As I’m testing out what is looks like for Blackstack to transition into column writers, ’s topic pitch was a topic that just made sense. So, I’m not going to do too much talking; I’m going to let the writing speak for itself today.

Do the stars still shine the same?

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Even if they don’t wear capes or knock bad guys into next week, we all have superheroes in our lives. The people near and dear to our hearts, who accomplish things we could never dream of. For some of us, those people were presidents, for others, those heroes were aunts and uncles, and many had a mix of the two. Superheroes don’t come a dime a dozen, and that scarcity is exactly why they were so pivotal growing up. For me, those heroes were and still are the ever-beloved and criticized rap superstar.

As a kid obsessed with every lyric and verse, he could spit in the mirror; there was no one more important than the biggest rapper at the time. Growing up, that title shifted between Jay, Kanye, Wayne, Eminem, 50, and a few others depending on the week. Their songs became the backdrops for lunchroom debates, and their beats turned into poorly replicated pencil beatings. Safe to say the heroes I grew up on had a profound impact on who I am, but that’s a given. That’s not what made these dudes superheroes. What makes a superhero isn’t the number of bad guys they beat up or the girls they save. What truly makes a hero is the persona. It’s the level of mystique and responsibility that this crop of rappers had. Jay moved like a boss, Kanye moved like a lovable nerd, Wayne had a banger come out every five minutes, you name it, they did it. There was a level of prestige to how they moved around the industry. They weren’t so easily accessible like the rappers are now.

Even as I bring up accessibility, I don’t believe that’s what killed the rap superstar. I believe its death is far more complicated than blaming the internet. Look no further than Drake, Kendrick Lamar, and J Cole for a definitive example of how accessibility creates a star. All three of these rap hall of famers blew up during the blog era. During this time, we had articles, docuseries, and countless interviews geared around spitters trying to find success. The rise of the internet created a bridge between the artist and the fan that didn’t exist before. And over 15 years later, all three of those artists still hold “larger than life” personas. Which begs the question, what truly killed the rap superstar?

Does my momma know you?

When I think of a superstar, I think of someone who transcends the space they operate in. I think of someone who is truly larger than life. Someone who wouldn’t appear real if they walked in the room right now. There are some who illicit that response, but that feeling is minimal between the MCs. It feels like one or two hold that power when 10 to 12 used to in the old days. A superstar is a Lebron James, a Tiger Woods, a Serena Williams. Even a Patrick Mahomes or a Lamar Jackson qualify as a “larger than life” figure. In the current rap game, there are maybe three to five names who garner that respect, but none feel like living events. When I ask myself why i think back to my mother knowing who Chance The Rapper is. For teens growing up in the 2010s chance was the chosen one. He was gearing up to be the successor to the big three after 2016’s Coloring Book. And for reasons well documented, he never achieved that status, but that isn’t the point. The point is that a young boy from the south side of Chicago had hip hop and the world in his palm. He garnered a level of notoriety and prestige outside of rap music that I haven’t seen since, and I don’t understand why.

It’s a bit hard to quantify that prestige without sounding like a hater or an old head. I’ll be the first to admit that newer artists like Rod Wave, Youngboy, and Veeze are cold as hell. Of all the younger artist it’s ironically Youngboy who comes closest to capturing that mystique. Something about him is ominous, enticing, and captivating all before you hear a word. He, Travis Scott, and Lil Baby are the closest this era’s come to truly becoming a rap superstar. The best way I can quantify the gap between star and superstar is this. Are you known outside of your circle? Would people across the world know you by face alone? Would you get a popstar featured on your song and it help the popstar? A superstar is someone who holds the world in any given moment. Not someone who is wrestling for the world with three others.

I think the death of the rap superstar is a culmination of a few things. The internet has done wonders for the world of hip hop, and there’s no denying that. There’s also no denying that the mystique behind the artist is gone. Before the boom of social media, it was a rarity to see an artist. We didn’t grow up seeing Beyoncé on TikTok or watching Kanye walk down the street on Twitch. When we did get glimpses, they felt like memories we needed to cherish. Now we know more than ever before and probably a bit too much.

There’s also too many heroes trying to be superheroes nowadays. Back in the day, everyone had a distinct place. Some people were stars, and others were all stars. You could climb up a tier for a year or two, but the top spots were etched in stone. Now the top spot no longer truly exists. It’s been filled by a gambit of thrones orbiting a kingdom that no longer exists. You have the superstars of old still kicking, but no one’s come to take their place. No one has stuck their flag in the ground and demanded their turn. Those who tried have fallen to the wayside and only somewhat recovered.

Lastly, I think the rap superstar died when so many of our young stars died. Acts like XXXTENTACION, Pop Smoke, JuiceWrld, and a few others all met untimely deaths. While it’s impossible to say who would’ve risen to the top, it’s easy to say they all had a shot. Perhaps the string of deaths left a vacancy that only a ghost can fill.

Ultimately, I think the rap superstar died the day the mystique went away. When the curtains pulled up and the mask came off, the fans learned a bit too much. When the fans learn a bit too much, we start to judge too harshly. We start calling everyone a tryhard or a loser instead of embracing their art. It might be crazy to say, but did we stan so hard we killed the superstar? Does the blood lay on the same hands that beg for a new king? I’ve struggled to piece together a perfect answer, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe what killed the rap superstar was the fan looking to know everything.

ALLDRESSEDUPP

Too many interest and Too much time on my hands

By B4

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My father was a functioning alcoholic, and he died a month before his 61st birthday a year and a half ago. This topic is not talked about enough within our community. I personally struggle with alcoholism, and if I’m not careful, I can find myself drinking my problems away in between work obligations. These are not things I share with a badge of honor, but to display how common this is in our community.

I’m excited to see the conversations in the comment section after you read Danielle’s submission.

The Silent Killer: Alcoholism and Addiction

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I am taking a suggestion from Jacquie on stating my why for writing. So this piece is a vulnerable one, and I think we don’t talk enough about the hidden struggles we as Black people have with substance abuse, and especially alcoholism. I felt this was a piece that needed to be shared in Blackstack for us.

I felt there was more to be learned about how addiction and alcoholism affect us in the Black community. How our families and ancestors suffered in silence. My own story of suffering sparked this. I got sober 8 years ago, and when I did, I learned both my grandfathers suffered with alcoholism when I was growing up, and I never knew. My mom and my dad both told me getting help back in the day for mental health or any addiction was frowned upon because they didn’t want to go seek help from anyone, especially white doctors. They also believed a lot could be prayed away, or that it was weak to admit you had a problem. I have family members, including my own father, who are currently functioning alcoholics. I thought that was a title I would die with if I didn’t stop drinking. So I truly believe that the passing down of the skill of hiding, escaping, and choosing something to numb away feelings runs deep. I can only imagine what my ancestors went through with no support or a safe place to work through the pain, struggles, and suppression of feelings because they felt unworthy, ashamed, and forbidden in some cases to speak on.

