There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal". - Toni Morrison

4.21.26

Letting My Light Shine: The Uncompromising Voice

Rhetorical Power and Shared Vision Between Fannie Lou Hamer and Malcolm X

The oratory of the Black freedom struggle comes out of a long line of people who refused to be quiet about injustice. From the spirituals sung in fields to the stories passed down in kitchens and church pews, Black speech has always carried both survival and resistance inside it. When people like Frederick Douglass and Sojourner Truth stepped onto public stages, they did not invent something new. They amplified what their communities had already been saying for generations. They used humor, sharp truth, and personal testimony to show the country exactly where its ideals fell short.

The Black Church shaped much of this tradition. It was a place where people learned how to speak with conviction, how to hold an audience, and how to mix scripture with everyday life. The rhythms of sermons, the call and response, and the music shaped the voices of countless leaders. Both Malcolm X and Fannie Lou Hamer came out of this world, even though their paths looked very different.

Read more at What Makes African American Oratory So Strong?

Malcolm’s speaking style grew from a mix of intense self-education, early exposure to Black preaching, and an instinct for reading a room. In prison, he copied the dictionary word-for-word, partly out of discipline and partly because he wanted to master language itself. He read everything he could get his hands on, including history, religion, and philosophy, and that gave him a deep well to draw from when he spoke. Alex Haley, who worked closely with him, once said Malcolm’s speaking style was a kind of jazz. Haley meant that Malcolm could improvise, shift tone, and adjust rhythm depending on the audience. He noticed that Malcolm could sense a crowd the way a musician senses pitch. If the room was tense, Malcolm would start slow and measured. If the room was ready to move, he would build the energy until people were practically leaning forward in their seats.

Malcolm often began with calm, almost conversational statements. He might say, “I am not here to condemn America. I am here to tell the truth,” and then slowly tighten the argument until the room was humming with recognition. He used humor, stories, and sharp metaphors to make complicated ideas feel simple and urgent. NPR’s analysis of his speaking style points out how precise he was. He did not waste words. He paused at just the right moment, letting silence do some of the work. And he always spoke in plain language. He wanted people to understand him, not admire his vocabulary.

Fannie Lou Hamer’s voice came from a different place, but it carried the same kind of power. She grew up in a family where faith, music, and community were woven into everyday life. Her father, James Townsend, was not a formal pastor, but he acted like one in the way he guided his family through prayer, song, and a deep sense of dignity. Hamer inherited that. Her speeches sound like someone telling the truth straight from the heart, without worrying about polish or performance. She did not try to sound like a politician. She sounded like someone who had lived the things she was talking about.

Her style blended storytelling, scripture, and the kind of plainspoken wisdom that comes from hard experience. When she testified at the 1964 Democratic National Convention and said, “All of this is on account of we want to register, to become first-class citizens,” she was not performing. She was bearing witness. And when she sang “This Little Light of Mine” in jail or at mass meetings, it was not just music. It was a way of steadying herself and everyone around her. Scholars sometimes call her approach sweat and blood rhetoric because her words carried the weight of everything she had survived.

What is especially striking is how much Hamer admired Malcolm X. In Keisha N. Blain’s work, Hamer says Malcolm was “one of the greatest men I had ever met in my life,” and she loved him because “he told exactly how every Negro in this country feels and did not have the guts to say it.” She recognized in him a kind of fearless honesty that matched her own. And Malcolm respected her just as deeply.

When they appeared together at the Williams Institutional CME Church in Harlem in December 1964, their voices worked together in a way that felt almost theatrical. Hamer would speak first, grounding the room with her testimony, her pain, her courage, and her unwavering faith. She might say, “You can pray until you faint, but if you do not get up and try to do something, God is not going to put it in your lap.” That kind of line hit people in the chest. Malcolm would follow, picking up the emotional energy she created and weaving it into a broader political argument. He did not overshadow her. He built on her. Her stories gave his analysis a human anchor. His analysis gave her stories a political frame.

Malcolm often played off Hamer’s presence. If she had just described being beaten in jail, he would step up and say something like, “What happened to this sister is not an accident. It is part of a system.” He used her testimony as evidence, as a grounding, as a way to make his critique feel immediate and undeniable. Together, they created a kind of duet. Her voice rose from the soil of lived experience. His cut through the air with sharp clarity.

Their styles were different, but they shared the same core. They refused to compromise with injustice. Hamer spoke with the authority of someone who had endured the worst and still believed in freedom. Malcolm spoke with the precision of someone who had studied the world and refused to accept its excuses. Both believed that words could move people. Both believed that telling the truth out loud was a form of liberation. And both understood that when spoken at the right moment, in the right room, a single sentence could change the direction of a movement.

Works Cited

Blain, Keisha N. “Sweat and Blood: Fannie Lou Hamer and the Transformative Power of Black Women’s Political Leadership.” National Endowment for the Humanities. https://www.neh.gov/article/sweat-and-blood-fannie-lou-hamer

“Malcolm X’s Public Speaking Power.” NPR Code Switch. https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2015/02/21/387979086/malcolm-xs-public-speaking-power

Ohio State University. Malcolm X: Rhetorical Study. https://etd.ohiolink.edu/acprod/odb_etd/ws/send_file/send?accession=osu1392312654&disposition=inline

“I Hate Presentations: Malcolm X Presentation Technique.” https://www.ihatepresentations.com/malcolm-x-presentation-technique/

Young Scholars in Writing. “Rhetorical Analysis of Malcolm X.” https://youngscholarsinwriting.org/index.php/ysiw/article/download/173/173/

University of Montana. “Testimony, Truth, and Fannie Lou Hamer.” https://scholarworks.umt.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1033&context=utpp

JSTOR. Studies in African American Oratory. https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt6wrspx

Civil Rights Movement Archive. “Malcolm X and Fannie Lou Hamer Speak in Harlem.” https://www.crmvet.org/info/64harlem.htm

U.S. National Archives. “Fannie Lou Hamer Testimony.” https://www.archives.gov/milestone-documents/fannie-lou-hamer-testimony

SNCC Digital Gateway. “Biography: Fannie Lou Hamer.” https://snccdigital.org/people/fannie-lou-hamer/

4.14.26

The Work of Caring for the Self

“Revolution begins with the self, in the self.” - Toni Cade Bambara

Caring for myself is not something I squeeze in after the work is done. It is the work. As a holistic Black woman moving through a world that constantly asks for more, more labor, more brilliance, more patience, more resilience, I have learned that tending to my body, my spirit, and my environment is the only way I can keep showing up with intention.

A clean house, an organized closet, a room where everything has a place, these are not small tasks. They are acts of grounding. When my space is clear, my mind unclenches. When my home feels tended to, I feel tended to. There is a direct line between the state of my environment and the state of my spirit. Clean house, clean mind.

Let me be the first one to tell you…I am not consistent. I am not perfect. I am often a mess.

My body carries every audition, every grant panel deadline, every production meeting, every family need, every friend who calls, every dog walk, every prayer, every dream. I am in perimenopause, and it is showing up everywhere. I feel fatigue, sleeplessness, joint pain, itchy ears, a frozen shoulder, and strange symptoms that seem to appear out of nowhere. I know I am not alone. Black women often enter perimenopause earlier, experience more intense symptoms, and are less likely to receive adequate care or information. Many of us are navigating this transition while carrying full plates and full histories.

“Healing is not a destination. It is a daily practice.” - alex elle

So I start my mornings with intention. I stretch. I open my windows. I massage my legs and feet. I play with my dog. I light incense and walk through my home. I get on my treadmill. I read. I make breakfast and lunch. I brew my pour over coffee. I pray. I engage in devotional. I take a spiritual shower. I pray again. These rituals are not indulgences. They are survival. They are ways of clearing my fascia, as my line sister Brandi says, and clearing my lymphatic system. They are ways of telling my body that I see it, I honor it, and I am listening.

I am in a role where taking time off feels almost impossible, not because my generous boss denies it, but because I feel such a deep conviction to be present for everyone. I watch colleagues Zoom in from home or take a day or a week away, and I am genuinely glad they can (I try to squeeze in a at home morning zoom if I just can’t pull it together.). But after working seven days straight, when I finally try to rest or travel to care for family, the questions still come, the emails still land, and people still ask for my ETA. It is never malicious, just a lack of awareness that I too need time. So I carve it out where I can. I come in late on purpose so I can ease into the day because I know exactly what my job demands and I know that between 2:30 and 4:30 something will always erupt. (This is a privilege and a blessing, I know.) My energy will spike, my blood pressure will rise, and I need space to prepare for that. I also need real time off where I do not look at an email or answer a call. My friends and colleagues know not to contact me between 6 and 9 in the morning. I do not start work until 10 and I end at 6 (unless its tech, previews or an event which can take me to 10 pm). Even in theater, you do not own me at every hour of the day. I have had actors, employees, and community partners demand something urgent from me at all times, but I am learning to say no. Leave me alone and go care for yourselves. We all deserve rest.

“You are not a machine. Stop acting like one.” - Tricia Hersey

Michelle E. Lee reminds us in Working the Roots that healing is a return to what our grandmothers already knew. African American herbalism teaches that the body and spirit are intertwined, that wellness is communal, and that tending to ourselves is a way of tending to our lineage. Queen Afua’s work echoes this truth and teaches that caring for the body is a pathway to clarity, purpose, and liberation. And bell hooks, in Sisters of the Yam, offers a line that stays with me. She writes that choosing wellness is an act of political resistance. For Black women, caring for the body is a refusal to be consumed.

Community is part of this care as well. Being in Black community is one of the most nourishing experiences I know. This past weekend at KC Melting Pot Theatre, surrounded by love, laughter, talent, and deep respect, I felt held. I felt connected. I felt restored. We need each other. We thrive in each other’s presence. Healing does not happen in isolation.

“Healing is an act of communion.” - bell hooks

I have also been paying attention to my sleep, especially because perimenopause touches everything, heart rate, blood pressure, rest, mood. My smartwatch and smart ring help me track what my body is trying to tell me. Last night was awful, but even that is information. Even that is a reminder to slow down, breathe, and recalibrate.

“Rest is a form of resistance.” - Tricia Hersey

In a world where Black women are scrutinized for every decision, inside and outside of work, caring for my body becomes a shield. Lowering my stress becomes a strategy for survival. I cannot show up for my colleagues, my employees, my family, or myself if I am not tending to my own well being first.

