BlackGirlMagic, A debate?

It’s common knowledge that whenever a black woman does anything she, and her actions, are subject to heavy debate. Be it dancing, hairstyle choices, or expressing self-love, she does not exist without scrutiny. So, of course when the #BlackGirlMagic movement made it’s arrival onto the pages of TeenVogue and Essence, someone was going to have something to say about it, what I didn’t expect to see was the latest article by Dr. Lina Chavers published on

“Black girl magic suggests we are, again, something other than human.” – Dr. Linda Chavers

Huh? That’s the exact question I asked myself after reading that article because nowhere did I see the connection between Dr. Chaver’s argument that BlackGirlMagic denies black women of their humanity, and the reality of what BlackGirlMagic means to all of the black women supporting the hashtag/movement. She even goes on to suggest that BlackGirlMagic is responsible for the egregious sexual and violent crimes committed against black women:

“When I see “black girl magic,” I think, was Sandra Bland not magical enough? Renisha McBride? Miriam Carey? Perhaps she’d been trying to be magical and, failing, started to blame herself instead.”- Dr. Linda Chavers

What? I expected these questions, I expected these implications, but I didn’t expect them from a black woman, let alone a black woman scholar. Perhaps I was naive in my own thinking that we understood BlackGirlMagic existed as a place for us not to be superwoman, but to be human, to recognize the humanity of our fallen sisters, and to raise awareness of those whose inhumane treatments outrage no one except us.

Luckily, rebuttals to Dr. Chavers stretch of an argument rose up expertly defending, and reminding, naysayers what BlackGirlMagic is.

One is from @amyjuicebox who wrote in her article for Blavity:

“#BlackGirlMagic isn’t about dehumanizing black women, who are called upon time and time again to exercise super-human strength and ridiculous levels of forgiveness in the face of every “-ism” in the book. It’s for every girl who needs #YouOkSis when she’s harassed on the street. It’s for the young women who are accused of being ##FastTailedGirls. #BlackGirlMagic wasn’t what killed Sandra Bland, it’s what got her name out there in the first place. #BlackGirlMagic wasn’t what put Marissa Alexander in prison, it’s what eventually got her out.” – Amy Juicebox 

And another rebuttal arrived from Ashley Ford (@iSmashFizzle), whose piece was published on

“Black Girl Magic moves way beyond the trope of impenetrable strength, and because it was created by a black woman, includes the inside joke of calling what we’ve always known to be real about our capabilities “magic.” [CaShawn] Thompson knew what she was doing, and she did it well. She helped us name the unique experience of living in this world as black women and finding a way to cross that line. She helped me name exactly what made me feel so close to Grace. She gave Harriet’s dream a name. There’s no limiting of humanity in the rhetoric here. In fact, she gave us just the opposite.” – Ashley Ford

What I appreciate about these rebuttals is the fact that they are not centered on attacking on Dr. Chavers. But perhaps the reason Dr. Chavers’ escaped such personal criticism is because her argument is not hers alone. Its echoes the sentiment of those who have an incessant need to check Beyonce’s feminist card while ignoring the transgressions of those whom they hail as queens of that movement, those who found no qualms with the all-white cast of Suffrage donning a “feminist” t-shirt, those who cry out that a show called Black Girl’s Rock is somehow exclusionary despite the fact that the Academy Awards has, once again, failed to recognize the achievements of creators of color.

These criticisms don’t usually come from those who look like us, so when Ashley and Amy offered such eloquent rebuttals, I believed their words existed to extend beyond Dr. Chavers and sit in front of those who will try to use her article as a means to denounce the BlackGirlMagic movement. Or I could be a conspiracy theorist, however, I found it quite peculiar that an article questioning a black woman’s empowerment movement would surface on a magazine site conspicuously targeted to white women–(TeenVogue republished the Blavity rebuttal on their site).  If this debate, or question, is being raised about a black women’s movement, why is it existing on a white women’s platform?

One only needs to look to twitter for some answers:

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@ztsamudzi‘s commentary is my particular favorite


Zoe S timeline1




Keep24(Stephanie Fields, Flight)

“You want to fly, you got to give up the shit that weighs you down” – Toni Morrison (Song of Solomon) 

So it’s finally here! I started this project in September 2015; I had absolutely no idea where I was going with it and since its inception it has taken many twists and turns. Throughout it all–the crying, the hair pulling, the teeth decaying–I am proud to have finally completed my collection of short stories & present it to the world!