Some research…

I am not a doctor or expert in any manner. But the more I read about how alcohol affects us differently than other races, it stuck with me that there are answers in the silence. It all leads back to our ancestors and what they suffered. What they passed on down to us. The courage and strength they called it to heal on their own. To let God heal it. To let silence heal it. Shit, even drinking it away was the norm. We would avoid it because we ain’t got time to be talking about our problems. To move on or distract ourselves with more important things. We have to raise kids, we have to go to work, and we sure ain’t gonna be talking to no doctor about our personal matters. Who wants to listen to that complaining? The white man caused so much of our suffering, and they are the professionals who should seek to help us? Who got that kind of money to waste on talking about them feelings? Those are the words I hear from my ancestors.

When I got sober…

In my experience and where I live, 12-step programs do not have a lot of Black people in them, and they originated from white men. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful I got sober and used a program. I have spoken on panels and attended meetings, and there is not much of a representation of us other than in closed online meetings. Once I started to go to more of the online spaces with Black people, I started to hear the similarities of how far back addiction goes in our lineages. Mental health and addiction resources were very few and scarce back in the day because of racism and lack of money. As the research says, Black people are not the leading demographic to die from addiction, but we do have higher alcohol related illnesses that stem from genetics, how and where we were raised, and lack of community resources. When I look at my addiction story, all I wanted to do was escape. I didn’t talk to my family and share what I was experiencing. I learned early on it wasn’t safe to share them. All the feelings of unworthiness that I let build up. All the verbal abuse I allowed. All the missed opportunities to speak up, stand up for myself out of fear. I did not even know I had a family that suffered in silence too. But what is most interesting to me is the WHY did I drink; because us Black people, especially our elders and ancestors, hid what they were struggling with. We withdrew from sharing our feelings, our demons and escaped true emotions and instead chased substances to avoid having feelings at all. It was simple; it was easier to avoid than deal. It was what we call strength.

How much did our ancestors suffer? I wonder how much they endured in silence.

Silence is the REAL killer!

When I was deep in my addiction, it was very silent in the end. I drank in silence with no friends or company. I suffered in silence, no one to hold me. I cried in silence with no one to wipe my tears. I chose a relationship with a tall, slender bitch named vodka. She carried me through my darkest days. She was smooth, hot, and she fed every desire I had. She was there for me to sit with, sleep with, and wake up to. In the end, I didn’t even want to share her with others nor did I want to break up with her as much as I knew the damage she did to me. She was my kryptonite and my answer to everything. She gave me the super powers to avoid all emotions. She had me in a chokehold for years. Drinking her last drops like it was my last drink of life. I craved her, and would shake obsessively if she wasn’t in my body. She even gave me the courage to be whoever I wanted to be without shame. But that person hurt people and my selfishness needed no awards. What a bitch that bottle and her possessiveness was. The saddest and sickest love story.

My ancestors heard the call of my desperation…

When I got sober, I knew my grandma on my dad’s side helped me from the spirit realm. She was not alive when I hit rock bottom and got sober, and yet I felt her presence when I got on that plane to rehab. I truly believe that me getting sober was to heal my lineage. Heal for every ancestor who didn’t get the chance or the courage to heal their pain. It was painful learning to feel again. When I got sober, I had to face every feeling without numbing it. It was hard and still is. Going through breakups, challenges, and facing fears like raw-dogging it? Not fun. Even now, sober and looking back at what pain I caused my children and others, I see how much the disease of addiction stole from me. But I felt my ancestors needed me to feel their pain to heal their pain. To learn to be comfortable in the uncomfortable. To push through and not choose the bottle or the drugs. To understand the root cause of my pain. To learn why I felt unworthy, chose the wrong people, and let people hurt me. I spoke up about my journey in my self-published book during Covid. I am certain Spirit and my ancestors were in those pages. The title The Gift Is In My Wounds was inspired by seeing my wounds as gifts. Gifts I used to heal myself and my ancestors. And to be a Black woman sharing recovery out loud. This opened the door to learning my spiritual gifts and they are still evolving. I am uncovering so much the more I honor my truth and listen to Spirit.

How can we as a community eliminate silence?

As a community, I feel like we need to be more aware and intentional to reach out to those we care about. To seek a safe space, be a safe space. If I wasn’t emotionally neglected in my young age, or told what to do by white religion, maybe I would have opened up about the things I was ashamed of, was curious about or feared. Things like being gay and trying to pray it away. Things like never getting to be a child because of the Jehovah’s Witness religion I grew up in that sheltered me. Things like understanding how to communicate my feelings instead of shy away from them. Maybe if I had knowledge of resources near me I could seek them out. Maybe if I got to hear more about Black women or others struggling it would have encouraged me to speak up about my own struggles. Maybe if I took an extra minute to reach out to my friend who has been MIA, it would give an opportunity for me to hold space. And maybe that call would be what they needed to be vulnerable instead of choosing to escape to a bottle or a drug. Maybe instead of keeping my feelings bottled up, I could instead reach out to someone who I can trust. Maybe I could see that getting help is not weak but strength. Maybe if I accepted it is ok to not be ok then I could honor my feelings and my truth. These are some of the thoughts that cross my mind when I think about us and addiction. We only got us!

What would I tell the bitch named Vodka today….

You stole many years from me to be present with my children. You took away my power of choice. You showed me what love is not. I didn’t know true intimacy because of you. You stole the moments I could have shown up for my loved ones. You sold me on temporary solutions that resulted in pain and chaos. You pretended to be my cheerleader and my courage. You made me want you even when I knew I should have walked away. You stole many memories where I blacked out because you won and took me from reality. You made me drink you warm instead of in a cute glass with ice. You made me less than a classy drinker with a pretty face. Instead, you turned me into an ugly drunk, drinking you straight up with no chaser and without any care in the world. I drank the cheapest you because I needed you that much. I stole from others to get you. I cheated on others to find you. I lied to get you and keep you. I even lied about our relationship in fear of what others would think. I chose you time and time again over myself. I cried for you in my dreams. I broke out in uncontrollable sweat until I could hold you and taste you. So today I say fuck you. You didn’t win. I got my power back. I learned to face my feelings and use the tools in my spiritual toolbox. My children love and respect me today. I got to make amends with those I hurt because of you. My ancestors are protecting me from your abuse, and they got me. All those feelings you got to hold, you no longer do. When I see you walking by today, I smile. I smile because I don’t crave you. I smile because I don’t need you. I smile with gratitude because of my ability to sit with my feelings, and speak on them. I smile because I share with others the abuse you caused. I smile today because even though it is hard to feel, I choose to instead of thinking you will save me. I smile today because I am ok living life without you. I smile today because I don’t miss you. I smile today because I WON. I will continue to recover out loud and proud. You may have killed some years of my life, but you didn’t kill my spirit. Silence is a place I will never be with you again.