Health of the body is the gateway to the wealth of life. Not only financial wealth, but the wealth of joy, clarity, creativity, connection, and peace. The wealth of waking up and feeling like myself. The wealth of having enough energy to dream. The wealth of moving through the world with intention rather than depletion.

Caring for myself is sacred. It is ancestral. It is necessary. It is the work that allows all other work to happen.

Morning Blessing for Black Women

May this morning meet me gently.
May I remember that my body is sacred, my time is valuable, and my spirit is worthy of tenderness.
May I release the belief that I must earn rest or prove my worth through exhaustion.
May I honor the truth that caring for myself is not abandonment of others, but devotion to my own life.
May I move today with intention, not urgency.
May I trust that what is meant for me will not require my depletion.
May I feel protected, guided, and grounded in the knowledge that I deserve ease, softness, and joy.

Affirmation

I am allowed to rest.
I am allowed to pause.
I am allowed to choose myself.
My care is necessary.
My boundaries are holy.
My wellness is my birthright.
I move through this day nourished, whole, and unapologetically cared for.

4.2.26

Letting My Light Shine: The Work Before the Work

I am in early prep for Fannie: The Music and Life of Fannie Lou Hamer, and the amount of planning required before we ever step into a rehearsal room is immense. I’ve begun sending ideas about my creative team to the production manager, who approves and sends offers, which gives me a sense of forward motion. The position of musical director remains unresolved. One person declined immediately, and the other is extremely busy and needs to see the music before making a decision. The challenge is that although we have the rights to the show, we are still waiting on the rights to the orchestrations and arrangements. My general manager is working tirelessly to move that forward, and I am watching that process closely because so much depends on it. At the same time, I have to practice patience because we have three shows and a cabaret before my show even comes...and right now we have just begun the final show of the season. The wait is nice because I can observe how my boss, as an artistic director, transitions into a director with a very large team and cast. Who he depends on, how he gives notes, and how he uplifts the musical director and associate director in their roles. 

There are many roles still to fill. I need a local Black female costume designer (I have one in mind). I would love a woman because we are working with a plus-size Black woman's body, and I don't trust a white person with no reference to Black bodies and culture to do it. I also need a projection designer (local or out of town), a local sound designer, a confirmed lighting designer, and a local scenic designer. KCRep always balances local and out‑of‑town artists, but we prioritize investing in our community. I believe I had room for two out‑of‑town designers and three local ones, but most of my team will be local, which I appreciate. Because my show is next year, we have to plan the productions before mine. As a producer with a long list of responsibilities, I want to finalize as much as possible before the season begins.

The Chicago EPA audition breakdown has gone out, which is wonderful (shout out to my casting director), and I already have a sense of which local artists I want to see for Fannie here in Kansas City, MO. This is not a one‑person show with musicians. It is a four-person show, with three actor-musicians and one woman who carries the majority of the storytelling. I also need to secure understudies early, which adds another layer of planning. Some shows have gone the actor-musician route for their musicians, and some have gone the musician route. Unions for actors and musicians complicate the process. We aim to secure leads by late September. During that time, I will need to lead produce a show that none of my staff wanted to work on due to the impact the director had on them and everyone. Unfortunately. This director can stress you out, and I have two shows to direct next year, and I can't be stressed out prepping for this show and a show in the community. 

To manage the scale of work on this show, I created a director's workstream that carries me from now through opening. It begins with building a strong dramaturgical foundation. I am preparing a Director’s Brief that outlines the central thesis, tone, musical dramaturgy, and the audience’s journey. I am also putting together a context packet that includes information about Fannie Lou Hamer, the connections between SNCC and SCLC, the geography of Mississippi, the history of Freedom Summer, and the traditions of civil rights hymnody. Luckily, I have an associate director to help me do these tasks. I am also developing a text table that clarifies Fannie's journey, the narrative beats, and the transitions and design elements. All of this work also depends on confirming the music as well and understanding the role the music director will play, including whether the band is stationary or gets to move. I am certain that I did not hire or allocate a budget for a choreographer for this show. 

As we move from preliminary work into the next phase, the focus shifts to locking in conceptual choices. I will be able to have my design meetings with my design team, which is the most exciting. By late October, we aim to have all design materials ready for production. The most important aspect, besides having a successful show, is having a positive rapport with everyone. No one has seen me direct, so I have worked to prove myself as a producer and build relationships across departments. The hardest being...production. Man, that is a bunch of majority white folx that will let you have it in a meeting and won't care. I have had to really share how feedback spaces can be harmful to Black women and people of color because production understands their trauma, but does not always understand trauma from anyone else's experience. So my strategy is to have a strong creative team that understands my language of love and compassion and has a high level of combatting anti-Blackness and white supremacy. This creative team will work with the production team to convey that same understanding. I will also meet with production directors to understand their needs, how they communicate, the best way for me to bring good energy as they navigate the process, and how the production management team can assist with that. 

The hardest part of this process is switching between producing and directing. One moment I am negotiating budgets, the next I am imagining blocking, the next I am planning community partnerships, and then I am back to long-term strategy. If I want to be an artistic director, and I do, I have to learn how to balance time, life, producing, directing, managing, and planning for the future. It is part of the job, and it is part of the growth.

This show is a challenge in many ways. It is a touring, small-cast, actor-musician piece, mostly led by one woman. It needs to hold both the hyperrealism of the mainstage production and the simplicity required for community spaces. And it is scheduled for winter, during Black History Month, when our KCRep for All shows historically do not reach goal. The last show was only down by two hundred dollars, which is remarkable, but we are competing with other Black History Month programming. I hope Marketing supports this vital show after a challenging fall, following Christmas Carol, and while preparing for a gala and a visiting artistic director.  How do I show that I am equally important? This show is vital. Highlighting the first Black female artistic director to be on staff is important. Fannie's legacy in our KCMO community is so important. 

My director of arts engagement and I need to strategize how to gather the materials we need to publicize a show that touches so many parts of Black life, from farming to Black women’s health, community organizing, Delta Sigma Theta, church traditions, music, politics, voting, healthcare, and education. Partnerships are another major component of this early phase. I am working with my Director of Arts Engagement to identify local Black organizations, voting rights groups, churches, community leaders, and beyond who can help us build meaningful engagement around the production. 

Every week, I try to make progress. Some days, it feels like I'm facing insurmountable challenges and questions with great patience. I still remember the day two white women directors sat me down in a restaurant and told me everything they thought I didn’t know. They projected their insecurities and shortcomings onto me because I had called out their contradictions and harmful behavior. But I am still here. They did not break me. They cannot.

I often contemplate the young girl I once was, with short hair in high school, directing her first one‑act play that won the competition and earned her science and engineering department their letterman jackets. That girl had a dream, and I am still living it.

I will make it. I will create a strong, meaningful production. And I will honor Fannie Lou Hamer every step of the way.

3.23.26

3.12.26

Letting My Light Shine: Beginning My Journey with FANNIE

There are moments in life that feel like both a beginning and a culmination, like stepping into a doorway your ancestors built long before you ever knew you would walk through it. Today, I get to celebrate one of those moments.

Next season, I will be directing my first regional theatre production, FANNIE: THE MUSIC AND LIFE OF FANNIE LOU HAMER at Kansas City Repertory Theatre. And with that, I become the first Black woman in sixty one years of this institution’s history to direct on staff.

That is not a small thing.

That is not a coincidence.

That is not something I take lightly.

It is a privilege I earned, one I am ready for, and one I intend to honor with everything I have.

Carrying My Lineage Into the Room

As I step into this process, I feel my grandmother, Vassie Lee Jackson, walking with me. I feel my great grandmother, a sharecropper like Fannie Lou Hamer’s parents and like Fannie herself, standing behind me. I think about the gospel songs my grandmother sang, the way the Word lived in her bones, the way she carried faith like breath.

She reminds me of Fannie in so many ways.

Her strength. Her clarity. Her refusal to shrink.

The first song I ever learned in church was “This Little Light of Mine.” My grandmother’s voice is still in my ear when I think of it. And of course, that song is rooted in Matthew 5, where Jesus says:

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works.”  

Matthew 5:16

This directing journey is my light.

And I am ready to let it shine.

A Year of Process, Transparency, and Truth

I do not direct this show until next January, and it will premiere on the Copaken Stage in February during Black History Month before traveling throughout the community on our KCRep for All tour, much like Fannie herself traveled to bring truth to the people.

I want to use this year to document everything.

My research on Fannie Lou Hamer.

My artistic process.

The heady moments.

The joyful ones.

The disappointments.

The questions.

The discoveries.

The parts of directing people rarely talk about.

I want to demystify what it means to direct at this level.

I want to teach.

I want to share.

I want to be open to questions.

I want to grow.

A Journey to Mississippi: Research, Roots, and Reverence

Part of this process includes a dream I am speaking into existence.

I want to secure a research grant to travel to Mississippi.

I want to walk where Fannie walked.

I want to visit her museum and her statue.

I want to sit in the churches where voices still rise in the same spiritual tradition that shaped her.

I want to listen to the dialect, the cadence, the breath of the region.

I want to meet the people who carry her memory in their stories.

I want to do deep dramaturgy work that honors her truth, not just her legend.

This is not just research. It is pilgrimage.

It is returning to the soil that shaped so many of our foremothers.

It is honoring my own lineage while learning more about hers.

Learning From What I Have Witnessed

Recently, I was part of a production process where the director, though talented, caused harm through distrust, anxiety, and clear colorism against both actors and staff. It was painful to witness darker skinned actors being treated as outsiders and to see staff members navigating the impact of that bias. It made me reflect deeply on the kind of leader I want to be and the kind of room I want to build.

My boss praised her work and the fact that he did not give notes, which if I am honest gave me some anxiety about stepping into the same slot next season. But my friend Bree reminded me of something essential.

The ancestors are present.

This work is protected.

I do not have to prove myself.

And she is right.

I am walking into this with clarity, humility, and a whole lot of purpose.

This year, I am unpacking who I am now and who I am becoming as a director.

About the Play: FANNIE THE MUSIC AND LIFE OF FANNIE LOU HAMER

About the Play

Written by Cheryl L. West, a celebrated playwright known for centering Black women’s voices.

A one woman musical blending storytelling, speeches, and spirituals.

A celebration of Fannie Lou Hamer’s activism during the Civil Rights Movement, especially her work with the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.

