Hot Girl Summer: A Contemporary Black Feminist Movement

In summer 2019, Megan Thee Stallion, a popular rapper from Houston, Texas coined the phrase “hot girl summer”. Quickly the phrase became a social media phenomena across Twitter and Instagram as people across the world created tweets, memes, and so much more promoting a “hot girl” lifestyle. Despite the popularity of hot girl summer, the phrase did not escape criticism. Soon a counter movement, known as city boy/hot boy summer, began to gain fervor. Across the internet the battle between hot girls and city boys took place across timelines, Instagram stories, and urban radio platforms. As a social media movement started by a Black woman “hot girl summer” promoted bodily autonomy, sexual freedom, and overall joy for Black women. The rise of a counter social media movement centering Black men shows the range of methods used to police Black women. Nevertheless, hot girl summer, and its critics, offer a contemporary case study in Black feminist theory.

 Before assessing how hot girl summer was co-opted, we must understand its position as an accessible example of Black feminist theory. Megan Thee Stallion did not advertise hot girl summer as Black feminist movement, but the core tenents align with Black feminist theory. On July 17th 2019 Megan tweeted, “Being a Hot Girl is about being unapologetically YOU, having fun, being confident,living YOUR truth , being the life of the party etc” to clarify the meaning of being a hot girl (Pete 2019). The connection between Megan’s tweets and Black feminist theory is an example of the practice bell hooks calls for in “Theory as Liberatory Practice” (hooks 1991). hooks explains that “personal experience is such fertile ground for the production of liberatory feminist theory” (8). The creation of theory from personal experience allows space for theory to be created outside of the academy. Megan Thee Stallion’s status as rapper does not prevent her from being hailed as a theorist.  Her declaration of being “unapologetically you” aligns with existing theory about carefree Black girlhood and countering standards of respectability. Furthermore, studying hot girl summer as Black feminist theory allows for a multi-media approach to understanding Black feminist text.

Hot girl summer is not concerned with standards of respectability. The social media phenomena operated in multiple branches as it flooded the internet as a hashtag and dominated music charts. So as Megan and her fans promoted hot girl summer via social media it also appears as a popular tag in her music as she opens songs with her signature “real hot girl shit”. Fever, her debut album, features multiple examples of songs that center women’s pleasure (2019). Hit songs like “Sex Talk” empower women to take charge of their sexual experiences. The most poignant example of the hot girl summer philosophy in Megan’s music is the single titled “Hot Girl Summer” featuring Nicki Minaj and singer Ty Dolla $ign. Throughout the song Megan gives examples of nonmonogamy, sexual freedom, and bodily autonomy. One example is in her first verse of the song:

Handle me? Who gon’ handle me? 

Thinking he’s a player he’s a member on the team

He put in all that work, he wanna be the MVP

I told him “ain’t no taming me, I love my niggas equally”

As Megan raps about the essence of being a hot girl she is explaining nonmonogamy. Despite never using the textbook term, Megan is offering listeners a method of dating multiple partners using the metaphor of a sports team. Megan is saying that hot girls have options that expand beyond monogamy. Moreover, Megan asserts that no one can tame her. This line declares her as an autonomous person who regardless of relationship status will act in her own best interest. Ultimately, Megan outlines that the hot girl lifestyle is not defined by respectability as she promotes nonmonogamy, sexual freedom, and independence. 

Black feminist theory also explains the critique surrounding hot girl summer. Despite massive success, hot girl summer faced opposition from people across the internet. Critics commented on Megan Thee Stallion promoting promiscuity and carelessness amongst Black women. These criticisms, however, are steeped in racist and sexist standards of Black womanhood that are rooted in a legacy of slavery. Patricia Hill Collins outlines this history in her text “Controlling Images and Black Women’s Oppression” (Hill Collins 1991). Collins’ theory explains that four controlling images of Black womanhood frame how Black women are continually policed: the Mammy, the Matriarch, the Welfare Mother, and the Jezebel. Each image frames the sexualized nature of Black womanhood as an extension of the political economy of slavery and the forced reproduction of Black women to serve chattel slavery in the United States. Using Collins’ work as a foundation allows us to understand criticisms of hot girl summer as contemporary examples of the Jezebel image, “the sexually aggressive woman”(271). 

Overall hot girl summer exemplifies a contemporary movement centering Black women and girls. Megan Thee Stallion’s promotion of a carefree lifestyle allows Black femmes to feel supported amidst a hip hop and rap industry that is founded on misogynoir and hypermasculinity. Ultimately, studying hot girl summer as a contemporary Black feminist movement affords opportunities to examine music and social media as materials in public scholarship.