Make it Moon-Sense

Hello! In this space I share ways I work with the moon. My spiritual journey started with sobriety. I am a Reiki Master and intuitive reader. I share how the moon has helped inspire me through meditations, lunar cycle guides, and written word.

By Danielle

Did you make it to the end? You are a real one!

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To be Black in America is to be stabbed with a double-edged sword, because while there is great pride in being a Black American, there is also sorrow that is equally present. People mistake me for being from Ethiopia, or comment on my high cheekbones in relation to being Native American; however, my response of being Black American is never enough to satisfy their curiosity.

Ayana’s submission gives us a language for this experience that happens time and time again. I mean, it just happened to me in my Lyft ride on Sunday leaving ’s author talk at the Bay Area Book Festival, but I’ll tell that story another day—you gotta read this Black Read exclusively written for Blackstack!

The Envy of Ancestral Belonging

An incomplete journey of Black reconnection to the past

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Growing up, I lived in an area surrounded by culture. There was a little bit of everything there - a well-hidden Jamaican spot that only the locals knew, Latine vendors selling fruits and snow cones off the side of the road, an Arabian shop with the best fragrances and pashmina scarves I could get my hands on. Culture was engrained into the roots of our community. This was the Highway: A mixing pot of low-income minority folks on one side and higher-income, predominantly white or Asian folks on the other. In my early childhood, I didn’t feel a disruption in this reality; that is, till my identity was questioned.

I entered middle school and started getting asked where I was from. My answer was always a jumbled mix of Atlanta and South Florida and a whole lot of NOVA (that’s Northern Virginia, part of the DMV - DC, Maryland, and Virginia). I’d always get confused looks back, with folks asking me, “No, where are you really from?” and trying to guess if I’m Ethiopian or Caribbean or something else entirely. I remember feeling a twinge in my spirit every time that question was asked. Sitting in these moments, a couple of revelations hit my head.

For one, my middle school was predominantly white and Asian, with sprinkles of African and Caribbean students that stayed together. Two, at the time, I was called an “Oreo” by a few white classmates, which meant I didn’t fit neatly in either of these factions. I wasn’t considered Black enough, not that there were many Black students in the first place. That twinge blossomed quickly into an underlying envy of belonging and an identity crisis that I’ve carried quietly for the rest of my time here.

Once I entered high school and college, I was called back to something familiar. I remember seeing different organizations hold cultural events and celebrations. They’d hold up flags, sing and dance to music, dress in cultural garments, and talk about traditions, passed down stories, and who had the best food. These moments reminded me of my childhood all over again and acted as a push to learn more about Black culture and find my community. In due time, my newly woven AAVE filled the gaps in my “proper English”, my box braids and goddess locs adorned my 4c hair, and my obsession with gold jewelry felt… ancestral.

There’s that word. The word I heard tossed around in my African American studies course. The word I was meant to venerate and revere. Ancestors. My family rarely spoke of who came before them. For some, it was due to a lack of knowledge, one of many stories failed to pass down. For others, it was because of how dysfunctional and disconnected our family is both on my mom and dad’s side. I felt that twinge again. I hadn’t felt this feeling in years at this point, and I couldn’t put my finger on why now. I was settling into my Blackness, so why was I still sensing something incomplete? Ah, that’s it. I spent my time learning Black history, the history of the whole, without discovering my history, the history of self. Who were my ancestors? Where did they come from? What traditions and stories did they carry?

I thought I filled my cup with enough answers to settle down. That the makeshift home Black culture built would ease these questions. But it didn't, and what a woeful discovery it was. To hear the voices of the past all fuzzy and unfamiliar yet being called to listen. It’s maddening. It’s alienating. It’s disorienting. But it’s also quintessentially Black all at the same time. This erratic and disjointed journey with its roots soiled in slavery’s poison has made my self discovery complex and laced in bitterness, and now, entering my 25th year, I’m aiming to heal this ancestral wound. Some answers I hope to find through ancestry tests and records, thanks to my boyfriend’s help, while others I’ll have to resort to uncovering through my parents, grandparents, and maternal great-grandmother, our matriarch and only elder we have. This journey has taught me that “belonging” isn't something I find. It's something I build, excavate, and reclaim. Perhaps that's the most ancestral thing of all.

Tales of a Black Woman

culture • entertainment news • marketing strategy thought-provoking takes to trending brands & topics ♡

By Ayana Williams ♡

More Black Reads:

Tales of a Black Woman

Some of y'all hate Mirrors but love Vanities

Now before y’all jump me through your screens, lemme be clear who I’m referring to. I’m talking about the “I don’t understand how we got here” folks and the “This isn’t the America I wanted” folks who stroked the ego of civil rights snatchers and progressive haters. I’m talking to the “It’s not my job to speak up” folks who sit in their privileged comfi…

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4 months ago · 6 likes · 1 comment · Ayana Williams ♡

Tales of a Black Woman

It's Black History Month, and I'm feeling conflicted. | S1:E3

It’s a bit of a vulnerable and scattered episode, but I said imma keep it real…

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4 months ago · 4 likes · Ayana Williams ♡

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The Atlanta-fication of Southern Gastronomy

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Gastronomy is the art and science of good eating, and the South’s was once known for its homestyle cooking and southern hospitality that enveloped every patron with a warm sense of love and care, staving off hunger and replacing it with an almost unwavering fullness that kept for what felt like eternities. Today, that is far from the truth, with Atlanta being the main culprit as to why.

Atlanta is a city that started as a safe haven for Black people in Georgia and has now grown into the Black Mecca of America and more importantly, the voice of the South. With its historical significance as being one of the major hubs where Black leaders formulated plans for the Civil Rights Movement and its later rise as a major cultural influence in the entertainment industry, Atlanta has become the South’s most notable city, and it is where its reputation and representation resides. Smaller cities in the South look to Atlanta for inspiration when it comes to staying on trend in everything from art to food, and it is under this direction, that the South is suffering. But how?

Since the 90s, Atlanta’s claim to fame has been its status as the entertainment capital of the South, and with that comes a need for nightlife. Wealthy entertainers and ballers with similar cash flow both needed places to enjoy the night while spending exorbitant amounts of money. Entrepreneurs saw the financial potential and began opening up nightclubs and venues that became wildly successful and immortalized in songs. Now you may ask, “What does this have to do with restaurants?”

Restaurants have an extremely high failure rate, with most not making it past the first 2 years. Profitably is extremely hard to reach; nightclubs on the other hand, don’t always suffer the same fate, and in the 2010s, restauranteurs and entrepreneurs alike began to notice.