Includes iconic songs such as

“This Little Light of Mine”

“On My Way to Freedom Land”

“Wade in the Water”

“Precious Lord, Take My Hand”

About Fannie Lou Hamer

Born in 1917 in Montgomery County, Mississippi, the youngest of twenty children.

Worked as a sharecropper from age six.

Became a civil rights activist after learning she had the right to vote at age forty four.

Survived brutal beatings, threats, and systemic violence while fighting for Black voting rights.

Co founded the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party.

Delivered her famous testimony at the 1964 Democratic National Convention.

Known for her powerful singing voice, which she used to steady activists during marches and arrests.

Her most famous quote:

“I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

Bible Verses Connected to Fannie Lou Hamer

Fannie’s activism was deeply rooted in scripture. Verses often associated with her include

Psalm 27:1

“The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear.”

Galatians 6:9

“Let us not be weary in well doing.”

James 2:17

“Faith without works is dead.”

Isaiah 58:6

“Is not this the fast that I choose, to loose the chains of injustice.”

Matthew 5:14 to 16

“You are the light of the world. Let your light so shine.”

3.2.26

Falling In Love With The Music That Raised Me

Music raised me in ways I didn’t fully understand until I got older. And honestly, it started with my brother Keiv. He was the one blasting hip-hop in his car. Das EFX. Onyx. De La Soul. Tribe Called Quest. Gang Starr (and reggae). He didn’t just play music. He lived it. His rap name was Mad-X. And because I was the little sister, always listening from the back seat, I lived it too.

By the time I got to high school and college, my world opened up even more. Erykah Badu. J Dilla. Mos Def. Talib Kweli. Bilal. Common. Stones Throw. The Roots. All those artists shaped the way I saw myself. The way I loved. The way I dreamed. I fell in love with J. Dilla's Donuts in college, and it felt like someone had cracked open my chest and rearranged my heartbeat. Dilla became a language for me. A way of feeling things I didn’t have words for yet.

And the funny thing is, my brother and J. Dilla share the same last name. Yancey. So when I named my main character Yancey, it wasn’t just a nod to Dilla. It was a nod to my brother, too. The two Yanceys who shaped my ear without ever meeting. The two Yanceys who taught me how to listen.

This story came from all of that. From being a Black girl who grew up on hip hop and soul and funk, and whatever else felt like truth at the time. From wanting to birth a daughter I never got to have, so I created Naima. She carries pieces of me. Pieces of the women I admire. Pieces of the radicalness, softness, and creativity I wanted to pass down. I'm a Pisces, but Naima... Naima is a Leo, like my mom. Lol, and Yancey, he's definitely a Cancer, like my brother. 

And then there’s "One Eleven." That beat holds a special place in my heart. It’s the kind of track that feels like a doorway into a love story I never got to live. The kind of love that feels like a monumental moment. A moment you didn’t expect but can’t forget. I wanted to birth that love story on the page. I wanted to give myself the romance I didn’t get in real life. Something tender. Something rooted in music. Something that feels like two people finding each other through the soundtracks that shaped them. I started writing this story on Valentine's Day, and I finished it on my birthday. I needed this story to come out. I needed the music to be played. 

The characters talk the way people in my life talk. The way music lovers talk when they’re trying to out‑nerd each other, but also low‑key flirt. And one of my favorite scenes between Yancey and Naima captures that perfectly.

Here’s a little taste:

YANCEY

…You again.

NAIMA

Don’t sound so excited.

I came to see if Pleasure is finally available or if you’re still hiding it in the “I swear it’s somewhere” section.

Yancey folds his arms.

YANCEY

I know exactly where it is.

NAIMA

Uh huh.

Like you knew yesterday.

YANCEY

I didn't know yesterday.

I just

I was reorganizing.

NAIMA

You were drowning. In that filing system you made up.

She walks past him, scanning the shelves with the confidence of someone who’s been crate digging since birth.

NAIMA

Something tells me… you know music, but you don’t know music.

YANCEY

What does that even mean?

NAIMA

It means you know the history, the facts, and the liner notes, but not the vibe.

I know the pulse.

I know the stuff that makes people move.

YANCEY

I make people move. Do you not hear this right now?!

NAIMA

You make people… nod politely.

Yancey squints. 

YANCEY 

You're really disrespectful to someone who wants a record. 

NAIMA 

I’m honest. 

YANCEY 

I hope you’re not that honest with your clientele at that brunch spot you DJ’d. ’Cause folks eating shrimp and grits don’t deserve emotional violence at 11:00 am. 

Naima smirks, hands on her hips. 

NAIMA 

Please. If they can’t handle honesty, they can’t handle bottomless mimosas. And trust, I had that whole patio lifted. 

YANCEY 

Lifted how? Like… "two-step and sway” lifted or “call your ex from the parking lot” lifted. 

NAIMA 

Both. I took ’em on a journey. Started ’em gentle with some Faz‑O “Riding High,” you know, ease ’em into the day. 

YANCEY 

You’re welcome, by the way, but continue. 

NAIMA 

Alright. Alright. Thank you for the recommendation in place of what I was promised. So anyways. Then I hit ’em with Bootsy Collins because brunch needs bass. Slid into Sylvia Striplin so the aunties could close their eyes and remember who they used to be. 

Yancey raises an eyebrow. 

YANCEY 

Okay, that’s a strong start. 

NAIMA 

Oh, I wasn’t done. I dropped Ohio Players Ecstasy and watched three couples reconsider their marriages. Then Midnight Star, Curious, because curiosity is free with the purchase of a waffle. Loose Ends for the cool kids. Little Beaver for the real ones. The Blackbyrds are for the ones who pretend they know music. And Leon Haywood for the sinners. 

Yancey tries not to smile. 

YANCEY 

You…you played all that at brunch? 

NAIMA 

Absolutely. If your DJ ain’t giving you a mild identity crisis with your chicken and waffles, they’re not doing their job. 

Yancey shakes his head, impressed despite himself. 

YANCEY 

You’re chaotic. 

NAIMA 

I’m effective. 

YANCEY 

Alright, alright. You got jokes. But since my set is apparently “polite nod” music…what exactly do you think I’m playing in here all day? 

Naima folds her arms, eyebrow raised. 

NAIMA 

Yeah. Enlighten me, Professor Vinyl. 

Yancey steps forward like he’s about to deliver a sermon. 

YANCEY 

First of all—Slick Rick. Because storytelling is a lost art, and somebody’s gotta keep the youth educated. 

NAIMA 

Mmm. Respect. 

YANCEY 

Then Dilla. Always Dilla. Sometimes, Common, if I’m feeling sentimental. Digable Planets, when I want the air to get…cool. smiles Slum Village because rhythm is a religion. De La Soul, because joy is necessary. And all the Soulquarians. Badu, Common, The Roots, and D’Angelo, because that’s the foundation. That’s the soil. That’s the reason this store even exists. And Black Star, because somebody’s gotta keep the revolution on vinyl. 

Naima whistles low, impressed despite herself. 

NAIMA 

Okay… okay. You got a respectable rotation. 

YANCEY 

“Respectable”? That’s all I get? 

NAIMA 

I mean, it’s cute. Very “I curate playlists for my houseplants” energy. 

Yancey blinks. 

YANCEY 

Houseplants? 

NAIMA 

Yeah. Mmhmm. You give “I light incense before I press play.” 

YANCEY 

Everybody lights incense before D’Angelo. That’s cultural. 

And it just keeps going. Two people who love music in completely different ways. Two people who challenge each other. Two people who see the world through rhythm and basslines and memories tied to songs.

As a Pisces, I live in stories. I live in feelings. I live in the little details most people skip over. This project is me sharing the music that raised me and the pieces of myself that grew up with it. I don’t want to give away too much because I want people to experience it fresh. But I do want folks to feel the heart behind it. The joy. The softness. The humor. The nostalgia. The Yancey of it all. Both of them. This play may never see the light of day, but it's been conceived, birthed, and it's a breathing document filled with love. 

If you want to read the full play, just reach out. I love sharing my work with people who love music the way I do.

2.23.26

41: The Year I Rise Back Into Myself 

Today is my birthday. February 23. I am 41 years old, and the numbers are speaking to me in a language my spirit understands. Two plus three is five, and four plus one is five. Five is the number of change, movement, freedom, and spiritual transformation. Five arrives when you are finally ready to release what has been weighing you down. Five is the shift you feel in your bones before the world catches up.

This year is my Personal Year 8, a year of power, authority, self-possession, and stepping fully into my own light. It is the year of reclaiming what was taken, restoring what was broken, and rising into a new level of confidence and clarity. Personal Year 8 is the moment you stop shrinking. It is the moment you stop apologizing for your intuition, your voice, your boundaries, and your brilliance. It is the moment you understand that your life is not something you endure but something you shape.

As a Pisces, the omega, the last sign, the deep feeler, and the deep seer, I am honoring the truth of how I move through the world. I feel deeply. I see deeply. I carry the emotional and spiritual intelligence of someone who has lived many lives in one lifetime. This birthday arrives after a year of moving, paranoia, surviving violence, enduring microaggressions, carrying body pain, and being separated from my family. A year that asked too much of me and still expected me to smile. A year that tried to take my softness but could not take my spirit.

So today, I am resting. I am remembering Tricia Hersey’s wisdom that rest is a portal to freedom, a refusal to be consumed, a declaration that my body is not a machine. I am in ritual and self-care, healing my nervous system with the tenderness Alice Walker reminds us we deserve. I am choosing slowness. I am choosing breath. I am choosing myself.

I am sitting in Good Karma in Kansas City, surrounded by Black and Brown women, writing from a place that feels like a balm. A reminder that community is medicine. A reminder that even when I am far from my loved ones, I am not unloved. I feel held. I feel witnessed. I feel the quiet hum of sisterhood around me.

I feel moved to create again. To care for myself again. To love again. Despite everything I have survived over the past three years, I feel the clouds beginning to part. I feel the light shifting. I feel a new era rising in me, an anointing, a change, a soft rebirth. I feel the universe rearranging itself to make room for the woman I am becoming.

Forty-one feels like a threshold. And I am stepping through it with gratitude, with clarity, and with a heart ready for whatever blessings are waiting on the other side.