Somebody Stole Alla Ma Stuff

I was robbed. For the vast majority of my life I have been expected to live, and live well, without the proper tools to do so. I have gone through countless years of school and it is not until this very moment in my third year of undergraduate study that I began to understand how much of my education is founded upon lies, violence, and a historical sleight of hand. Through grade school to now I have been robbed and suffered an ongoing violence of misinformation. An overwhelming number of the books I am given showcase one narrative about my existence: servitude. I have been told over and over that I have no right to pleasure, peace, or power. My place in the world is one of abuse, trauma, and accessory. I cannot stand alone. I cannot be violent. I cannot want. Overall, my issue is quite simple honestly: my imagination has been stolen.

The issue, however, is not merely with the theft of my own imagination. Though I am personally furious about my own robbery and brainwashing, I try to avoid speaking from a place of individualism. There is a larger problem implicated here for all of us. I am concerned with our collective imagination; the Black Imagination. Charlene Carruthers introduces the idea in her text Unapologetic: A Black, Queer, and Feminist Mandate for Radical Movements when she shows us how not studying Black queer feminists robs us of valuable history. She says that only studying Martin Luther King, Jr. limits the Black Imagination of children. But Carruthers’ point is not just applicable to studying social movements. Our continued erasing of figures from our collective memory is dangerous. It confines our understanding of Black life--past, present, and future--to what we are constantly taught. And these teachings, while valuable in their own right, are limiting when the majority of them only offer us one example of Black life: Black men.

A few of the culprits in the theft of our collective Black Imagination are some of Black literature’s greatest participants. I am thinking particularly of the Black Literati of the 1930s, which includes Richard Wright, Alain Locke, and Ralph Ellison. Each of these men held great influence over Black literature. This influence, however, managed to marginalize a large community of writers. As a general practice, it is startling to believe that any one person or group can dictate what is and is not acceptable for an entire genre. Yet, time and time again it happens. Wright, Locke, and Ellison took it upon themselves to write the rules of Black literature. It is even more startling to imagine the amount of praise these “gatekeepers” received for their criticisms. Now, my issue is not with the process of critique itself. In fact, I believe critique to be an act of love. The labor required to engage with someone’s work and give feedback is beautiful. This critique, however, should not be given under the auspices of some all-knowing expertise. This is especially true when the critique comes from someone with very little knowledge of the experience, the story, and the life of the art they are critiquing so vigorously. It is for this limited range and self proclaimed expertise that I hold Richard Wright, and others, accountable.

Literary criticism, especially in Black literature, has a duty to say something and this is where Richard Wright fumbles. He dissects Zora Neale Hurston throughout his piece Between Laughter and Tears,  but his dissection is little more than the petty musings of a disgruntled Black man consumed with his own manhood. Until Black male writers, like Wright, are willing to depart from their own sorted battle with masculinity and explore themselves as more than men, their criticisms surrounding Black women and their work will always fall short of saying something (or anything) worthwhile.

By silencing Zora Neale Hurston (and countless other Black women) in the 1930s, Wright, and others, robbed us all of a vital piece of our Black Imagination. We, in 2019, are just beginning to dive into the full glory of Zora Neale Hurston’s fiction and ethnographic work. She serves as a shining example of the erasure so frequently felt by Black women at the hands of Black men pushing them to the margins. This is criminal. Due to the canonization of so many Black cis men and the silencing of Black women there remains an imbalance in our understanding of who’s voice is valuable. Yet, the clear assumption is that my voice as a poor Black woman is not. My voice  is inherently devalued today because of the foundation set by Black men I have never met. I am still labeled as angry, too much, and loud for daring to be myself. The criticisms Wright and others had of Hurston’s work were not merely two-page critiques of one woman who they deemed unworthy, but became canonized trends of Black women being silenced in Black literature and beyond.

I will no longer be stolen from. Instead, I am committing to undoing the theft in the archives by giving credit to the Black women, and other marginalized folk, who were held captive in the margins by the Black male literati. The principle aim of my reclamation project of a Black femme centered library is simple: I am determined to exist. An essential portion of this reclamation project is unearthing the work of Black femmes who have always made it their business to give life to Black womanhood throughout their work. Black women writers such as Zora Neale Hurston and her literary descendants--bell hooks, Alice Walker, Barbara Smith, Paula Giddings, Ntozake Shange--have consistently explored the full glory of Black womanhood by exploring more than our status as subjugated--they bring us to life. We are so much more than accessories to the lives of Black men.