“Flight” is a multimedia collection of short stories that use photo, film, and written text to explore themes of escapism for black women. The collection features 4 short stories, films, and photosets.

I am very thankful to all of those who encouraged me through this process, it has truly been a transformative experience. I hope that you all enjoy and share; I would really like to know what you think.

Ok, enough sentiment, you can find–and follow–the collection by clicking this link HERE.

xoxo – Steph

P.S. there is MUCH more coming from me in the New Year!

“Writing a Novel is Terrible…”

In September I decided to write a collection of short stories. I had a very distinct theme that was appearing in my creative narratives and I thought, “I should really hone in it and try to create a small comprehensive body of work.” In the spirit of Shonda Rhime’s Year of Yes, I said, “Yes! Let’s do it.”

It is now December and I am ready to bury my head in the sand. Probably because I’ve expanded my project to include multimedia elements, but not really. It’s the writing. The writing is so hard, especially when you’ve spent a good couple hours typing away at the keyboard thinking you’re “in your zone,” and you stop to re-read only to find a bunch of mess that you wouldn’t show anyone.

Toni Morrison admitted to taking three years to write a novel, that is not my plan. I began this journey thinking I could do four short stories with some multimedia complements and be done. As January approaches I am coming to terms with the fact that one does not simply agree to write and it be done.

Instead, it is much like how Flannery O’Connor described:

“a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay.”

My teeth are still healthily situated in my gums, however, I am not too sure about the state of my hair or sanity.

How do people make a career out of this?!

“Every child needs a champion”

Literacy and Black Americans have shared an enduring relationship. I travelled to Whitney Plantation in Wallace, Louisiana recently and on The Wall of Horror—a wall detailing the horrific experience as a black slave in America—there are quotes shedding light on the violent punishment slaves would face if caught reading—25 lashes if ever caught with a pen or paper in hand. Frederick Douglass’ own story illustrates the visceral desire to read and the terrible pain that came with learning how to do so.

“I would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than a blessing. It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without the remedy. It opened my eyes to the horrible pit, but to no ladder upon which to get out. In moments of agony, I envied my fellow‐slaves for their stupidity.” – Frederick Douglass

Phillis Wheatley’s literacy and mastering of language through poetry forced her, too, a sense of agony of not being able to have her books of poems initially published. White American colonizers—Thomas Jefferson included—believed that:

“Religion indeed has produced a Phyllis Whately but it could not produce a poet. The compositions published under her name are below the dignity of criticism.” – Thomas Jefferson

The ability to read and write was a right purposefully kept away from Africans forced to work as slaves in America (Caribbean and South America as well) because, as William Lynch said:

“If you take a slave, if you teach him all about your language, he will know all your secrets, and he is then no more a slave, for you can’t fool him any longer, and being a fool is one of the basic ingredients of any incidents to the maintenance of the slavery system” – William Lynch

If an enslaved person had the ability to think independently, logically and to articulate the illogic and inhumane institution of chattel slavery back to the master who manipulated Bible Scriptures to paint lies that told Africans they were born to be slaves—heirs of Cain’s mark—then slavery as White American and European Colonizers created it would be over and so would be the profits of their exploitation of labor and lives. Needless to say Literacy and Liberation were directly intertwined and Black American slaves quest for either could result in violent consequences—death not excluded.

But if one were to guess that these individuals carried on a life of illiteracy one would be mistaken. Slaves who were lettered risked their lives to share such knowledge with their peers. Every negro spiritual sung on the field told a story; many told the route toward the underground railroad famously travelled by a conductor of the name of Harriet Tubman who carried thousands of slaves to freedom. Such in intricate and elaborate trip from the depths of the south to the opening of the north could not have been done by those who were illiterate. The idea that literacy is only expressed through the ability to read flat text is a myopic one, to put it nicely. Everything from the music, to the folktales, to the quilts and markings of safe-houses along the underground railroad proved that Black American slaves had found a way to express Literacy and to go in search of their liberation in spite of the violent consequences, but when the confederate south Surrendered to the north Reconstruction will prove to be a period of great hope and a period of great despair.

