Girl Gurl Grrrl: On Womanhood and Belonging in the Age of Black Girl Magic

Girl was a one-word lingua franca that transcended class, generations, and geography. A word we used with each other to show affection and acknowledge shared history, experiences, and aspirations.

Some people are validation junkies, addicted to the likes and shares, the digital pats on the back. But I get my highs from the hit of underestimation. Give me a “meh” and I’ll make you eat it. Disregard me and I’ll show you. I get a rise out of proving people wrong. During the many

It’s being seated next to a model agency owner at a work dinner who tells you you’re pronouncing your name wrong. “I know the most luxurious lodge in Keenya. Where do you like to stay when you’re there? Surely you’ve been to the country before, no? Not even Nairobi? Then why did your parents name you Keenya? You pronounce it ‘Ken-ya,’ you say? Not

Girl! GWORL. Gorl. Guhl. Gurl. Grrrrrlll. “Mommy, why is it that every time you’re on the phone or with your friends it’s always girl, girl, girl, girl?”

When the virus hit, a popular line began circulating that 2020 was the end of identity politics, that COVID-19 was the great equalizer that didn’t see race or class. People of color knew better. And the opposite turned out to be true as the news confirmed. Black, Muslim, Latin, and Asian communities were the hardest hit, and women (who make up the

“But we just had a Black woman on the cover last month. And it would be too weird to have two in a row.”

Precisely at the point when you begin to develop a conscience you must find yourself at war with your society. —BALDWIN

As in, “Girl, stop! Old White colonialists pronounce it that way.”

And we scrub and disinfect our groceries (purchased in a whirlwind of panic after waiting in socially distanced queues that stretch for blocks outside stores) with a rigor that just months ago would have been declared a symptom of obsessive compulsive disorder.