The business model of a nightclub is somewhat different from that of a restaurant’s, with nightclubs dramatically inflating prices to inflate the egos of said ballers and restaurants focusing solely on hospitality and the quality of food to ensure patrons come back. Nightclubs can overcharge in the name of creating an atmosphere and aesthetic that allows the customer to live their wildest dreams, if but for only one night. People are desperate to escape from reality, and nightclubs sell fantasy, giving them the perfect conditions to make profit quickly and consistently. This is where the problem enters.

Restauranteurs are entrepreneurs, and no matter the case, the goal is to make money. So what did they do? Change the model. Once they realized they could sell an aesthetic and vibe, they stopped focusing on what was originally important: good service and good food. In doing so, the restaurant scene in Atlanta has become the subject of social media satire.

The entire country now understands Atlanta to be the place where you go to eat overpriced, subpar food with grass walls and DJs who play Tevin Campbell at maximum volume. Service is lackluster, and 20% gratuity is added to every check, no matter the party size. Even notable food critics like Keith Lee have taken note of this and unsuccessfully tried to disprove the rumors.

It is sad that this is what has become of the food scene and even sadder that this culture has permeated throughout the Southern region. Even in places like Montgomery, AL, this style of dining has begun making its entrance into the food scene. Why?

The simple answer: capitalism. Black Southerners have always been known for making do with what little was given. Historically, they have always been the poorest demographic with progress no where in sight. This class immobilization may have been hard, but it did have one positive: it forced them to rely on one another for community, and it is this reliance that created the family environment that birthed Southern hospitality and food. In relatively recent times, however, Black people have been given more opportunities to uplift themselves, and one of those opportunities is ownership.

Being an entrepreneur or restauranteur is a great form of upward mobility, but it is important to the culture that we not lose what made owning a restaurant so great. Food builds community and connection, and shifting the focus away from that onto financial gain and fantasy does harm to the culture and its people. If there is only focus on selling fantasy, our reality becomes harsh and cold. No longer are others viewed as family, but as a means to an end. The culture then becomes bastardized into ideas of what people think Southern hospitality is, rather than its reality. This makes a mockery out of everyone involved. So, what can be done?

It is important that the core values of Southern gastronomy be maintained; those values being delicious food, great service, and community. Aesthetics can still be an aspect in the culture, but that should not be the sole item sold. A healthy balance of all should be incorporated into the business model, ensuring that a sense of self and identity is maintained.

Evolution is a beautiful thing, and as Southern gastronomy evolves, new cultures and aspects of dining are added to improve the experience. However, it is imperative that the same love and care that those born from it received, is given back to it.

Thinking Out Loud

Whatever comes to mind. I write the things I'm afraid to say in real life.

By Mariel Lavette

Check out more of ’s work that was recently published by our friends at on the importance of the library. To add my two cents on the subject, the Black Panther Party used the West Oakland Public Library as a third space to organize. The time is now, my nigga.

Every Nigga Deserves

Go to the library, my nigga.

Libraries have always played an important role in neighborhoods by serving as a site for community building as well as a place for gaining knowledge without barriers. With just a library card, any member of society, rich or poor, can learn just about anything and use any resource available at no charge to transform their lives…

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23 days ago · 131 likes · 1 comment · Every Nigga Deserves and Mariel Lavette

New book alert, I’ve had the pleasure of reading ’s book, The Price of Exclusion, and everyone needs this one on their bookshelves. If you are in one of the cities on her book tour, pull up! You’ll see me at the Oakland stops!

Fortify

The Price of Exclusion 2026 Summer Book Tour

FORTIFY…

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19 days ago · 3 likes · 4 comments · Nicole Carr

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The intention behind publishing exclusively written work on Sundays is to tap into the cultural remembrance of Sundays and the community that came with it. I’m feeling the push into a direction that captures that essence, but with a layer of substance woven in that many of us are searching for.

We have questions where answers are patiently waiting for us to discover. Our writing practice is our way of discovery of not only the answers we seek, but the parts of ourselves we try to hide.

How to See Ourselves in Holy Books

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I've been wondering, and maybe you have as well. How come whenever I read the bible or quran or any commentative work dealing with philosophical matters, I hear an elderly white man's voice? He's narrating to me like I'm watching the Lord of the Rings or some medieval Western European folklore. I bet you hearing it right now.

On top of that, anytime I read, say, a chapter of the bible, why did I often depict the characters as caucasians in my head? Films such as The Ten Commandments (1956), The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965), and The Passion of the Christ (2005) (the animated film The Prince of Egypt is an exception) didn't help either, as they'd often star all European casts, leaving me wondering, where do I fit into these stories?

The three major monotheistic religions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam) and even the faiths of the far East can trace their origins to Ancient Egypt and the Nile Valley Civilizations. Many of the monuments and structures that millions flock to today have stood the literal test of time thanks to the ingenuity of Africans. 3,000 years prior to the birth of Jesus (Yeshua) the Christ, the Ancient Egyptians had a savior complex named Heru etched in stone in the temples of Edfu. Before the prophets Moses & Muhammad arrived on the scene, the laws of Ma’at were being followed by Africans embodying the ideals of morality, order, harmony, law and justice. What we often call African history or Black history is actually the missing pages of world history. Conveniently omitted from the atriums of respectable discourse of the history of humankind.

It's time we reclaim our rightful place. Read your interpretation of these stories. They whitened it up, so you too now blacken it up.

According to Genesis, the Most High created man and woman with the soil of the Earth. I ain't never seen plain dirt before. All them names that end in “ah” and “yah”? That sure don't sound like European names to me anymore. Why did it take the Israelites, what should've been a 6-day trip to Canaan, 40 years? You know niggas don’t be following directions. All them sacrifices and burnt offerings they was doing? Niggas was putting meat on the grill for YAWH! Samson never cutting his hair? That brother must've had locs and was hydrating them with shea butter. King Solomon was carried in a palanquin (Song of Solomon Chapter 3 Verse 9), much like kings in West Africa have been for centuries, even till today.

Even Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus had to hide in Egypt, of all places, for some time, and when it was time for him to die on a tree, an African man named Simon of Cyrene (modern day Libya) was compelled into carrying his cross with him. When it was revealed to John (one of his disciples) how Jesus was seated on a throne, having “feet like burnt brass and white woolly hair,” that sounds like somebody's elder.

History matters.

POS

Place where I can be me I guess.

By Paul Opoku

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The Tale of a Magical Negro

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I grew up in a white town in Southern Indiana surrounded by sundown towns. Jasper, Indiana, to the north of us, was once the KKK capital of Indiana. To the south, Santa Claus, Indiana, a town known for burning a cross when a Black high school team came to town in 1988. I was born two years later.

The town consisted of 4 Black kids, 2 light-skinned and 2 dark-skinned. All 4 of us were children of the system adopted by white folks. We were basically sent to the heart of white America, alone. White supremacy came at us from inside and outside of the home.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I got treated way better. An example I can give is that almost no one gave me shit for openly wanting to vote for Obama. The dark-skinned kid in my grade got fried for it. A group of guys confronted him and said you are only voting for him because you are Black.

