BLACK WOMEN MATTER
Today is Juneteeth, a celebration of emancipation of Black lives from slavery in 1865. As we have seen, heard and learned these last many weeks--Black lives have not been truly free.
So much of the positive work that’s been done in the last few weeks are just baby steps--long overdue corrections in a system that affords privileges to some people, to me and perhaps to you--that aren’t afforded to our black brothers and sisters. And it’s wrong.
WE ARE ALL BORN EQUAL
I have been thinking a lot the last few days especially about Black women--both about how much strength is required to be a Black woman in this world (historically, and still today), and also about how much I have learned from the Black women in my own world. How much I have been loved by them. How much sisterhood I’ve been granted, whether I deserved it, or not. And though many of these women know of their importance to me personally, I’ve also been thinking about why I haven’t spoken more about them in the spaces I control—and by not doing so, I’ve unintentionally silenced their vital role in my own story. So today, that changes.
Throughout my entire life, Black women have taught me how to speak proudly and openly about my faith. From Black women, I learned self-love, body confidence--not to wish myself to be smaller but to stand in my strength, to love and honor my body. It is from a Black woman--a beloved college professor--that I learned to love newspapers and reporting, telling hard stories, pushing myself out from behind the desk and into the field to get closer to the truth. And that same Black woman is one of the only professors who continued to check in with me for years and years after I graduated. Early in my career, it was a Black woman (an amazing chef, editor and now friend) who gave me my first recipe byline straight out of culinary school, and the tough love I’d need to survive in this field. And it was a Black woman who coached me to keep my hand steady, my spirits up and my head down, working side-by-side in an exacting French kitchen.
It was Black women--mother’s and daughters, sisters and friends--along with my pastor’s wife-- who gave me a family every Sunday morning on 103rd street, when I was young and single and living in New York City, halfway across the country from my own family. It was a group of Black women--strangers and at once, friends-- who prayed with me in the greenroom before my first big television opportunity without batting an eye--and stayed after their own segment to wrap me in hugs when it was through.
Black women have shown up for my book signings, first in line with their spunky, beautiful daughters or their poised, elegant mother’s and listened to my stories, bought my books, cooked my recipes and told their friends about my work. It was a Black woman who rubbed my back and my feet in my lonely, early days of motherhood, a woman who knew parts of my heart I hadn’t then shared with anyone. And it was a Black woman--my beautiful midwife--who became my physical and emotional pillar, holding my body, ladling warm water over my skin and speaking words of strength and love as I brought my son into this world.
You may not see these women, but they have been here all along.
Only now do I see the harm in not celebrating them more loudly, of not reminding myself, and telling you on a regular basis--that I’m everything I am because of the love and support of many, many women—women of all all faiths, all shades, and all colors.
I’m truly honored to have the permission to share these images of another beautiful Black women—a woman I cherish, respect and am learning from every day. Her name is Bri and her work is stunning, and moving. Her photos remind me daily of the women who have loved me, pushed me, challenged me, strengthened me, and why I’m committed to showing up for them, and for their children, too.
Brit reminds me of the mother I strive to be. She holds herself in truth and love. She is at once power and vulnerability. She is beauty and she is poetry. She is Black and she is beautiful, inside and out.
Thank you, Bri, for allowing me to share your work. And thank you to Gina, Cheryl, Ghaya, Kamilah, Courtney, Tabitha, Tamara, Sabine and so many others for your quiet, powerful love. I value you, and I honor you today.
Now —and ALWAYS—is the time to celebrate Black women, Black mothers and Black lives. Please join me.
FOUR MEANINGFUL WAYS TO SUPPORT BLACK LIVES TODAY:
TELL YOUR STORIES.: WHO ARE THE BLACK WOMEN, MEN, CHILDREN, ELDERS IN YOUR LIFE AND IN YOUR COMMUNITY WHO HAVE TOUCHED YOU, TAUGHT YOU, HELPED YOU, SUPPORTED YOU OR YOUR BUSINESS, SHOWN UP FOR YOU IN YOUR NEED. SPEAK ABOUT THEM, SHARE--MAKE SURE THEY ARE SEEN.
DONATE: IN THE U.S, BLACK WOMEN ARE 3 X MORE LIKELY TO DIE OF PREGNANCY OR CHILDBIRTH-RELATED DEATHS THAN WHITE WOMEN. IT IS THE MISSION OF EVERY MOTHER COUNTS TO MAKE PREGNANCY AND CHILDBIRTH SAFE FOR EVERY MOTHER, EVERY WHERE. DONATE, HERE.
BUY: TODAY, PLEASE CONSIDER SUPPORTING TWO BLACK AUTHORS BY BUYING A BOOK OF YOUR CHOICE (PREFERABLY FROM A BLACK-OWNED BOOKSELLER). MY CURRENT PICKS ARE: TASTING ROME, CO-AUTHORED BY AUTHOR KRISTINA GILL, AND WOMAN OF COLOR, AUTHORED BY LATONYA YVETTE
SUPPORT: LEAVE A PUBLIC POSITIVE REVIEW OR COMMENT FOR A BLACK AUTHOR, BLACK-OWNED BUSINESS, BLACK PROFESSIONAL WHOSE WORK YOU LOVE. NOW TAKE IT ONE STEP FURTHER, BUYING OR RECOMMENDING THEIR WORK FOR A WHITE FRIEND OR FAMILY MEMBER IN YOUR LIFE, OR SOMEONE WHO HAS THE POWER TO PUBLISH, SUPPORT, SHARE OR AMPLIFY THAT PERSON’S WORK ON A LARGER SCALE.