2.22.26

This Week Was Not a Good Week for White Women

A reflection on microaggressions, survival, and the sacredness of Black womanhood

There are weeks when the world feels heavy in a familiar way. A weight Black women know too well. A weight that sits on the chest, behind the eyes, and in the back of the throat. A weight that is not new but still manages to surprise you with its persistence.

This week was one of those weeks.

It was not a good week for white women, or rather, it was not a good week for the version of white womanhood that believes it has the right to touch, to interrupt, to correct, to police, and to soothe itself through the bodies and boundaries of Black women.

It was a week of hands where they did not belong.

A week of voices cutting across mine.

A week of entitlement dressed up as concern.

A week of “fix your face,” “relax,” “smile,” and “calm down.”

A week that reminded me of Fannie Lou Hamer’s words:

“I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

Because I am.

The Hair Touching

One white woman reached out and touched my coworker’s dreadlocks, moving them aside like curtains so she could read the front of her sweatshirt. No permission. No pause. No awareness that Black hair is not public property.

Audre Lorde once wrote:

“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house."

And yet, here we are, still being handled like objects inside a house we never built.

The Jealous Interruption

Another white woman at a dinner grew jealous when I shared my experience with her husband and a donor. She inserted herself into the conversation, rushed us out, and stared me down when I answered a question about my own background. And she expects to be welcomed back to work with us again. 

Toni Morrison said:

“The function of racism is distraction."

And that’s exactly what it felt like: a derailment, a policing of space, a reminder that some people believe Black women should shrink so they can feel expansive.

The Touching of My Face — My Temple — My Third Eye

But the moment that broke me open was the last one.

I was mid‑sentence, giving direction to my Black female employee, while another employee and a local entertainer were performing at our season announcement. A white woman approached me, uninvited, and told me to “fix my face.” She rubbed my back aggressively and told me to relax, to calm down, and to smile. Then she pressed her fingers into my temple, my third eye—because she said I was “making frown lines.”

My third eye.

My pineal gland.

The seat of intuition, clarity, and ancestral knowing.

There are places on the body that are sacred.

There are places where energy gathers, where spirit listens, and where the self is most vulnerable.

No one has the right to touch that without consent.

In many spiritual traditions, the third eye is the gateway to inner vision. When someone touches it without permission, they disrupt your grounding, your clarity, and your energetic protection. And she did that to me moments before I had to go onstage and speak.

The Microaggressions That Are Not “Micro”

Interrupting Black women.

Touching our hair.

Touching our bodies.

Telling us to smile.

Telling us to relax.

Correcting our tone.

Policing our expressions.

Ignoring our accomplishments.

Centering their comfort over our humanity.

These are not small things.

These are not misunderstandings.

These are not harmless.

They are microaggressions, daily acts of racialized control that accumulate like sediment in the body. They are part of a long history of white women weaponizing fragility, entitlement, and proximity to power against Black women.

bell hooks wrote:

“White women have not been innocent of the politics of domination.”

And this week, that truth was loud.

The Erasure

After I was announced as a director for a show, several white women did not congratulate me. They did not acknowledge the work. They did not see me. Instead, they asked logistical questions, suggested “better Black musicals,” or indirectly told me the only good shows were the ones I wasn’t directing.

This is how erasure works, not always through violence, but through silence, through selective attention, and through the refusal to recognize Black women’s brilliance.

The Breaking Point

I cried in a bathroom stall for ten minutes after the event.

Not because I am weak.

Not because I am unprofessional.

But because I am human.

Because the accumulation of these moments, these touches, these interruptions, and these dismissals is exhausting. Because Black women in nonprofits, in the arts, in leadership, and in America are carrying too much.

Cleansing the Third Eye and the Nervous System

When someone violates your energetic space, especially your third eye, you have to cleanse.

Some ways to clear the energy:

• Warm compress over the forehead to soothe the pineal region

• Breathwork: slow inhales through the nose, long exhales through the mouth

• Visualization: imagine indigo light swirling at the center of your forehead

• Salt baths to release energetic residue

• Journaling to reclaim your narrative

• Grounding: feet on earth, palms open

• Affirmations: “My intuition is mine. My clarity is mine. My spirit is mine.”

Your nervous system deserves rest.

Your spirit deserves protection.

Your body deserves consent.

Surviving White Womanhood

This is not a blog about hating white women.

This is a blog about surviving the version of white womanhood that harms, the version that centers itself, that polices, that touches without asking, that interrupts, that dismisses, and that assumes ownership of space and bodies.

It is a call for accountability.

It is a call for awareness.

It is a call for boundaries.

And it is a reminder that Black women are still here, still leading, still creating, still loving, still rising — even when the world tries to shrink us.

As Fannie Lou Hamer said, and as I feel in my bones:

“I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

But I am also still standing.

Still speaking.

Still surviving.

Still sacred.

And that, too, is a kind of victory.

Today is 2/22, and I’m choosing to see 222 as a soft place to land after a hard week, a number that reminds me to return to balance, to breathe, and to trust that my spirit is still aligned even when the world feels unkind. Spiritually, 222 is a symbol of restoration and inner harmony, a quiet affirmation that I am supported, guided, and held as I heal from the microaggressions and boundary violations that tried to shake me. On a day shaped by twos, I’m leaning into the message of partnership with myself, my intuition, my body, and my third eye, and letting 222 be a reminder that my clarity is still mine, my energy is still sacred, and my healing is still unfolding in its own divine rhythm.

2.16.26

Dreaming Bigger: Returning to School as a Black Woman Leader in the Arts

For as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of earning my doctorate, not in a casual way, but in the way you hold onto a vision that feels like part of your identity. It is a dream that follows me, nudges me, and reminds me that I am not finished growing. Many Black women know this feeling well. We carry ambition in our bones, and education often becomes one of the ways we honor that ambition.

Black women return to school for many reasons. Some of us want the credentials that open doors that are too often closed to us. Some of us want to increase our earning potential in fields that undervalue our labor. Some of us want to pivot careers or expand our leadership opportunities. Some of us want to fulfill dreams our mothers and grandmothers never had the chance to pursue. And some of us want to be taken seriously in rooms that question our presence.

Therapy for Black Girls has a powerful conversation about this very topic.

Watch here: Therapy for Black Girls – Going Back to School

The Application That Went Nowhere

A few years ago, before I moved to Missouri, I applied to a virtual doctoral program in Texas. I completed every requirement, submitted every document, and met every deadline. Yet somehow, the program still lost my materials. It was frustrating, disappointing, and unfortunately familiar. Black women often do everything right and still find themselves navigating obstacles that should not exist.

That experience did not stop my dream. It simply made me more intentional about finding a program that respects my time, my labor, and my goals. Now that I am rooted in Kansas and Missouri, established in my job, and clearer about what I want, I am searching for a doctoral program that fits my life. Ideally, one that is low cost or fully funded, and ideally one that supports working professionals who are already leading.

My Friend Who Inspires Me

My best friend Chioma is a huge part of why I am still pursuing this dream. She is in her second year of a virtual doctoral program that is much like what I would like to study, the area of Leadership and Organizational Innovation at Marymount, and watching her grow has been expansive for me. She is a source of insight, encouragement, and love. She shares what she is learning, she helps me see what is possible, and she reminds me that I am capable of more than I sometimes allow myself to believe. Her journey does not make me feel behind. It makes me feel supported, inspired, and deeply connected to my own purpose. She is proof that Black women can build the futures we imagine.

Programs That Fit My Goals

Here are strong, reputable, and affordable options in organizational leadership, change management, and related fields. These programs align with my goals as a working arts leader.

Regional and Affordable Options

• Rockhurst University offers a fully online Ed.D. in Education and Leadership with an Organizational Leadership concentration.

• University of Kansas (KU): Ed.D in Educational Leadership and Policy

• University of Missouri–Kansas City (UMKC): Ph.D. in Organizational Leadership or Ed.D in Higher Education

• Kansas State University: Ph.D. in Leadership Communication

• Baker University: Ed.D in Instructional Design and Performance Technology

• Indiana Wesleyan University: Ph.D in Organizational Leadership

• University of Southern California (USC): Ed.D in Organizational Change and Leadership

• Vanderbilt University: Ed.D in Leadership and Learning in Organizations

Fully Funded or Mostly Funded Options

• University of Kansas: Ph.D. in Theatre and Performance Studies

• University of Missouri: Ph.D. in Organizational Communication

• Arizona State University: Ph.D. in Organizational Leadership

• University of Colorado Denver: Ph.D. in Education and Leadership

How to Earn a Doctorate for Free

Many doctoral programs, especially Ph.D. programs, can be fully funded. Here are the most common pathways.

Graduate Assistantships

Free tuition plus a stipend in exchange for teaching, research, or administrative work.

Research Fellowships

Competitive awards that cover tuition and provide living support.

Employer Tuition Benefits

Some nonprofits offer small but meaningful tuition support. Even $1,000–$3,000 per year can make a difference.

Federal and State Grants

Especially for education, leadership, and public‑service‑aligned degrees.

Scholarships for Black Women

UNCF, AAUW, National Coalition of 100 Black Women, and P.E.O. International all offer doctoral funding.

Funded Ph.D Programs

Most Ph.D programs in communication, leadership, and performance studies are fully funded by default.

Scholarships for Women in Operational Leadership and Organizational Change

These scholarships support women in leadership, management, and organizational development, even outside traditional MBA tracks.

• P.E.O. International Scholar Awards: Supports women pursuing doctoral degrees.

• Educational Foundation for Women in Accounting (EFWA): Supports women in leadership roles related to finance and operations.

• Forté Foundation Fellowships: Supports women in management and leadership programs.

• Google Women Techmakers Scholarship: Supports women studying systems, innovation, and organizational change.

Funding Support for Women in Nonprofit Leadership

Working in a nonprofit arts institution is meaningful, but it comes with limitations. Mid‑level managers often face lower salaries, limited professional development budgets, and fewer tuition reimbursement opportunities. Still, there are funding sources specifically for nonprofit leaders.

• Nonprofit Leadership Alliance Scholarships: Supports nonprofit professionals pursuing leadership degrees.

• Association for Fundraising Professionals (AFP) Scholarships: Supports leadership development and graduate study.

• American Express Leadership Academy: Provides leadership training and sometimes tuition support.

• National Arts Strategies (NAS) Leadership Programs: Offers fellowships and tuition‑supported leadership training for arts professionals.

• Local Arts Councils: Many city and state arts councils offer professional development grants that can be applied toward tuition.

