lack understanding of my personal and cultural plight. Thankfully, this notion would shift as I progressed through my undergraduate career.
In my junior year, the lack of exposure to Black writers—specifically Black women writers—began to change.
Through serendipity, I discovered the English department had a new minor in African American Studies. With zeal, and to the disdain of my parents, I extended my undergraduate career by one semester to pursue the minor, and it didn’t disappoint. Dr. LaJuan Simpson, an audacious Black woman and an alumna of Fisk University, shaped and expanded my mind, introducing me to the world of Black literature across the diaspora.
I learned about the Harlem Renaissance, a prominent cultural and intellectual revival of African American music, dance, art, fashion, theater, and most importantly literature from the 1920s-30s. I encountered the work of Nella Larsen, Alice Dunbar-Nelson, Georgia Douglas Johnson, and a multitude of unapologetic Black women writers.
After completing my B.A., I headed to graduate school. I soon lost touch with my first love, encumbered by the day-to-day of adulting life; however, when something is your passion, it never leaves you alone. My passion would later be revived, and propel me in an unexpected direction, leading me toward the realization of a lifelong dream.
Working with young adults on a college campus, particularly young Black women, impacted me in a way I didn’t anticipate. I always knew I wanted to influence women; however, I didn’t know what that would look like.
In 2014, after attending executive board meetings for two of the Black female student organizations I advised, God revived my desire to write a fictional book for young adults, specifically a book series. It took me five years to complete, and I attribute the length of the process to a major life transition that took me from Georgia to Kansas.
When I moved to pursue a career opportunity, I had fifty pages. At the end of 2017, I had more than 120 pages, and in 2018, I self-published the first installment in the four-book series. Phases chronicles the journey of four college freshmen through their undergraduate experience. It generated a total sale of 100 books, and although this wasn’t 10 million, selling one copy would have been enough. This was the actualization of my childhood dream.
Self-publishing my first book transformed the way I viewed myself as a writer. Soon, several experiences led me to think even more deeply about who I wanted to be as a writer, and I began to seek out opportunities that would allow me to hone my voice. At the end of 2018, I applied to be a contributing writer for The Pedestal Project, an online space dedicated to uplifting Black women through restoration, validation, and affirmation founded by Tekita Bankhead, a brilliant and prolific Black woman. Writing for this platform awakened and validated the knowing I’d had since I was a little girl—that I was called to write, but more specifically, to write for Black women.
My first Pedestal post, “I’m Super but Not Superhuman: Giving Yourself Grace as a Black Woman,” debuted on March 19, 2019. The feedback from this post was resounding, and the outpouring of Black women who identidied with the “Superwoman Syndrome” assured me that my voice mattered. The elevation of my writing had a domino effect: more opportunities to put my writing into the world. I was named Assistant Editor for the Pedestal Project, assisting a team of 14 Black women writers in tapping into their voices and editing their work. The ability to serve in this capacity has brought an abundance of joy and solidified my sense that I am a fearless and proud advocate. Our experiences deserve the same space, acknowledgment, and recognition as our white female counterparts.
The Pedestal Project manifested into my life at a time when I was praying to reconnect with my devotion to the craft of writing. It provided the space and safety to write without inhibitions and be affirmed. I am proud of my work through the Pedestal Project, but one post, in particular, can, I believe, bring about a movement that will change the narrative for Black women writers.
During an extensive period of writer’s block, the passing of Toni Morrison rocked my world.
In my reflection on Morrison’s passing, I wrote my thoughts in a post titled, “Write On, Black Girl!” In the piece, I quote her: “Being a black woman writer is not a shallow place but a rich place to write from. It doesn’t limit my imagination; it expands it. It’s richer than being a white male writer because I know more, and I’ve experienced more” (Morrison 2003).
Historically, Black women have persisted in creating space for ourselves, fighting against systematic barriers discrediting our experiences and knowledge. The irony is that through this resistance, we have found the value of our experiences and shared them through storytelling. Our experiences hold depth. By internalizing the magical place we internally hold, we empower ourselves to dismantle the entire system of gatekeepers, push past limitations, and prevail.
From Morrison’s words came the inspiration for my poem, “Write On, Black Girl!”:
“Although you don’t see yourself now, if you keep writing one day, you will.
Don’t write for yourself, write for the generations after you.