In Margaret Walker’s, Jubilee, one thing Vyry, the protagonist, wanted most for her children after the Surrender was to go to school:

“I wants my chilluns to go to school, too, and learn how to read and write and cipher”                                                                                                                                     – Jubilee

The economic disparity within the south, along with the continuing racial tension, after the war made it difficult for schools to exist

“The question of sending white and black to school together was always answered by a storm of protest, and violence erupted every time there was an attempt to put such schools into operation. The negroes themselves were crying for education, and by 1870 the Freedmen’s Bureau had established a few schools in every southern state. These schools, of course, were not free”


What’s more was that white individuals were willing to refuse schools if it meant black children being able to learn beside them. Black people were now “free” by definition, but a lack of flat-text literacy left them vulnerable to further labor exploitation through share-cropping and countless other exploits. My grandmother told me the story of her mother being unable to read or write and in the place of her name she would mark an X. My great-grandmother was by no means an unintelligent woman, but that lack of flat-text literacy made her depended on the literacy of her children so much so that my grandmother expressed how she worried about her mother and who was assisting her with her documents when my grandmother moved away.

  Even black americans who were flat-text literate faced violent attacks from the newly developing Klu Klux Klan that was determined to restore white-supremacy in the south. Black Americans now had more options than before to become flat-text literate, but limited means and the familiar threat of violence continued to make an already task even more daunting. So here I am, a century after the failing of Reconstruction, working for a literacy-based program in Americorps. How did I get here? Why did I chose to be here?

The answer is in that century—and counting—long struggle for the literacy and liberation of Black Americans (and across the Diaspora). During the time of Reconstruction when so many young children of former slaves were left without formal education, many people stepped up to educate them as best they could; it was not easy by any means and the battle between school and economic support was, and still is, a battle that incapacitated a lot of black Americans from receiving education. Had it not been for these nameless people lost in history I would not, could not, have been the woman I am today with my nose forever hidden behind the creased spine of a book I’ve annotated to death.

There is a sense of gratitude I feel for people like Mary McLoud Bathune, Marva Collins, and Rita Pierson—educators who focused on the needs of the black community, who gave of themselves the knowledge that was eclipsed from us over one-hundred years ago. I am also grateful for people like my seventh-grade librarian who let me work with her to cancel out books from her database then take home whatever cancelled books I wanted; she was my resource for finding books about girls whose hair, face, culture, and family was like my own. She helped me to articulate my thoughts, and most of all, she encouraged my budding love for reading. Where would I have been if it weren’t for the individuals in my life who rooted for me, who pushed me, who gave of themselves so that I could be the best version of myself?

I joined this literacy-based program because I wanted to be what Dr. Rita Pierson calls a “champion.” I wanted to be what those nameless individuals were who risked their lives during slavery to teach others how to read, those who combined their resources to conduct schools in church-houses for black children during Reconstruction, those who continued on through several liberation movements, through several threats of violence to gift their people with literacy.

“Every child deserves a champion: an adult who will never give up on them, who understands the power of connection and insists they become the best they can possibly be” – Rita Pierson

I’ve never planned on becoming a formal teacher–I often have to ignore the pestering of others trying to understand why I’m doing this (as if volunteering a year to educating the next generation is so terrible), but when I think of the life of one of the most influential revolutionaries in the world, a revolutionary who co-founded a black self-defense movement that extended to include and inspire the self-defense and liberation of the proletariat people of, across, and beyond America, I think of the fact that he, Huey P. Newton, could not read until after high school. Like Malcolm X, Huey’s evolving literacy level directly elevated his mind and his passion for liberation. I know I cannot magically enhance the reading-level of every young student I come into contact with, but my hope is I will be the best champion I can be so that no other Huey P. Newtown makes it to seventeen without being able to read, without the access to the means to articulate the innate intelligence within. 

Your Job is to be Happy

  At around the time you entered pre-school or kindergarten you were probably asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up,”—because, somehow, at the age of five you had enough exposure to the world and its many career fields to have meticulously map out your career-goals.

  If you’re like Beyoncé, at the age of five you were able to confidently respond with what you wanted to be and by your 34th you’re able to sit back and enjoy the fruits of your dedicated and tenacious labor. 

  If you’re like me, at the age of 22 you’re still trying to figure out the answer to that question. 

  After graduating college with an extensive resume and an even more extensive network you would think I’d be on my way toward that answer right—wrong. Weeks before my graduation I kept being accosted with that question as if the fate of the asker’s life depended on my answer— side-note: it is incredibly rude to ask a graduating senior what their post-graduation plans are. I was just trying to make it to the graduation stage, I hadn’t exactly planned my life further than that moment. But as a sufferer of chronic first-child syndrome I knew I could not just go wherever the wind blew me, in fact, I was always resisting the wind’s persistent urging of me away from the path of logic. I needed a plan. I had spent four years exerting my independence, attempting to establish an identity, there was no way I could go back home. And yet here I sit typing this from my childhood bedroom, which is currently stuffed with all of my college memorabilia. I had packed up that independence and identity and brought it underneath the roof of my beloved mother’s home. But! I was not jobless. 