Being a Black Woman in Artistic Leadership

As a Black woman in artistic leadership, currently serving as an Associate Artistic Director with experience as a Managing Director, I understand the complexity of navigating this field. I have led organizations, managed budgets, produced seasons, and shaped artistic vision. I have done the work. Yet the arts world often evaluates leadership through a mix of experience, relationships, and unspoken biases.

People ask how long you have been directing, how many seasons you have curated, how many large‑scale budgets you have managed, and how many productions you have shepherded. They also consider how well you are connected to the right arts leaders, which can be one of the hardest barriers to break.

And beneath all of that is the question Black women constantly feel: Who takes us seriously without credentials, and who takes us seriously even with them?

This is why my dream matters. Not because a doctorate will magically open every door, but because it will give me the strategy, language, research grounding, and institutional legitimacy that Black women are too often denied. I am already doing the work of an Artistic Director. I am already leading. I am already shaping culture. And I am blessed to have an Artistic Director who sees me as enough, deserving, and worthy of learning. That kind of support is rare, especially from someone who is not male-identifying and not Black. I do not take that for granted.

Supporting the Next Generation of Black Women Leaders

If we want more Black women to rise in artistic leadership and organizational leadership, we must create structures that support them.

• Mentorship that advocates, not just advises  

• Black women need mentors who speak our names in rooms we are not in.

• Access to funding and tuition support  

• Scholarships, fellowships, and tuition benefits should be actively shared with Black women.

• Transparent leadership pathways  

• Clear expectations and clear opportunities help Black women advance without guesswork.

• Inclusive networks  

• Black women should not have to fight for access to artistic or nonprofit leadership circles.

• Workplace safety and affirmation  

• Black women deserve environments that value our ambition, creativity, and leadership style.

• Celebration of Black women’s leadership  

• Our collaborative, visionary, community-centered leadership should be recognized as an asset.

Your Dream Is Not Random. It Is Alignment.

This dream is not a whim. It is a calling. You are meant to lead at a higher level. You are meant to shape institutions, not just work within them. You are meant to be an Artistic Director, and you are already walking in that direction.

If you want help comparing programs, preparing applications, or exploring funding options, I can support you.

2.14.26

Valentine’s Day: A Love Letter to Myself

Today is Valentine’s Day, and for the first time in a long while, it feels gentle. It feels like a day I can sit with myself and feel something other than the old ache that used to rise every year. I have lived through so many Valentine’s Days marked by sadness and pain, so many seasons where the world seemed to be celebrating love while I was just trying to make it through the day. But this year, I get to enjoy myself, and that is a victory I do not take lightly.

These past three years have been some of the hardest I have ever known. I have survived horrific situations, moments that shook me to my core, and responsibilities that stretched me beyond what I thought I could handle. I have dealt with money struggles, emotional storms, and the relentless weight of adulting. Yet somehow, I kept going. I kept choosing myself even when life felt unkind.

And through it all, I was surrounded by love. Not the romantic kind, but the kind that shows up in people who hold space for you, who remind you of your worth, and who see you clearly even when you feel invisible. That love helped me find my way back to myself. It even brought me back to writing.

I have been listening to Gloria Ann Taylor and Dionne Warwick almost nonstop. Gloria’s “Love Is a Hurting Thing” has been echoing through my days. Her voice, her story, and the way she sings from a place of phantom yearning speak to something deep in me. That yearning, that ache, that longing for something tender and true, has always lived inside me. And somehow, hearing her makes me feel less alone in it.

That music has opened a door back into my creative world. I am writing again, not just here on this blog but in the theater world that has always felt like home. I am writing a love story, a true one, built on one of my favorite beats. It feels good to birth a story about people I have always dreamed of meeting and moments I have always hoped to experience. Maybe I will never live those scenes in real life, but I get to dream them into existence. I get to create the love I have longed for.

There is something beautiful about that. Love for self and love for life often begin in the imagination, in the willingness to believe that joy is possible, that healing is real, and that we are worthy of softness even after everything we have endured.

Today, I honor all that I have been through. I honor everything I have overcome. I honor the version of me who kept going when it felt impossible. And I honor the love I have learned to give myself, the kind that stays steady even when the world feels uncertain.

Acceptance is a kind of love. Contentment is a kind of love. Understanding that life will unfold as it will, and that we get to dream and create and hope through it, is a kind of love, too.

So this Valentine’s Day, I am celebrating myself. My survival. My strength. My softness. My creativity. My heart. And the truth is that even after everything, I still choose love, especially the kind that begins within.

2.9.26

Harriet Walks Through Time. Black Magical Realism, Afrofuturism, and the Spirit of Storytelling

When I listened to Bob the Drag Queen’s Harriet Tubman: Live in Concert: A Novel, it felt like stepping into a space that was familiar and glowing at the same time. A space that reminded me of shea butter on warm skin and the steady comfort of woodsmoke and river water. A space where the ancestors don’t feel far away at all. They lean in close and say, "Baby, we’ve been waiting for you to pay attention." Bob’s Harriet isn’t frozen in history or trapped in a textbook. She feels alive. She laughs. She teases. She looks you in the eye and asks why you still question your own strength. She drinks hot, scalding coffee out of a tin cup. Listening to this book felt like sitting with my cousins, mom, aunts, uncles, and grandmother. People who are wise and funny and people who tell the truth without flinching and remind you that the path to liberation is long, but it doesn’t have to be joyless.

There is something so tender and so necessary about the way Bob holds Harriet. You can feel the research humming underneath the humor. The military strategist. The spy. The conductor. The woman who lived with disability and vision and divine instruction. Bob honors all of that. He honors her by letting her be human and cosmic at the same time. That is the heart of Black magical realism. That is the pulse of Afrofuturism. We tell the truth by bending time. We heal by letting the past speak in the present tense.

And woven through her story is another thread Bob pulls forward with care, the story of William Dorsey Swann, the first self‑proclaimed drag queen in the United States. Bob uses Swann’s life to talk about queer Black existence as something ancient and ongoing, something that has always imagined itself into the future even when the world tried to erase it. In Bob’s hands, queer identity becomes a kind of Afrofuturism, a way of loving and living that refuses to be bound by the limits of the past.

Bob has said he wants this work to become a musical one day. He has already imagined the songs. Already dreamed the harmonies. That dream matters. Black artists have always had to build our own stages when the world refused to open its doors. We have always carved out our own spaces to grow our ideas, even when no one welcomed us. Bob is part of a long lineage of Black playwrights and storytellers who have used theatre to unpack our trauma and transform it into something sacred.

• Suzan-Lori Parks bending time until history cracks open.

• August Wilson calling forth the City of Bones.

• Marita Bonner conjuring allegory to name the unnameable.

• Branden Jacobs-Jenkins peeling back the mask of American theatre to expose the plantation underneath.

Some of these works live in magical realism. Some in surrealism. Some in hyperrealism. All of them are portals. All of them are ways of remembering who we were and imagining who we might become. That is the work. That is the calling. That is the gift.

Mini Lesson

Magical Realism, Hyperrealism, and Liberation in Three Plays

Vocabulary 

Liberation: The ongoing process of freeing ourselves from systems, beliefs, and histories that limit our bodies, spirits, and imaginations. Liberation includes political freedom, emotional healing, ancestral release, and the ability to imagine a life beyond survival. It is living with dignity, possibility, and self‑determination.

Hyperrealism: A style of storytelling that shows life with such sharp detail that it becomes almost overwhelming. Hyperrealism exposes truth by refusing to soften anything. It highlights the grit, humor, contradictions, and everyday textures of life so clearly that the audience cannot look away.

Surrealism: A creative style that blends the real world with the dream world. Surrealism allows the unconscious mind to speak and lets impossible things happen to reveal deeper truths. It is not meant to be logical. It is meant to be emotionally honest. It reflects how memory, trauma, and imagination can bend reality.

Afrofuturism: An artistic and cultural movement that imagines Black people in the future and reclaims our place in time. Afrofuturism blends science fiction, technology, spirituality, and African diasporic history to create new possibilities for Black life. It is liberation through imagination and the belief that we can build worlds where we thrive.

Magical Realism: A storytelling style where the magical and the ordinary exist side by side without question. The supernatural is treated as natural. Ancestors may appear in everyday spaces. Objects may hold spiritual memory. Magical realism reflects cultures where spirituality and daily life are intertwined and uses wonder to tell the truth.

Plays

• Gem of the Ocean by August Wilson

• The Purple Flower by Marita Bonner

• An Octoroon by Branden Jacobs-Jenkins

Historical Context

• Gem of the Ocean was written in 2003 but set in 1904, a moment when the wounds of slavery were still fresh and the promises of freedom were fragile.

• The Purple Flower was written in 1928 during the Harlem Renaissance, a time when Black artists were naming the ongoing violence of Jim Crow.

• An Octoroon was written in 2014 but reaches back to an 1859 melodrama, exposing how American theatre itself was shaped by slavery.

Magical Realism and Hyperrealism

• Gem of the Ocean uses magical realism to create the City of Bones, a place where the Middle Passage becomes a living memory.

• The Purple Flower uses surreal allegory to show how oppression mutates across generations.

• An Octoroon uses hyperrealism and meta-theatrical surrealism to reveal the artificiality of racist narratives.

Afrofuturism and Liberation

• All three plays bend time.

• All three plays speak to ancestors.

• All three plays imagine liberation beyond the limits of the present moment.

• This is Afrofuturism.

• This is Black survival.

• This is the work of dreaming forward.

Activity

Compare and contrast how Gem of the Ocean, The Purple Flower, and An Octoroon each imagine liberation. How does the way time bends in these plays shape the characters’ relationships to their ancestors and each other, and how does each playwright use those relationships to show what freedom might look like for Black people across different eras.

Journal Prompts

• What does liberation look like in your own lineage

• Where do you feel the presence of your ancestors in your daily life

• How does magical realism help you tell the truth

• What stories from your family deserve a stage

U.S. Black Playwrights and Their Plays About Slavery, Enslaved Ancestors, or Abolition

Marita Bonner

The Purple Flower: An allegorical and dreamlike drama where Black people, called Us, struggle against Them, a white ruling class. The play is a meditation on the afterlife of slavery and the long road toward liberation. Bonner uses surreal imagery to reveal truths that realism cannot hold.