The larger project of rehabilitating the Black Imagination is one that requires us all to do work of investing in Black Women’s Studies. We must unlearn everything we believe to be the basis for Black progress and Black liberation that fails to include Black femmes. We must recognize the limits of our current Black literary canon. Interrogating this current canon, along with its biases, frivolities, and contradictions, is the start to undoing the violent pilferage committed by the Black male literati of the 1930s; I am reclaiming alla ma stuff.

Six Years of The Read: Black, Queer, & Excellent

As Black History Month begins, I am committing to hyping up all the Black creators who inspire me. So what better way to begin then diving into the podcast which is essential to my self-care routine: The Read. The timing could not be any better as the show approaches it six year anniversary.

The Read is a podcast covering pop culture, Blackness, and all the mess Black folk endure in our daily lives. Its hosts, Kid Fury and Crissle, are a queer Black duo trying to make it in New York. Imagine Will and Grace, but Black, both gay, allergic to respectability, and high almost all the time.  Each week they unwind in the studio and dissect all of the foolishness erupting in the media. Topics range from Tr*mp to hip hop stan wars and everything in between. The two use their marginalized identities as a lense into the many varieties of ills plaguing the world today.

The name of the podcast, The Read, is itself a title rooted in the language of the Black and Latinx queer community. Thus, the title of the podcast pays homage to the queer community and guarantees queerness stays centered. Moreover, it is the perfect description of the show. To read someone is not simply just to insult them. You are tearing them apart with conviction and remained unbothered in the process. Crissle and Kid Fury embody this energy as they dissect the horror of politics, social media, and stan culture. Nobody is safe-- except Beyonce.

While The Read began as a podcast six years ago it has grown into a Black queer empire. There are now tours, event hostings, and merchandise to support the growing Read fandom. The two were even invited by Beyonce as VIP guests to her OTRII tour. If that is not the epitome of fame then I don’t know what more anyone could ask for. Their rise on iTunes podcasts charts have given visibility to Black queer folk who previously found themselves erased within a media world of white queer affluence. Crissle and Kid Fury disrupt the narrative. Their discussions of poverty, domestic violence, and informal education highlight the multifaceted existence of queerness.

The two hosts, however, never bask in their newfound fame. Instead, they shy away from it. Crissle and Kid Fury both talk open and honestly about how their mental health concerns impact their reception of praise. Essentially, they believe they’re undeserving. This reaction illustrates the larger issue of Black folk being conditioned to undervalue ourselves and our achievements. Can anyone blame us? Black folk, particularly Black Americans, have experienced this socialized insecurity for centuries. Our inventions have been stolen. Our movements co-opted. Our culture deemed subhuman. How can we expect to praise ourselves when controlling images constantly tell us the opposite? It’s an unfortunate reality that Crissle and Kid Fury showcase through their podcast.

At the end of each show both Kid Fury and Crissle deliver their weekly read. They dedicate the last 30 minutes of the show to ripping the biggest bullsh*t of the weak a new one. Often reads are dedicated to the big three: racism, homophobia, and transphobia. A recent topic that Kid Fury read was the suicide by nine year old Jamel Myles. His voice shook. You can hear his throat closing. Kid Fury, a Black gay man, is broken. He is confronting the reality of homophobia and its influence on children. He is confronting his own lived experiences of being a queer child. His tone is hopeless. The authenticity and vulnerability of every episode draws us into the show. We are here with them. We experience their ups and downs. We are in this together.

The Read gives us political and pop culture commentary we can relate to. Their language is accessible. They define sociological theory and apply it to our everyday lives. Don’t understand immigration policy? Kid Fury and Crissle break down Tr*mp foolishness. Don’t understand misogynoir? Crissle rips the pastor who disrespected Aretha Franklin’s funeral. They do not shy away from analysis. On the contrary, they make analysis hilarious and relatable. This fills a gap in political and pop culture analysis. Often the language used to analyze these topics in inflated and exclusive to college educated folks. Kid Fury and Crissle use accessible language and humor as tools to educate their audience.

The Read gives me everything I need to push through my week. It is truly an essential portion of my self care routine. Together Kid Fury and Crissle give us the collective sigh that we all need. They go through the weekly mess that makes the social media monster rage and the policies which threaten our human rights. Ultimately, The Read is a powerhouse of Black queer talent that is finally getting the widespread recognition they deserve.