  Instead of going for the glossy starter positions with companies I had interned for I decided to join Americorps. It was a decision so out of the blue my own grandmother still needs constant reassurance that I haven’t gone insane. Why would I, a graduate of a well-respected university who worked hard to gain experience and contacts in a particular field, suddenly drop all of those opportunities to become a volunteer? Well, the answer is simple, I wasn’t happy.

  I had never truly enjoyed college and I felt like I was sacrificing my emotional well-being for the expectations of others. In Eat Pray Love style I dropped everything and went in search of this so-called Happiness. But in our current economic climate, and with the current interest rate on my looming student loan debt, could I really afford happiness? It was a question I asked after having my first interaction with Sallie Mae post-graduation–let’s just say she’s not as generous when you’re no longer a student. I was comparing my current income to my current debt and happiness did not seem like a wise investment, but in the spirit of Oprah, Steve Jobs, Bill Gates and many others I decided to make that risky investment in myself. Now whether or not I’ll have a billion dollar return remains to be seen.

  Like Oprah, Bill, and Steve walking away from convention isn’t easy, especially when you live in a capitalistic society where your self-worth is directly correlated to your bank account. I grew up in a family where corporate America was the logical route. My grandmother had taken it, my mother had taken it, I would lead the third generation of women into that life of power-suits and executive moves. I had never truly imagined my life after college anywhere other than behind a desk, anything else just wasn’t logical for me. There was one problem, I began to dread every interview I went to—and I went to a lot. My resume was getting so many call backs that the average graduating senior would have been pleased, but I was physically sick. My body, my spirit, and my mind did not want to put on that blazer and creased pants and discuss why I would be a great candidate for a particular company. I went to each interview and conducted myself professionally, but I would be praying not to get the job. Was I crazy, yes, but my spirit was screaming it didn’t want to be in corporate America and the screams were becoming so deafening that I finally relented and stopped filling out applications. Now, there was another problem, how was I going to support myself financially?

  The battle of financial security and emotional well-being isn’t new: for some individuals there is no choice and for others the choices are endless. My need for emotional wellness had gotten so desperate that it eclipsed my drive or my willingness to see opportunities that would continue my avoiding it. I finally sat myself down and posed that same question I’d been hounded with for half my entire life: “what do I want to be when I grow up” and while I can’t answer with the same tunnel-vision as Beyoncé I’ve promised myself to try every option that feels right to me with no goal of arriving at one specific answer. I am not interested in having the definition of my life be summed up in a job-title. I am not romantic nor am I privileged enough to ignore the fact that I need money for basic survival, and I do aspire to have financial security, but I have realized that I cannot compromise my emotional well-being for financial gain. I watched two generations of women work with such tenacity in their specific fields for the majority of their lives. That work-ethic is definitely hereditary as I find myself with the same dedication and ambition the only difference is that I cannot fathom the idea of working at one company for thirty consecutive years. I’ve seen and enjoyed the perks of working for corporate America, but I’ve also witnessed the toll it will take on you, the pressure and the stress, and the micro-aggression, and the isolation—especially when you’re a black woman. I couldn’t find my purpose in any of the companies I had interviewed there. Beyond the financial gain I could not see any other reason for being there and that scared me.

  Today I sat in my Americorps training session and my coordinator summarized our job requirement as, “to be happy, to show up with a positive attitude.” It was the most illogical sounding job requirement I had ever heard; work and happiness were not two words I’d ever put in the same sentence and yet here I am at work and happy. Of course the job has just started, so I might be using a different adjective a month from now, but it was such a foreign feeling to wake up and be excited to start my day. I had been so conditioned to dread the work and the school day. I moved around lethargically spending my day counting down the hours until it would finally be over. I couldn’t keep doing that. I couldn’t spend the next thirty years of my life waiting for it to be over. So, I finally submitted to the wind and that Edgar Allan Poe poem and set about my journey on the road less travelled.

  Four years ago I did not see myself here. The person I was when I entered college is vastly different from the person I am now that I’ve left. Call me a naive young optimist sheltered under her mother’s roof and away from life’s harsh reality, but I believe our one true job in life is to be happy, to show up with a positive mind.