Suzan-Lori Parks

Father Comes Home From the Wars (Parts 1, 2 & 3): A Civil War epic following an enslaved man forced to fight for the Confederacy. Parks explores freedom, loyalty, and the contradictions of emancipation.

The America Play: A surreal excavation of American memory. Parks fractures time to expose how Black people have been erased from the nation’s story and how the wounds of slavery echo through generations.

August Wilson

Gem of the Ocean: A spiritual journey to the City of Bones, a realm built from the souls of Africans lost in the Middle Passage. Wilson blends realism with ancestral magic to confront historical trauma.

The Piano Lesson: A family debates whether to sell a piano carved with the faces of their enslaved ancestors. The play explores inheritance, memory, and the cost of forgetting.

Joe Turner’s Come and Gone: Set after Reconstruction, the story centers on characters shaped by forced labor and captivity. Wilson explores the spiritual scars left by enslavement.

Jackie Sibblies Drury

We Are Proud to Present…  A meta-theatrical piece about actors attempting to stage a genocide in colonial Namibia. Drury interrogates colonial enslavement, ancestral trauma, and the ethics of representation.

Branden Jacobs-Jenkins

An Octoroon: A radical adaptation of an 1859 melodrama about plantation life. Jacobs-Jenkins exposes the racist theatrical traditions that shaped American storytelling.  (I actually performed as...well,, guess who..in this show in Texas.)

Appropriate: A white Southern family discovers artifacts tied to slavery. The play excavates buried violence and the refusal to confront ancestral wrongdoing.

Pearl Cleage

Flyin’ West: Set after emancipation, the play follows Black women homesteaders whose lives are shaped by the trauma of slavery and the threat of returning to oppressive conditions.

Keith Josef Adkins

Safe House: Set in 1843 Kentucky, the play explores the precarious lives of free Black people under laws shaped by slavery. Themes include surveillance, captivity, and ancestral fear.

Liza Jessie Peterson

The Peculiar Patriot: Draws a direct line between slavery and mass incarceration, framing prisons as a modern extension of enslavement.

Aishah Rahman

The Mojo and the Sayso: While centered on police violence, the play incorporates ancestral presence and historical trauma rooted in slavery.

Nathan Alan Davis

Nat Turner in Jerusalem: A two-character drama imagining Nat Turner’s final night in jail after leading a slave rebellion. The play examines abolition, resistance, and the moral weight of revolt.

Karen Jones Meadows

Harriet’s Return: A one-woman play about Harriet Tubman’s life, abolitionist work, and the spiritual and ancestral forces that guided her.

Ty Jones

Emancipation: A retelling of the Civil War and the fight for freedom from the perspective of enslaved and newly freed Black people.

2.2.26

This Month and All 365

Celebrating Black History Month.
This month and all 365.

I am so proud. So deeply happy to be Black.
To wake up every day as a Black woman.

The daughter of Rhonda J. Wilborn.
The granddaughter of Vassie Lee Jackson.
The great granddaughter of Beulah Rogers McKissic.

Whew.
What a lineage. What a blessing. What a becoming.

As I look around, I see my signed copy of The Autobiography of Angela Davis, and I am carried back to the moment I stood with Dr. Angela Davis, talking with her and relishing our conversation as she shared stories of her friendship with Toni Morrison. Living history breathing right in front of me.

I see my stacks of plays by August Wilson, Cheryl L. West, Sandra Seaton, Soul Rep Theatre, and so many beyond resting on my bookshelves and desks like ancestors on watch. I think about Langston Hughes’ birthday, celebrated at the very start of Black History Month, and his legacy of beautiful poems and plays. I think about Mule Bone and his collaboration with Zora Neale Hurston. I think about her devotion to the study of Negro life. Rural life. Language. Hoodoo. The sacred ordinary.

My eyes land on African American Herbalism and Working the Roots, and I smile, remembering how my mama taught me to work the root with simple, everyday remedies. Wisdom, I later heard, echoed in The Conjuring of America. The knowing travels. The medicine stays.

I laugh as I think about the videos and posts I watched of Lauryn Hill and Raphael Saadiq honoring D’Angelo and Roberta Flack. I giggle at myself and my complete devotion, my joyful infatuation with Shirley Chisholm. I own pillows, postcards, sweatshirts, and coffee cups with her likeness. Reminders everywhere of what it means to be unbought and unbossed.

I think of my sorors of Alpha Kappa Alpha then, now, and forever.
I think about how for twenty years theatre has been my Black job. My calling. My labor of love. My offering to the culture.

I think about how today I will read adrienne maree brown’s words for my book study at work, letting her guide me back to emergence and care. I think about how I will sing out loud to Erykah Badu and Jill Scott on the drive to the office. I think about the jokes my cousins and close friends send that make me cackle in group chats and DMs.

I think about memory.
I think about history.

I remember the words of June Jordan, bell hooks, Alice Walker, and Dr. Maya Angelou and how their truths live in my body, not just my mind. I remember the call to rest guided by Octavia Raheem and Bishop Tricia Hersey. I quiet my mind listening to Affirmations for Black Women and GirlTrek podcasts, letting myself be held by voices that understand.

My list goes on.
Because my pride runs deep.

My love for Black people is eternal.

It is what guides me as a woman, an artist, a caretaker, an educator, and an administrator.

Thank you, God, for this wonderful life.
Thank you for this existence.

1.30.26

When Good Intentions Cross a Line: A Black Leader’s Reflection on Overstepping While Trying to Uplift and Protect

In the Black community, many of us know what it feels like to have our skills doubted, our leadership questioned, or our readiness dismissed. We know what it feels like to be told to wait, to be overlooked for opportunities we are more than qualified for, or to watch others get fast‑tracked while we are told to prove ourselves again and again. Because of that, when we finally see potential in someone, especially someone new or someone who reminds us of our younger selves, the instinct to uplift can be powerful. It can feel like a responsibility and a calling. It can feel like a chance to break cycles of erasure by pouring into someone the way we wish someone had poured into us.

But even with the best intentions, it is possible to overstep. I know this because I did it yesterday and earlier this month.

Recently, I found myself speaking over my two direct reports. I believed I was offering support. I believed I was helping them navigate a conversation about supervising an entry-level student. What I actually did was disrespect a private conversation, undermine the leadership of one direct report, cross the boundaries of the other, and insert myself into a process that was not mine to lead. I was not trying to take over or silence anyone. I was not trying to diminish their authority. I was trying to uplift. But uplift without consent becomes control. Advocacy without communication becomes an assumption. Support without boundaries becomes overstepping. In that moment, I realized I had done exactly what I never wanted done to me.

There was another instance of overstepping due to attempting to protect. Out of assumed protection for one of my direct reports, I found myself coaching her on how to communicate, how to send forms of communication to various leaders, and how to approach the conversation. I thought I was shielding her from the stereotypes Black women face in predominantly white institutions, where speaking up can get us labeled aggressive, loud, emotional, or difficult. I know what it feels like to have to over‑strategize every word, to rehearse tone, to soften truth, to shrink brilliance so it does not intimidate the room, and to calculate how to get a point across without being put in a box.

But in trying to protect her from that trauma, I unintentionally placed that trauma on her. I was teaching her to navigate the world the way I had to, instead of allowing her to show up as her authentic self. I was trying to shield her, but I was also silencing her. That realization cut deep.

For Black professionals, being overlooked is common. Being underestimated is expected. Being denied leadership opportunities is normalized. So when we see potential in someone, especially another Black person or another person of color, we often feel a deep urge to protect, to guide, and to elevate. But we cannot fight erasure by accidentally erasing someone else’s leadership. We cannot uplift one person by stepping on the authority of another. We cannot advocate for someone’s growth without honoring the boundaries of the people responsible for that growth. We cannot protect someone by forcing them into the same survival strategies we had to use. Our intentions may be rooted in love, community, and justice, but intentions do not erase impact.

When I stepped into that conversation, I thought I was helping. I thought I was clarifying. I thought I was offering insight. But I did not pause to ask whether it was my place to speak, whether the leader had already established boundaries, whether the person wanted my help in that moment, whether I was supporting or overshadowing, or whether I was projecting my trauma instead of trusting their voice. In trying to uplift one person, I unintentionally disrespected the leadership journey of another. In trying to protect a Black woman from harm, I unintentionally silenced her voice, the very thing PWIs have done to us for generations.

Black professionals deserve to hear that we see leadership in them, that they have the skills to grow, and that we believe they can supervise or lead. But they also deserve the choice to say yes or no, the space to grow at their own pace, the clarity of what leadership would require, the respect of being asked rather than volunteered, and the freedom to show up as themselves rather than as a curated version of themselves. Naming potential is powerful, but naming it without dialogue becomes a burden.

From this experience, I learned that seeing potential in someone does not permit me to speak over others. Advocacy must be rooted in consent, not assumption. Leadership requires humility, not just vision. Supporting someone’s growth means respecting the agreed-upon structures around them. Uplift must never come at the expense of someone else’s authority. Protection must not silence authenticity. My trauma is mine to process, not to project.

Going forward, I am working to ask before advocating, listen before stepping in, check in with leaders before offering direction, name potential directly to the person rather than around them, honor boundaries even when I am excited about someone’s growth, honor Black women on my team to show up fully without filtering, and create space for authenticity instead of survival tactics.

True leadership is not about being the loudest voice in the room. It is about creating space for others to lead and knowing when to step back. And for Black leaders, it is also about breaking cycles of harm, not repeating them in the name of protection.

"If Black women stand strong and our commitment is to ending domination, I know that I'm supporting Black males, Black children, male and female Black elderly because the bottom line is the struggle to end domination in all its forms" -- bell hooks

1.29.26

From Minor Hall to Modern LLCs: The Enduring Power of Alpha Kappa Alpha and Black Women Who Protect Their Names

Celebrating 118 Years of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Incorporated® 

January marks the 118th anniversary of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Incorporated®, the first Greek‑letter organization founded by and for Black women on January 15, 1908. This moment always brings me back to the brilliance and courage of the women who created a structure that would protect, uplift, and sustain Black womanhood for generations. Their vision wasn’t just about sisterhood. It was about survival, safety, and sovereignty.

Why Incorporation Mattered for Black Women’s Lives and Sustainability

When AKA was incorporated in 1913, it became more than a collegiate organization. It became a legally protected institution that could own property, manage finances, establish chapters, and defend its name. For Black women in the early 1900s, this was groundbreaking. Incorporation meant continuity, protection, and the ability to expand without fear of erasure. It was a declaration that Black women’s intellectual, social, and cultural contributions deserved permanence.