Me: I am voting for Obama.

A guy who’s a known democrat: Yeah, but you aren’t doing it just because you are Black.

Me: Aren’t you voting for Obama? *stares in Black confusion*

Colorism allowed me the blind eye needed to eventually escape. My proximity to whiteness gave them the illusion I had some kind of loyalty to them.
Still, none of us got a free pass. We all scrambled to find ourselves a role within white supremacy for us to survive.

I found myself in the role of the magical negro. Being light-skinned gave them the false sense of security to trust me with their secrets (they viewed me as a house nigga). Making it a role for me to easily fit into. I learned, if you help white people with their problems, they will not give you problems; for the most part.
Taking care of white people’s problems became a part of my life. When I was almost out of college, I offered to take a former high school classmate’s dad to his house because he drank too much at a wedding (I was back at home to attend it). On the drive home, this 50-something-year-old white man started asking me if he raised his kids right and wanted some financial advice. I said, “Your kids are alright enough and buy land”. I was able to answer this in a single sentence because white people came to me with problems, a lot.

As a kid, I did not understand what I was doing. All of this subconsciously happened. I never truly understood why white people just came to me with their problems. I don’t think they did either. We were the first Black people in the town, at least in recent memory. I’m gonna blame Oprah because that’s the only Black person they all knew. The way she could guide white people through their shit on national TV was astounding. Wait, did Oprah influence me into being a magical negro? I digress.

The aftermath of realizing I was a racial trope has impacted my life greatly. Forcing me to constantly analyze friendships and family relationships. Cutting family members out of my life and ending 5+ years of friendships has become the outcome. I have a hard time believing anything that comes out of a white person’s mouth at this point. I’ve been fooled once; the next one is on me.
I honestly didn’t think of it as a bad thing until I was far enough away from home to see what was really happening. I fixed people’s problems; how could that be bad? Now I understand I was using my magic to serve massa. I wasn’t using my magic for me or the community.

Which brings me to the current day. They don’t need our help right now. They are solely responsible for the state of the nation. They know this, but don’t want to do it on their own. Using that term, I recently questioned (ally) and saying we are all allies. They are trying to summon our magic to take care of their problems.

We are in dark times. It’s no time for us to be giving our magic away to white folks. We need to use our magic to strengthen our communities and prepare. They didn’t think one of their own could possibly be a fascist dictator. We did everything we could to warn them. Now we must protect ourselves for the years to come. Don’t be their magical negro.

Stay woke,
Loc

If I Speak...

“Black excellence” is just the PR department for Black capitalism

Last month, a video circulated of LeBron James talking disparagingly about Memphis to a group of white men while they were playing golf. He’s not saying anything different from what fellow league players have said about the city’s accommodations, but the optics of this video are terrible: LeBron, surrounded by white men and obvious markers of wealth, us…

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a month ago · 308 likes · 14 comments · Tayo Bero

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I’m cooking up something new for the curation of this newsletter, and I’m really excited to get this thing rolling as we are quickly approaching our second year anniversary of starting Blackstack! With that said, if you filled out the form to be a column writer, be on the lookout for an email from me this week to get the ball rolling on that.

For everyone else, I am going to open a submission for specific topics. I will still read through them and select the way I normally do, but this will give us a chance to compromise on how the features are selected. Today, I’m keeping it simple, so enjoy the vibes!

This was a read that truly hit home for me, now has me playing A Seat At The Table vinyl in the living room while curating this newsletter. The energy has been intense, but through it all, I’ve been maintaining this high level of gratitude. Have you been feeling this, too?

the indigo flame

those cranes really are in the sky

It’s been a while since I last wrote. It’s not that I didn’t want to—words are there (as evidenced by my drafts). My spirit has been exhausted! Use your imagination to find a better word. That’s been me…

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a month ago · 2 likes · Nneoma

If you haven’t noticed, I love a good storyteller. This was my first time coming across ’s work, and the title had me hooked from the start. It’s a feel-good read, especially if you’ve been thinking about what community looks and feels like, not just online, but offline first.

AKWRD ARKV

Who Locks The Screen Door?

I met Brittttttt in August of 2008. We had both just graduated high school and found ourselves giving a year to change the world…

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a month ago · 1 like · ZAi ANDRé

I also wanna troll for a second and let some of y’all know the way you eat your grits is disguising, and I judged. However, it does not take my love for you away; I just will not be serving grits ever at any Blackstack brunch kind of function.

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As a Black mother, wash day has always been a day that all parties involved hate more than anything. However, the smile on that little girl’s face when her hair is done makes the experience not only worth it, but the moment priceless.

Even if you are a boy mom, you were once just a girl.

I came across a video of someone explaining the true origins of Mother’s Day, and how the day was meant to be a movement, not this commercialized experience to opt into capitalism. It’s got me thinking about how much Black women need a movement right now, and Black mothers.

Rather than getting us all fired up on a day for rest and appreciation, based on how we’ve been groomed to celebrate, ’s submission felt right.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the Black mothers in the Blackstack community!

Hair Day, Softened

Written by

A couple days before Sunday would arrive, I would make sure to announce to my six and a half year old daughter, “We are doing your hair on Sunday.” She’d look up at me, a frown growing on her face, and I would see her eyes well with tears.

It is a full day of preparation with her type 4 curls:

undo the braids (or style),
massage the scalp,
wash,
let the conditioner sit,
rinse,
massage the scalp,
detangle,
blow dry (sometimes),
style (or braid)
admire the work in front of the mirror

In the past, she’d scream her way through it all, high and sharp. No matter what ice cream or candy was put in her hands, no matter if Ada Twist the Scientist was playing on the television, no matter if she was given the luxury of having a tablet in her hands.

Her father would hide in his office with the door closed. Every so often he’d poke his head out the door with his eyes bulging, “Is it really that bad? Does it hurt that much?” he’d ask me.

By this time, my face is stern, my shoulders are tight, and I’ve been praying for at least three hours for patience. I would look at him, shrug my shoulders, “It’s different for everyone…but I have to do this, she has to go through it.”

Like her, I, too, began to dread hair day. But I knew better: when she was about three or four years old, before she knew how to read, I went searching for a book that I could read to her. I discovered Wash Day with Mama by Monica Mikai, a story that framed hair day as a special moment to spend time with mom because mom was turning home into a spa.

My daughter lit up when I read the title, and she was focused as my voice fluctuated throughout the story. When we got to the page of the daughter sitting in the chair, her face swollen with tears and fatigue, she pointed, “Oh, wow!” she exclaimed, “That’s me! That’s how I feel.”