A Lesson in New Beginnings: A 2019 Reading List

As the end of the year swiftly appraoches so many of us are doing our year end recap. What wins did we have this year? What areas of our lives can we improve in 2019? These questions help us reflect on our growth and release negativity. One of my favorite activities for the end of the year is to create a list of books to explore in the new year. Welcome to my 2019 Reading List!

Reading is personal. Each book I read changes my life so I am very intentional with the contents of my library. Every page of these texts is political in their own way. My 2019 reading list centers Black authors, especially Black femmes,  across non-fiction and fiction. Some of are new kids on the block while others are longstanding legends of the literary game, but they all deserve a look in the new year.

1. Becoming by Michelle Obama

Michelle Obama's Becoming is on the bookshelves of so many already this year, but reading this book to kick off the New Year is a must. Obama offers her life story up for us to learn from and assess critically. in 2018 I began to look closely at The Obamas legacy and this book adds to this close look. Essentially the book offers a look at life before the election and all the lessons of her adolescence. 

2. Beloved by Toni Morrison

I know I am the last person to pick up a copy of this revered text. It is my mission to dive deep into Morrison this year. Her novel Song of Solomon is in my top 3 reads of all time so the bar is already high for this classic. 

3. Kindred by Octavia Butler

Octavia Butler is one of the literary greats. Her writing style and story telling are unmatched. Plus, she invented alchemy so we should all take lessons from Butler on how to manifest what is meant for us in 2019 and forever.

4. Black on Both Sides: A Racial History of Trans Identity by C. Riley Snorton

Snorton is offering the true tea on Blackness and gender. This text traces back the history of trans identity and Blackness and connects to modern day anti-Black and anti-trans legislation. I recommend this for anyone trying to increase their trans scholarship as we move beyond gender binary.

5. Jezebel Unhinged: Loosing the Black Female Body in Religion and Culture by Tamura Lomax

Lomax is playing zero games when it comes to Black girlhood and womanhood. She dissects the jezebal trope throughout the Black church and Black culture. If you are seeking a book to give you a deeper understanding of misogynoir then this is it. You're welcome. 

6. Well-Read Black Girl by Gloria Edim

Has any other book taking the internet by storm like this one? I doubt it. Edim's work has taken over #bookstagram with its bright cover and amazing community. Grab a copy of this anthology and get lost in the world of incredibly talented Black woman writers. 

7. Sassafrass, Cypress, and Indigo by Ntozake Shange

Rest in power to a legend. In 2018 Shange transitioned beyond this world, but she left us with so much art. This novel is a great introduction to Shange's work as she explores geography, family, and trauma. You will not be sorry you picked this work up as you become a Shange fan for life. 

8. Assata: An Autobiography by Assata Shakur

Assata Shakur offers us her story in this autobiography. Her fight for Black liberation gives foundation for so much Black radical organizing. Moreover, Shakur is a Black woman at the center of police brutality and racism in the 1970s. What more do you need to go pick this up? I thought so.

9. An American Marriage by Tayari Jones

Marriage, racism, fidelity, and so much more draw us into Jones' hit novel An American Marriage. She offers us an amazing story while analyzing class, race, and gender through the lives of newlyweds in the American South.

10. If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin

Baldwin is one of my literary godfathers and this novel shows us every reason why. Go grab this book and go see If Beale Street Could Talk in theatres right now! 

For Black Girls Who Dream of Lead Roles When Light Skin Ain't Enuf

I am in a television watching minority when I say I have not watched a single episode of Love Is on OWN. A few months ago I saw the trailer on Twitter and was excited-- until I watched it. No shade to Mara Brock Akil, the legend and visionary, but quite frankly the trailer disappointed me from the start. Why? Honestly, the thought of another show centered on the love story of a lighter skinned Black woman was exhausting. 

The Black experience is not a monolith so why does casting give that illusion? As we continue to demand more representation of Black women in media it is our duty to be diligent in which representations we accept. It is our right to demand more. Our concept of representation, especially of Black women, in media cannot remain one-sided. Moreover, that side cannot be overwhelmingly lighter and middle class. As more Black women are cast in blockbuster films and hit series it is becoming increasingly clear that studios, producers, and casting directors are delivering the same monotonous image: light skin women. 

Now, this trope of the light skin lead actress is not new. It has been evident since the beginning of Black women on screen and off. Our discriminatory reality is that lighter skin actresses are deemed more appealing based on their proximity to whiteness. The name of the game is to sell Blackness, but make it palatable. Lighter skin women are stereotyped as more docile, more educated, and thus more acceptable in the grand scheme of white supremacy.