The History Behind Incorporation: Nellie Quander’s Leadership

The incorporation of Alpha Kappa Alpha did not happen by accident. It was the result of the strategic leadership of Nellie May Quander, a Howard University graduate student and educator deeply committed to preserving the sorority’s mission. When internal disagreements threatened the organization’s future, Quander stepped forward with clarity and purpose. She gathered support, drafted the necessary documents, and led the effort to legally incorporate AKA on January 29, 1913.

Her actions ensured that the sorority’s name, legacy, and mission would be protected under the law. Because of her leadership, Alpha Kappa Alpha became the first Black sorority to secure its identity through incorporation, setting a precedent for Black women’s organizations nationwide.

Minor Hall and Ethel Hedgemon Lyle: Foundations of the Legacy

Minor Hall, located on the campus of Howard University, is where the earliest meetings of Alpha Kappa Alpha took place. It was the birthplace of the sorority’s ideals, a space where young Black women gathered to imagine a future beyond the limitations imposed on them. Minor Hall remains a historic landmark in the story of Black women’s organizing and intellectual life.

Ethel Hedgemon Lyle, one of the founders, envisioned a sisterhood rooted in scholarship, service, and unity. Her leadership helped shape the sorority’s early structure and values. She later played a major role in expanding AKA beyond Howard University, helping establish new chapters and strengthening the sorority’s national presence. Her influence is woven into the fabric of every program, every chapter, and every woman who wears the pink and green.

My Journey Into AKA: Epsilon Mu, Spring 2005

In Spring 2005, I joined this legacy as a proud initiate of the Epsilon Mu Chapter of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc. I crossed as #3, Silver Skreen, stepping into a lineage of women who believed in excellence, sisterhood, and service. That experience shaped how I move through the world and how I build the ecosystems that sustain me.

AKA’s Expansion Since 1908

From nine founders at Howard University to a global organization, Alpha Kappa Alpha has grown into a powerhouse of service and leadership.

Chapters and Membership

• More than 1,100 chapters

• Over 355,000 initiated members

• Presence across the United States and in countries including South Africa, Liberia, Germany, Japan, South Korea, the Bahamas, and the UAE

Political and Civic Leadership

Members have included Vice President Kamala Harris, Congresswoman Sheila Jackson Lee, former EPA Administrator Lisa P. Jackson, and numerous judges, mayors, and civic leaders.

High Achievements

• First Black sorority to own a headquarters building in Washington, D.C.

• Millions of dollars in scholarships are awarded annually

• Global impact programs supporting education, health, economic empowerment, and environmental sustainability

• Major initiatives such as the HBCU Endowment Initiative, raising millions for historically Black colleges

This growth reflects intentional structure, legal protection, and a commitment to excellence.

Why This Matters for Black Women Entrepreneurs in 2026 and Beyond

Black women are the fastest-growing group of entrepreneurs in the United States. Yet we face the highest barriers to capital, safety, and brand protection. The same principles that guided AKA’s incorporation are the ones we must embrace today.

Legacy: Incorporation transforms our work into something that can outlive us.

Safety: A formal business structure protects our personal assets and our intellectual property.

Brand Protection: Just as AKA protected its name and symbols, Black women must protect our logos, content, products, and voice.

Ownership of Our Narrative: Incorporation allows us to define who we are and how we show up in the marketplace.

My Own Step Into Legacy: Parable Brands & Services LLC

In 2023, I created Parable Brands & Services LLC, a structure designed to hold and protect the ecosystem of my work. Under that umbrella, I built:

• Parable Consulting

• Photo Noire

• Peace and Possibility, a holistic skincare and goods brand

Each branch reflects my commitment to creativity, wellness, and the protection of Black women’s stories and labor.

Black Women Businesses Across America: The Facts

Black women are driving entrepreneurship across the country.

Recent national data shows:

• Black women own more than 2.7 million businesses

• We are the fastest-growing demographic of entrepreneurs

• Between 2014 and 2019, Black women‑owned businesses grew by more than 50 percent

• Black women generate tens of billions in annual revenue despite receiving less than 1 percent of venture capital funding

• Nearly 65 percent of Black women entrepreneurs are the primary income source for their households

These numbers reflect resilience, innovation, and unstoppable momentum. They also reveal why incorporation, protection, and community matter.

A Black Woman’s Reflection: Caring for Ourselves and Our Ecosystems

As Black women, we are always tending to something. Our families, our communities, our work, our dreams. But we are also tending to ecosystems, the spaces we create, the businesses we build, and the legacies we leave.

AKA taught me that sisterhood is an ecosystem. Entrepreneurship is an ecosystem. Black womanhood itself is an ecosystem. And ecosystems thrive when they are protected, nourished, and rooted in intention.

As we honor 118 years of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Incorporated®, we honor every Black woman who has ever dared to formalize her brilliance, protect her name, and build something that carries her story forward.

When we incorporate, we are not just filing paperwork. We are declaring that our work and our worth deserve to last.

1.28.26

Unexpected Journey of Adulting in the Arts

Being a successful arts administrator and creator of color in 2025 and early 2026 has been a complex experience. On paper, I am thriving. I hold a leadership role that many people in my field aspire to. I am an associate artistic director with a strong salary, meaningful influence, and the privilege of shaping culture and community through my work. I am proud of that. I worked for it. I earned it.

But success in title does not erase the realities of life. It does not shield you from the unexpected, the heavy, or the deeply human parts of adulthood that arrive without warning.

This past year has been one of the most challenging periods of my adult life. I have been traveling back and forth to my home city of Dallas for family care, for funerals, and for responsibilities that cannot be postponed (including taking care of my Uncle in Los Angeles). I have traveled out of town for additional funerals. I have navigated a major move that went far over budget and took a physical toll on my body. I have dealt with doctor bills. And most recently, I have been hit with a cascade of issues involving the house I own in Dallas: animal damage, pipe and water damage, and the discovery that my insurance was not the correct type to cover any of it.

Owning both an apartment and a house is a privilege, and I acknowledge that. But the house was not purchased for luxury. It was a necessity when I relocated for work, and it was also an intentional act of care. I wanted to preserve something for my nieces and nephews. I wanted to create a foundation for the next generation, even as a single millennial in my 40s navigating everything on my own.

Still, the weight of these responsibilities has been overwhelming. The financial strain, the emotional exhaustion, the constant shifting between professional excellence and personal survival. It's been a lot to hold. This is the part of adulting that no one prepares you for. The part where you can be successful and still feel like you are barely keeping up. The part where you can be celebrated publicly and struggle privately. The part where you realize that survival mode and success can coexist in the same season.

A friend recently sent me a list of resources for artist grants in Texas, and it reminded me that even in the hardest moments, there are pathways to support. Below is a curated list of grants and relief programs for artists in Texas, Kansas, and Missouri, along with resources to help homeowners with unexpected bills, property damage, or tenant-related challenges.

National Emergency Relief Grants for Artists

Adolph & Esther Gottlieb Emergency Grant

• Supports painters, printmakers, and sculptors facing unforeseen, catastrophic incidents such as fire, flood, or emergency medical needs.

• Typical awards are around $5,000, with a maximum of $15,000.

• No deadlines.

Foundation for Contemporary Arts Emergency Grants

• Provides immediate, project‑based assistance for visual and performing artists and poets who:

  • Have sudden opportunities requiring quick funding, or

  • Face unexpected expenses for projects near completion

• Awards range from $500 to $3,000.

• Applications accepted year‑round.

Arts and Culture Leaders of Color Emergency Fund

Supports BIPOC artists and arts administrators experiencing financial emergencies.

This fund has historically provided small‑scale emergency support during crises.

Artist Communities Alliance – Emergency Relief Programs

Connects artists with residency programs and relief resources after emergencies such as hurricanes, floods, or other disasters.

Includes curated lists of emergency funds, mutual aid networks, and regional relief programs.

DataArts National Emergency Grants List

A national compilation of emergency funding sources for artists, updated regularly.

Includes multiple programs for medical emergencies, natural disasters, and crisis-related financial needs

Mid-America Arts Alliance – Disaster Recovery Resources

Provides guidance and connections to national organizations like the Red Cross, United Way, Salvation Army, and community foundations that support artists after natural disasters.

Artist Grants and Relief Resources in Texas, Kansas, and Missouri

Mid-America Arts Alliance – Artistic Innovations Grants

Supports the creation of new, original artistic work across Arkansas, Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Texas.

Provides funding for innovative projects that engage communities.

ArtsKC Inspiration Grants (Kansas City Region)

Offers project-based funding for individual artists and small artist groups.

Supports creative risk-taking, community engagement, and new artistic work.

Texas Commission on the Arts – Grant Programs

Provides multiple grant opportunities for artists, arts organizations, and community-based projects across Texas.

Includes funding for professional development, project support, and cultural initiatives.

National Endowment for the Arts – Grants for Arts Projects

Federal grants supporting artistic creation, community engagement, and arts education.

Open to organizations of all sizes and disciplines.

Homeowner and Housing-Related Relief Resources

Texas Home Repair and Improvement Programs

Texas offers a wide range of programs for homeowners needing emergency repairs, structural support, or disaster-related assistance. Many programs are income-based but include options for moderate-income households.

Homeowner Reconstruction Assistance (HRA) Program

Funded by HUD, this program supports the reconstruction or replacement of owner-occupied homes that have become uninhabitable. Also assists with relocation from flood-prone areas.

Federal Homeowner Assistance Fund

Provides support for homeowners facing financial hardship, including help with mortgage payments, utilities, insurance, and other housing-related costs.

Local Landlord and Tenant Relief Programs

Depending on the county or city, there may be programs that support landlords dealing with nonpaying tenants, mediation services, or emergency rental assistance.

These vary by region, and I can help look up Dallas County–specific options if needed.

Closing Thoughts

This past year has reminded me that success is not a shield. It is not a guarantee of ease. It is not a barrier against grief, financial strain, or the unexpected responsibilities that come with adulthood. But it has also reminded me that resilience is real, that community matters, and that support exists even when it feels like everything is falling apart at once.

I am still standing. I am still creating. I am still leading. And I am still learning how to navigate the tension between thriving and surviving.  I know I'll make it to the other side. 