The next hair day, I approached it in the same way: with an announcement a couple days before. But something had shifted in her. Her response was gentle, a slight nod. “Okay,” was all she replied. The day of, I washed her hair over the kitchen sink, our faces to each other. Under the warm water, her curls grew heavy in my hands. Instead of her eyes being squeezed shut in panic, she was looking around, looking at me. She smiled, “I think I’m at a spa.”

Bingo.

The Write Spxt

A weekly newsletter for writers seeking publishing tools, readers looking for great recs, and humans who love to journal, observe, and reflect.

By Bianca Ducasse

Last year, a community member put together a Mother’s Day mini magazine for us to enjoy. Several members submitted for the cause, and it feels good to share that experience again for Mother’s Day!

Blackstack Mother's Day

31.4MB ∙ PDF file

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A Mother's Day magazine curated in 2025 for our Blackstack family!

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What are you eating sugary grits with, a bowl of fruit? Wouldn’t oatmeal be healthier? I don’t understand…and please don’t help me try because I don’t want to understand.

I want to judge you for putting sugar on your grits. This is how you want to exercise your free will?

Now, before you tense up or start forming an opinion too fast, just… relax for a second and sit with ya girl , because this is a conversation that has been dividing households, friendships, and probably a few aunties at Sunday breakfast for generations—and me? I’m here to offer a new perspective… and possibly cause a little more ruckus.

So the other day, me and my friend Shawn found ourselves on what many would call the wrong side of history after boldly claiming our allegiance to sugar in grits during what was supposed to be a very unserious conversation in Flow Hour and Accountability Hour…but somehow turned into a full-blown debate like we were trying to rewrite the Constitution.

Now okay. Let’s be fair. Some people reach for butter and let it melt all the way through… real slow…you know? Letting it slide into every bite, followed by a little salt, maybe something savory— something that feels familiar to them and says this is how it’s always been done and don’t play in my face about it.

And listen… I love that for y’all. I really do. I respect tradition, and I’m not here to disrupt nobody’s household. But me? I’ve always been the kind of woman who leans just a little bit toward the wild side of things. The kind of woman who might look at a bowl of grits and say, “You know what this needs?” A lil sugar. Sometimes I like things to be a lil sweet, like me. *insert meme with Megan with her tongue out!*

I like a little sugar, a little spice, a little “everything nice” woven into my life, and if that shows up in my breakfast too, then so be it.

Because some people like something that makes sense the moment it touches their tongue. And for some of us, our taste buds got range. We got curious taste buds. We like to switch things up, add a little extra flavor to the plate…you know, kind of like you do in the bed—

…wait. My fault. We talking about grits 😌 But still. All I’m saying is…don’t knock it till you’ve had it made right. The sugar in grits warriors? We’re not out here trying to convert nobody or nothing like that. We just like to add a touch of sweetness where we can… and mind our business while doing it. Hell, life is salty enough! Pass me that damn sugar.

And here’s the thing! You would’ve never guessed… savory grits and sweet grits can coexist without all the tension and without somebody feeling like they gotta defend their plate at breakfast. WHAAAT!? MIND BLOWN! Because at the end of the day, we’re all just sitting over something warm, stirring, tasting, adjusting, trying to get it just right for ourselves and create something that feels good. So go right ahead and butter yours, salt yours, cheese yours up real nice. As for Marie? I’m still reaching for the sugar with a smile on my face.

Free the sugar grits.

#ForeverASugarInGritsWarrior

There is an age-old debate that goes back to who the fuck knows when about whether sugar belongs in grits or not. And as an equal opportunity grits eater, I am here to say, they indeed do belong in grits. My name is La, and I love sweet grits. I also love savory grits, but I apparently do not need to defend my love of savory grits—just my love of sweet grits. Now, before ya’ll bring that black Airforce One energy to my opinion about sweet grits, I’m not saying I’m over here asking niggas to make my shrimp and grits or fish and grits with sugar in it. I’m not a sociopath. I just like what I like when I like it. Call me an adventurous eater, if you will.

Now ya’ll probably like Who raised this nigga!?

To answer your question, here’s a little story about how I was introduced to sweet grits. I was just a youngling under the care of my dear mother. She was the one who always made the grits. One day, she put a nice, hearty bowl of grits in front of me, with a perfectly cooked side of bacon and some eggs. Me being the deviant that I am, crumbled up the bacon and threw them in the bowl with the eggs. I put a spoonful in my mouth, and what transpired afterwards could only be described as a spiritual awakening. I’m talking pupils dilating, angels singing, trumpets blowing! I swear I saw God. My toes curled, and I devoured those sweet grits wrapped in butter like it was my last meal, all while rubbing my feet together.

Now, why my mama gave me a bowl of something she doesn’t even eat herself is beyond me. She likes her grits with butter, salt, and pepper. I’m not gonna hold you, this combo is still nasty af to me. My daddy don’t even eat sweet grits. But maybe my love of sweet grits is their karma for whatever transgressions occurred before I was born. I mean, I’ve always been a rebel. Blame it on the Aquarius sun. But you can’t blame me for liking sweet grits. Blame my mama for feeding them to me.

But when I tell ya’ll that bowl of sweet grits took me down a path I could not return from; I mean, I was already in too deep after eating the first spoonful. Make me a bowl of sweet grits and give me some good ass bacon or sausage to put in it, and an over-easy egg, and I will ascend to heights no human has ever reached. I’m talking Super Saiyan type shit. And yes, I see ya’ll out there with the pitchforks and torches. Already dressed in your Timbs and black Airforces, ready to come at my neck, shouting, “This nigga eat sweet grits!” Do I care? Not really, cause like I said, I do love some good ass savory grits, but I love me some sweet grits too. Now if you hand me a bowl of grits with nothing but butter in it, I’ma add me some sugar, cause why you playin? I’m an equal opportunity grits eater. I’m not here to convince ya’ll to put sugar in your grits, but if you haven’t even tried them, how do you even know you don’t like them? Like, huh?! Why you over here yuckin my yum, and you ain eem try it? Whole time I don’t even know how to cook grits. I’m just a nigga that like to eat. Judge all you want, but I’ma always eat my grits how they’re prepared— sugar and all.

In my job as a community organizer, I use food as a tool–a lot! Whether I’m bribing people with pizza to get them in a room where they can become knowledgeable on an issue like tenant laws or incentivizing parents to come to an after-school community resource fair by offering free dinner for those who attend, food does a lot of heavy lifting in my work.

When I’m not attending neighborhood association meetings or planning community events, I’m spending my time highlighting Black foodways via a social media account I run called BLACK FOOD FRIDAYS (BFF). Think of it as “Taco Tuesday” but for encouraging people to spend money with Black people. In addition to trying to tell grown folks how to spend their money, I create content that talks about Black food culture and history. And one of the most valuable food lessons I’ve had doing both jobs is this: don’t yuck someone’s yum.