The bottom line: colorism ain't it. Period. The over saturation of lighter skin actresses with loose curls is exhausting. From film to television series to ad campaigns, the media is flooded with racial ambiguity. Brown and darker skin women deserve to see themselves experience love, friendship, and all the mess of being 20 something onscreen just like me. Brown and darker skin women deserve complex characters that reflect the nuance of their own lives.

Their representation and stories are long overdue. 

Aubrey Do Better: A Lesson in Male Entitlement

Few artists have the network or musical catalog to rival Aubrey Drake Graham, but nevertheless with all his influence Drake still is toxic. Despite the wealth, power, and access Drake is not above the misogyny which commands our lives. His newest album Scorpion shows us more and more of the toxic masculinity which hides behind Drake's self-proclaimed nice boy attitude. 

Drake's songs are well produced bops with a common theme: entitlement. A prime example of a hit record sprinkled with entitlement, respectability politics, and manipulation is "Jaded". Praised as one of the higher performing records on the album, this track is full of verses dissing Drake's ex Jorja Smith. Throughout the four minute song Drake illustrates his post relationship mindset. The overall lesson at song's end is simple: Drake needs therapy.

Now, Drake does an excellent job of letting his audience know the intent of this track off top-- he's hurt, jaded, and not willing to repair the relationship. Yet, the song goes deeper than surface level post break-up pettiness. Drake opens the song by declaring his ex used him and thus owes him for her career. That's strike one. Drake is regurgitating the classic narrative of male ownership over female creativity and success. This erases her talent and work ethic. She can only exist as a product of everything he has done for her. As the song continues he resents her for the time spent with her family and the time he spent getting to know them. Simply put, Drake demonizes his ex for forcing him to engage in healthy quality time with her loved ones. It is not centered on him so it is unnecessary. Essentially, Drake is crediting himself for her wins while also declaring that the intimate time they spent together as a waste. 

Overall, Aubrey needs help. His relationships with women are reliant on his dominance as he dates women deemed lesser than him. Again and again Drake preys on younger women or women of a different social class. Then, he produces music which glorifies himself as a savior they were not ready to evolve for. We saw this frequently in earlier albums when repeatedly praised himself for liberating women from strip clubs (removing them of all agency). For the millions of Black women that consume Drake's music the larger question is when do we divest from him in similar ways we divested from R. Kelly? Do we continue to support Drake's more subtle brand of misogynoir indefinitely? Ultimately, regardless of our choice to divest Drake exemplifies the issue of entitlement at the core of the nice man narrative. 

My Mother Taught Me To Make A Home of Hip Hop

Growing up my mother and I lived by our dollar store Tinker Bell calendar tacked to the kitchen wall. It told us when school was canceled, when bills were due, and when money came in. No moves got made without consulting our calendar first. Each month Mommy filled in the important weekends and times to keep us on track. Quickly the weeks got filled in with blue and black pen marking out our every move. Each year without fail she circled March 9th in black sharpie. It was our day of mourning. It was on March 9th, 1997 when my mother lost one of her best friends, Christopher Wallace--aka The Notorious B.I.G.

Now my mother never met Biggie, but she knew him well. They bonded over snare drums and high hats and ad libs. During the aftermath of her parent’s divorce and her sister’s battle with addiction, my mother found a home in his albums. It was her safe space. She made a home out of Biggie's albums. While I was growing up my mother let me into that home she built of his lyrics. He was not just a rapper in our house. He was the rapper. His bars held weight with my mother whose music rotation usually restricted to neo-soul and R&B.

My mother’s relationship with Biggie Smalls showed me the strength of hip-hop. It wasn’t just music because music is never just anything. It was about finding our peace, our way and making homes of our favorite songs. The pillars of hip-hop, our icons, are timeless. Their words transcend time and mortality because their messages live on. These stories are our modern day griots telling tales of Blackness across the Diaspora.

As I got older I made my own homes of my favorite artists. When I had no words they lift me up. The words of  Lauryn Hill, Noname, and (much to my mother’s dismay) Tupac tell stories that move generations. Their lyrics tell stories of streets I am surrounded by. They give a voice to everything teachers, administrators, and respectability told me I couldn’t say.

To this day I thank my mother for teaching me to make a home of hip hop. In the bars I see myself and my life. I piece together my childhood and make sense of it all over masterful production.