1.27.26

A Decade of Leadership in Nonprofits: What I’ve Learned as a Black Woman Navigating Power, Fragility, and Resilience

(Long read but worth it.)

I have spent more than ten years managing in the nonprofit arts sector, and every chapter of that journey has transformed me. When I moved to Dallas in 2015, I stepped into a manager-level role at Dallas Theater Center. Within the same year, I was promoted to Director. I led in that role for five years, growing not only in my responsibilities but also in my understanding of racial equity and what it means to advocate for my community while holding leadership in a major arts institution.

In 2021, I moved into a co-managing director role at a smaller arts organization and eventually returned to theater as the managing director at Bishop Arts Theatre Center. I entered that role with excitement and a deep commitment to Black arts spaces. I left because the environment became harmful to my well-being, shaped by overwork, founder syndrome, and behavior that no one should experience in their workplace. The painful reality is that this happened in an all-Black organization under a Black woman who had once mentored me. That grief is layered and complex, and it took time to acknowledge it.  (We will revisit this at a later date.)

Taking Time to Heal and Rebuild

After leaving, I took space to heal. I created my LLC, took on consulting work, and later accepted a full-time Program Associate position at one of Dallas’s leading grantmaking organizations. This was a new experience because the institution was majority white and led by white women. Throughout my working life, my supervisors had always been white men, Black men, or Black women. I had never worked directly under a white woman before.

That dynamic opened my eyes in new ways.

Learning White Fragility Up Close

I first learned the term "white fragility" during the height of the Black Lives Matter movement when I was at Dallas Theater Center. But in this new professional environment, I began to witness it not theoretically but practically: being talked over, being corrected unnecessarily, being “put in my place,” or having my expertise questioned. The expectation was that I remain pleasant, agreeable, and unbothered.

I was not having it.

I was excellent at my job, well-liked, and respected. Yet the same patterns continued to appear. Even in my current role, where I was promoted within my first year, I still encounter familiar behaviors. These include white tears, being spoken over, having my responsibilities taken over or minimized, or watching people bypass me to instruct or correct my staff. When I call people in or out, some of them try to adapt. But the microaggressions persist because the habits are embedded in how many white women have been socialized, especially within white institutions.  I have been asked as a producer of over 10 years, "What does a producer do?" or "Morgana, do you direct?" Despite my title of Associate Artistic Director, my years of experience, and having two degrees in the subject. 

Understanding the “Slave Master’s Wife Complex”

People often ask what this phrase means and why it still matters, especially in the Midwest in 2026. To me, it describes a pattern that has existed since the earliest systems of white supremacy. It shows up when white women benefit from, align with, or reinforce patriarchal structures, even while they are oppressed by them. It includes the exercise of unnecessary oversight, discipline, or control over women of color, participation in systems that cause harm, and leveraging proximity to white male power to maintain influence.

This behavior can be subtle. It can hide behind friendship, teamwork, or “support.” It does not mean that Black women cannot collaborate or build relationships with white women. It means we often must do so with caution, strategy, intention, and self-protection.

A Call to White Women in the Nonprofit Workplace

Nonprofits cannot work toward justice in their communities while ignoring injustice inside their organizations. If white women want to be authentic allies rather than performative ones, here are some practices that make a real difference.

How White Women Can Be Better Allies

1. Practice self-reflection before correcting or directing others.
   Ask yourself whether your feedback is necessary or whether it arises from discomfort or control.

2. Learn to regulate emotional responses.
   Tears and defensiveness shut down accountability and shift focus away from the issue at hand.

3. Respect the boundaries and expertise of Black women.
   Support does not mean taking over responsibilities or bypassing leadership structures.

4. Believe Black women the first time.
   Our experiences are real, even when they make you uncomfortable.

5. Avoid centering yourself in conversations about inequity.
   This work is about equity, not guilt or innocence.

6. Share power and advocate for representation.
   Amplify the ideas of Black women in rooms where they are not present. Support our promotions and leadership opportunities.

7. Commit to long-term unlearning.
   Microaggressions are not harmless. They accumulate. Intentional unlearning can begin to shift that.

Books and Trainings for Deeper Learning

Books

White Fragility—Robin DiAngelo

Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents—Isabel Wilkerson

Sister Outsider — Audre Lorde

We Will Not Cancel Us — adrienne maree brown

My Grandmother’s Hands—Resmaa Menakem (I have led workshops on this if you want more information.)

Me and White Supremacy — Layla F. Saad

Eloquent Rage—Brittney Cooper (My absolute fav)

White Women, We Need to Talk—Karen Fleshman

White Tears/Brown Scars—Ruby Hamad

White Women: Everything You Already Know About Your Own Racism and How to Do Better—Regina Jackson & Saira Rao

Trainings and Resources

ArtsEquity (Talk to Carmen, she will set you straight)

The People’s Institute for Survival and Beyond – Undoing Racism
Race Forward – Racial Equity Trainings
The Equity Paradigm
The Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights
AORTA: Anti-Oppression Resource and Training Alliance

The Lineage That Shapes My Leadership

I exist in a light-skinned Black body with both white and Black lineages. I identify as a Black woman with white lineage, because I was born to a Black woman who came from a Black woman who came from a Black woman. My identity is grounded in that lineage. (I love you, mama. I love you daddy.)

My mother taught me exactly what it meant to survive white supremacy at work. She spent thirty years at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, TX, navigating the same kinds of dynamics I would later encounter. She learned how to build alliances, protect her peace, and make choices that ensured her survival in environments shaped by the “slave master’s wife complex.”

I am the light-skinned version of my mother. I carry her voice, her strategies, and her resilience. My lighter skin and my mixed lineage often grant me a certain kind of privilege. People find me “approachable,” “likable,” or “safe.” I know this, and I use it with intention. I use it to pull up my Shirley Chisholm folding chair, ask questions, advocate for my people, and create pathways that honor the Black women who came before me, no matter the skin tone, age, or intersection we exist in. I am not perfect, but I am purposeful. I know I am placed in these spaces for a reason.

This was a fun day. I miss all these wonderful women. We have all been impacted by white supremacy in the workplace and thrived beyond it to speak about it.  Dr. Dionne Davis, in the brown DTC shirt, gifted us our first copy of Eloquent Rage (that book changed my life) and is a consultant and leader in organizational leadership.  My friend Mercedes Brown (in the blue V-neck) also has a consulting company and is a leader at KERA for fundraising. Majel Cuza (in the pink) survived DTC and Victory Gardens as a director of production and lives to lead as a consultant. Jessica Drayton (in the green) worked in an all-male department in lighting at DTC and now is a Cincinnati Lighting and Projection Designer (I can't wait for you to design one of my shows, Jessica!). And my little sis, Imani Thomas (in the blue), is one of the dopest social media managers around, leading Meow Wolf and with talents for anything else you throw her way.  

Thriving as a Black Woman in Theatre and the Arts

Being a Black woman in theatre and the arts means carrying a lineage of brilliance and resilience, but also navigating institutions that often resist the very change they publicly claim to embrace. The stories of Black women who have led in these spaces, women who have built, transformed, and pushed the industry forward, are also stories of harm, racism, misogynoir, and board politics that pushed many of them out. Their experiences are part of a well-documented pattern across the arts and nonprofit sector where women of color leaders face additional scrutiny, insufficient board support, and hostile power dynamics. 

One of the most visible examples is Nataki Garrett, who stepped into the Oregon Shakespeare Festival with vision and courage. She faced racist harassment and death threats, including the need to travel with security during her tenure. After years of crisis management, pandemic navigation, and public hostility, she resigned in 2023. Her leadership and her exit ignited national conversations about how Black women are treated in arts leadership and what support we truly need. 

Another example is playwright Dominique Morisseau, who pulled her production Paradise Blue from the Geffen Playhouse after learning that Black women on the creative team had been verbally abused. She refused to allow her art to continue under conditions that harmed the Black women involved. Her action challenged a major institution to confront its failure to protect them. 

Afton Battle, one of the few Black women ever to lead a United States opera company, resigned from Fort Worth Opera (near my hometown of Dallas) following tensions around her direction and leadership. Her story reflects what so many Black women experience: internal resistance to change, pressure to assimilate, and a lack of structural support, even when placed in roles that are meant to represent progress. 

Similarly, Chaédria LaBouvier became the first Black curator to organize a solo exhibition at the Guggenheim Museum, only to describe the experience as the most racist professional environment she had ever encountered. Her willingness to speak openly exposed how museums treat Black women whose excellence challenges institutional norms and inequities. 

These stories remind us that thriving as a Black woman in this industry requires more than personal strength. It requires community, strategic support, culturally grounded leadership development, and spaces that affirm who we are without demanding our silence or sacrifice.

This is why intentional support spaces for Black women in the arts matter. These spaces help us heal, strategize, rest, reclaim our power, and lead with clarity instead of exhaustion. They also provide models for how institutions themselves can begin to shift.

One such space is Ladder Leadership Services, created by Nataki Garrett after her tenure at OSF. Through executive coaching, organizational strategy, systems change consulting, and leadership support, she helps leaders and institutions move from survival to clarity, alignment, and equity-centered vision. (She mentors one of my employees, and I am forever thankful because, well, they are both the bomb!)

Dominique Morisseau, while not formally as a consultant, continues to influence the field as a cultural strategist and artistic leader. Her work and advocacy offer lessons in accountability, community care, and Black liberation practices within theatre.

Black Woman Leading is another powerful resource. This program centers the leadership journeys of Black women across career stages and offers coaching, development, community, and healing practices specific to the challenges Black women face in the workplace.

Across the country, Black women are also leading consultancies and creative firms that support organizations in transforming their cultures, strengthening leadership, and building equitable systems. These include Sunshine and Sage Group, The Barthwell Group, Hummingbird Black Creative, Be Present Consulting, Equity and Impact Solutions, and Groundwork Co Creative. They each offer equity-centered leadership development, strategic planning, conflict transformation, retreat facilitation, culture-shift consulting, and organizational healing designed through a Black feminist lens.  And my services at Parable Consulting (visit my Contact page, Philosophies page, and Consulting page).

Thriving as a Black woman in this industry means claiming space not only in the space we carve out individually but also in the spaces we build with and for one another. These communities and consultants help us tell our stories, recover from the harms we endure, align with our purpose, and lead without shrinking. They remind us that we are not alone, that the challenges we face are systemic, not personal, and that we deserve ecosystems built around our joy, our wellness, and our right to thrive.