Politics can get messy, but have you ever tried to tell someone from Texas that brisket is trash? Have you ever tried to tell someone from Chicago that catfish and spaghetti is a weird combination or tell a Gullah Geechee person that eating rice every day is an abomination? That type of food-absolutism can lead to verbal fisticuffs. And for a while, poking the bear was a valuable content strategy–it kept my views high, and my subscribers engaged. But after a few years of that, I started pulling away from that type of talk.

For one, it’s just not in my nature to be going back and forth with randos from the interwebs. Secondly, I realized that in most cases, people don’t even know why they eat what they eat. For most of us, the act of eating is mostly muscle memory. Meaning, we tend to consume whatever we grew up eating. So trying to hold someone accountable for some shit they never put any real thought into seemed like a fool’s errand. Nowhere is this more prevalent than with grits.

While not a Black American invention, grits are culturally tied to us. Southern Blacks, in specific, have been whipping up pots of grits since our unscheduled cross-Atlantic move from the Motherland, so the topic is full of institutional pride. Working as an organizer and running BFF has shown me that people consume food in a variety of ways for a variety of reasons. And at this point in my life, I rather use food as a way to bring people together, not rip us apart.

Mobb Deep said it best: “there’s a war going on outside no man is safe from”. Our climate has gone to shit, women are losing bodily autonomy, Black folks seeing Civil Rights dissolve in front of our eyes, and the rent is too damn high! Of all the things to worry about, whether or not someone decides to lace their milled corn with sucrose is the least of my worries–and should be the least of yours.

Now, I personally ain’t interested in sprinkling sugar on my bowl of grits, but if you are willing to help us defeat Fascism, you can scoop your grits with a Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup for all I care.

Feel free to unify in the comment section, I promise not to be a hard ass; however, I am taking mental note!

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For the past two weeks every Tuesday I’ve attended class discussing how artist must take a side. Exploring how Black artists through history have centered their work around the liberation of our people.

I feel for us as Black writers, the time is now more than ever for us to start documenting our reality and preserve our stories.

Y’all know I will go on a full TedTalk rant about this, so I’ll save my speech for another day—today let’s get into this good ass Black reads by Black authors who understand the mission of preserving Black stories.

Enjoy!

“Everyone is anointed. Life is not a competition.” When I read those words, curated together my whole body relaxed instantly. I am not a person who looks at life as a competition consciously either, but the way my body responded to that sentence made me stop for a second and reflect. stretches us as readers to reclaim our power in our physical reality. I love this layering of this read!

Tania De’Shawn

Psychology of the Deep South: What if we are all anointed?

What if trauma is nothing more than interference…

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2 months ago · 12 likes · 4 comments · Somebody Somewhere

Call me a hopeless romantic, male-centered, or a pick me—I will always stand ten toes down when it comes to encouraging Black people to hold space for Black men to be vulnerable and finally have the conversations to break us all free from this narrow lens of masculinity. These are in the house conversations, and broke this one down so good you ain’t got no choice but to sit with it and ponder. I love when y’all make the connections through your pen as this one does.

the undoing.

Black Boys Don't Cry

Way before I became a mother I knew there was something wrong with the way my family—aunties, uncles, and even older cousins—treated my boy cousins whenever they cried. As a kid, I often heard them being told, “Stop crying like a little girl” or “What are you a sissy? Be a man, men don’t cry…

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2 months ago · 13 likes · 2 comments · andria shawneise

Let me tell you something, I love me a good storytime and is a storyteller who is going to keep you hooked from start to finish. The connections that were made throughout the essay are what really took a funny story to the next level to leave us, as the reader, like, “damn.”

The Matchbook

I Apologize, I'm No Baddie

I got into my first fight over people I don’t even speak to anymore…

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2 months ago · 3 likes · DaMarkis🔥

Black women, this one is for us. said it so well, just read it please.

The Intersection

the art of carrying it all.

I took this photo on a Tuesday…

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2 months ago · 32 likes · 4 comments · Aaliyah Taylor

Blackstack Family Reunion

The ticket sale ends on Friday, May 1st, at midnight Pacific Time. Here’s a little breakdown on what’s going down in Oakland, California, the weekend of Juneteenth. We are celebrating Blackstack operating now for two years, and this event feels right; it truly makes sense.

Here’s the plan for the weekend: I have a Black Book Fair event, some workshops for the music lovers throughout the weekend, an archival workshop, a gardening seed swap event, an art exhibit showcasing the first Blackstack print magazine issue hosted at the residency, and to wrap everything up, on Sunday, we are having the family reunion-style cookout at Lake Merritt.

Kissel Hotel sponsored the event, so there are still some discounted rooms available. The cutoff to book is May 19th. Once you purchase your ticket, I’ll email you with the booking link, or you can call the hotel and let them know you are with the Blackstack Family Reunion.

Get Your Ticket

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Y’all feel that shift happening? It’s the liminal space it feels like we are in right now, between the break of something new and the end of something familiar. It’s uncomfortable here; a lot of people avoid talking about it, but I need to say it.

It’s time for us as Black folk to realize we have more than just power to shift our reality; we also have the readiness and ability. This moment we are living in is history in the making, and the ancestors are asking us to claim our story as they taught us to through theirs.

Blackstack is shifting, and it will continue doing so until the mission is accomplished, preserving Black stories. I was accepted into the ARTogether Mentorship and Residency Cohort here in Oakland, CA, this month, and I get to keep on May 3rd! This is a huge first step towards Blackstack being a brick-and-mortar to exist as a third space. In this residency, I will have the space and opportunity to set up the full print publishing house and move out of my living room and kitchen.

Mentally, this will take a huge weight off my shoulders and allow me the opportunity to freely create again to complete the preorders. Don’t worry, I’m not doing this kind of project anytime soon. Instead, I’ll be publishing print zines for us, starting with some of the submissions from 2025 til currently. I’m so excited to share more about this as I learn more during my time in the residency.

If you are able to donate towards the tuition and moving costs, I was encouraged by community members to create a fundraiser link. I appreciate you all for the grace and support, truly!

Donate

A couple more things are going on that y’all need to know about.

This Saturday is the Blackstack Brooklyn Chapter writing event at the Macon Library in BedStuy, hosted by , Emerald. The theme is Lemonade Listening Party and Write-In to recognize the ten year anniversay of the album.

RSVP

And the last thing for now, the Blackstack Family Reunion ticket sale is closing next Friday, May 1st, at midnight Pacific Time. The hotel booking cutoff is May 19th, so be sure to get your ticket so I can send you the link to secure your room.

Tickets

Poetry is so powerful that it moves you in ways you never imagined a few words constructed together could make you feel, and this essay about poetry takes you there on a completely new route. And it’s a beautiful scenic one. , is another community member I’ve had the pleasure of meeting offline before online, and in our first interaction, he expressed his love for writing, then, and I could feel it. So to read this one, I am truly moved, and I think many of you will be too, from the passion and love for writing.