Write for the little black girl who desperately wants a character that reflects her soul.
Write for the little black girls whose stories have gone untold.
Standards? They don’t exist because when black girls write, they are limitless.
There is power in your voice; they know this too.
Write on black girl, never let them silence you.
Our stories are complex and multifaceted, with grace and grit.
All black girl’s matter: all stories will fit.
Write, write on, write now; there is power in your voice; they know this too.
Write on, Black Girl! Never let them silence you.
Write On!”
While preparing for my close girlfriend’s nuptials in December 2019, I audibly heard God tell me “Write On, Black Girl!” would be more than a poem; it would become a brand.
There are moments in life when you think: Am I going crazy? Did I really hear God speak to me? and the answer is often yes, especially if you believe in a higher power. As a Black woman writer, I understand the power that amplifies my voice; writing is my superpower. The craft and art of writing for Black women has always been an act of resistance, given both the lack of exposure for Black women writers and our significant contributions to the literary realm.
I have made it my mission to increase the awareness of Black women writers’ voices across binaries. Where the world desires to silence Black women, I seek the amplification and power of Black women’s voices, stories, and experiences. The mission of Write On, Black Girl is to amplify the voices of Black women who write while aiming to elevate and honor Black women writers by affirming Black women’s storytelling, creativity, and influence. As the little Black girl who sat in the back of the bookstore, who dreamed of writing one day, it is the legacy of writing and Black womanhood I fervently hope to leave to future generations of Black women and girls.
At the beginning of 2020, no one could have predicted that the year of perfect vision would become one of global pandemic, nor did I yet know I would go back to school to pursue another degree. Entering the University of Nebraska-Omaha Master of Fine Arts program was an unexpected venture, but after the dream God gave me about my writing, I made the final decision to apply just a week before the application deadline, and the rest is history. I can confidently and transparently say that entering this Program is one of the best decisions I made for myself. It has given me the structure and intentionality I needed to write even more, but most importantly, it has driven the fervency behind writing one of the best characters I’ve ever imagined, inspired by Toni Morrison’s fearless character, Sula.
Amiya Johnson, the protagonist of my novel-in-progress SEEN, is audacious, emotionally intelligent, and multilayered in her quest for holistic fulfillment. In the novel’s prologue, we see Amiya celebrating her 30th birthday and receiving the career opportunity of her “dreams.” Five years later, Amiya reflects on the experience of invisibility as a Black woman, beginning the reader’s journey as she disrupts the societal norms, labels, and expectations that are placed upon her, and ultimately finds liberation by choosing herself and putting herself first. Black women aren’t always given the space to choose; and while Amiya knows who she is, the spaces she occupies cause her to question herself. As she grows more into her consciousness as a Black woman, Amiya courageously dismantles the image of what society has deemed a Black woman to be, unpacking and challenging her workspace, familial relationships, and upbringing. Similar, to Sula, Amiya finds refuge and safety among the Black female friendships in her life, thus exploring Black sisterhood and showing how Black women survive. Amiya Johnson represents the Black woman everywhere, navigating our Black girl Magic even in a world that loves us conveniently, still trying to silence us and thwart our unapologetic efforts to be not only heard but also seen in our fullness. SEEN is the story of the radical transformation of a Black woman discovering her authentic self.
It is my greatest hope that my work can embody the profound words of author, Rebecca Walker: “I hope my readers see themselves in my writing and feel less alone. I hope each of my books creates a point of connection for people who may not have found one another otherwise. I hope my work is catalytic and inspires readers to reflect deeply on their experience, and in turn, live with greater self-awareness and courage. At the end of the day, the job of the Black woman writer is the same as the work of the well-read Black girl. We are to be curious and determined, committed to life and all its many permutations. We are to look to the words of our sisters for knowledge and uplift, camaraderie, and support. We are to seek beauty and find ourselves. We are to live and tell the story.”
From the heart of a Black girl reading and writing in Black girl writing solidarity, it’s equally important to have a critical understanding of the history from which you write. Indeed, an essential component of becoming and growing into your gift of storytelling begins with having the context of the generations of Black women writers who laid the foundation. Black girls and women have persisted in rewriting the narrative of Black women and girls’ experiences.
************
Are you a writer? We’re looking for short stories and personal essays to feature on our digital and print platforms. Click HERE to find out how to submit.