Nick George

Claiming My Erotic: Part I

When I write, I tend to dive in. Just start with what I have to say and let the words and intention take me from there. I initially went to college for journalism, but ultimately changed my concentration because I wanted to preserve the heart of my writing before seeking to monetize it. Even now, even though I regularly explore how to capitalize on my s…

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2 months ago · 2 likes · Nick George

Emerald, this host for the Blackstack Brooklyn Chapter event this Saturday, and I felt it was only right to share this dope, Black-ass poem. Even the handle, is brilliant. I think you’ll enjoy this one, fam!

Three And A Possible

origins

im from white washing…

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2 months ago · 19 likes · 14 comments · three and a possible

As a Black woman whose life is dedicated to cultural work, this read felt nourishing to my soul. I felt seen and held in ’s words. This work is teaching me to be kind and that being nice is damn near like selling my soul—it’s fake. We aren’t taught to preserve ourselves, to tend to our needs before we step foot into the world outside of us, ready to suck us dry.

Black Women Get to Be

I'm not mean--I'm just done over-explaining

This is essay is part of Notes for Soft Living: short, weekly reflections to ground and steady you…

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2 months ago · 14 likes · 7 comments · Qubilah Huddleston

Pouring from your overflow is my motto when it comes to nurturing relationships, because baby if I ain’t got it for me then I simply don’t have it to give. This poem, written by , captures the essence of what it means to pour from your overflow, and demonstrates exactly what it costs you when you don’t.

HER

I have to empty my cup to fill yours?

I have to empty my cup to fill yours…

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2 months ago · 2 likes · 2 comments · HER

I love y’all and thank you for the love, grace, and support from all of y’all!

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We back with another Black Reads issue for the cousins. Can I also note how much I love that no matter what Black third space we enter, culturally we are always referred to as cousins?

I say it all the time, because I mean that shit, I love being Black! It’s an experience I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

Today’s collection is a continuation of honoring and appreciating Black poetry, so enjoy because these poems will leave you speechless to a degree.

"I let it rise,
let it gather on my face,
each drop a small offering,
each bead paying homage to you,
a thank you written in salt
and shine."

For two weeks, in the subscriber chat y’all have been tagging this poem by and I understand why one hundred percent. I’m a huge fan of Aaron’s writing style, it’s warm and feels familiar—like home.

Aaron Whitfield

A Poem | But Sun, I’ve Missed You

Sun, I speak to you this morning…

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2 months ago · 21 likes · 9 comments · Aaron Whitfield

"Removed my knees and elbows that begged for you to stay
I pulled my brain out so I could never remember the thought of you
I peeled it all back so it would reveal my skeleton
Finally, free from the body that you claimed you loved"

You ever loved someone and wanted to take your love back from the person? Well this poem by puts words to that feeling in a way I haven’t experienced before and I loved every moment of it. Made me want to send it to my ex-wife, oops did I say that out loud? :)

Cherry Hour 🍒

Stripped down to the Skeleton

A poem dedicated to the act of removing the pieces of yourself that someone touched, broke, unraveled, and claimed as their own. This is for the quiet, painful work of reclaiming your body, your mind…

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2 months ago · 2 likes · LADY MONI 💌

"remnants of Cabernet sit at the bottom of my glass, warm from the heat that’s been permeating from my body. the more he speaks, the more the blood in my body rushes.

its almost like his tongue is laced with lust and passion — and the gravity of his presence wants my body to be it’s host. it continues to pull me closer until I have no choice but to give in." 

When Audre Lorde told us to write erotic poetry, this is what she meant, and I don’t need to prove that statement because once you read it you’ll say the same. Now why would you do this to us? More please!!!

Letters from the Bayou

The Dangerous Game of Temptation

Sometimes we think we’re bigger than the game. Like we’re bigger than the program. Like we can walk into a room with a person that has the ability within their energy to suck the soul from our body and place it back inside of us with their name imprinted on it. You walk into a situation on a high from convincing yourself that you have control…only for t…

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2 months ago · 7 likes · 4 comments · Soul x SWMarie ✨

"But here—see here, everything is about the dollar, even the honoring. Even the grief has a price to pay. Every February, it, too, takes its toll. And the closest thing we get to an acre is 28-days of crafted capitalism masked as celebration."

I loved this one so much because gave us a mini lesson and some Black ass reflection all in one post. How lucky are we to experience this magic?

Brianna Perry

everyday is Black history.

What Is Prose Poetry? …

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2 months ago · 16 likes · 6 comments · Brianna Perry

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One of my favorite parts of motherhood is creatig the new traditions that give my daughter a little bit more than what I had growing up. That’s the point of it all right? It’s our job to make sure these babies are not only prepared to play the game, but to understand what it means to enjoy life from a space of gratitude.

It’s our appreciation for the “little things” in life that keep us going, so we teach that to our kids so they too, can be amazed by the wonders of nature. We’ve wrapped up the “Seven Days of Black Poetry” series, but I felt ’s submission was going to be the perfect one to give us just a little bit extra to carry into next week.

Not weight, but hope.

When I Have Grandkids We’ll Look Back and Call It Joy

Written by

Joy comes in the morning
running down the hallway
eye crust and hungry bellies

Sugar cereal is easy, Saturday morning cartoons and so many commercials, saying let yo mama know you need the newest barbie doll and her dream house, pepto abysmal and plastic and blonde, even in Black. And you don’t wanna hear her Al Green tunes, so shut the door and learn later how Grandaddy sat on a porch quiet from January 1st to Christmas. Grumble about grits in that black cast-iron pot that sat on the stove all day, Bigma leaving it there at the buttcrack of dawn, before anyone woke up, an offering to the ancestors, we’ll call them Jesus. A sacrifice of all she had left foiled up across the kitchen every evening and holiday, the magic of a culinary Santa. I had Tony the Tiger, Happy Meals on the daily, holiday feasts fed by Negro spirituals, and no bedtime. Never a quiet minute in the house, the news telling me what to think, sitcoms telling me what to believe, Martin telling me what was funny, but I didn’t laugh, just sat there watching, my 10 year-old mind wondering why Pam was so beautiful but called every ugly name under the faded sun, like the sepia photos my aunt would scribble “bitch” over in red ink or scratch out their faces in her crack-fueled rampages, but we don’t talk about who didn’t pose for the camera, who took the pictures or why the memories needed my aunt’s rage-baited pen. We didn’t talk about Pam’s beauty, just laughed and over-relaxed our kitchens.

Here I sit on Saturdays, passing pictures to my kids, of family I know but don’t know, and stories I’ve graphed on a digital family tree, but still can’t plot out the points, so I tell my stories, the sickly sweet of it, the grainy grits of it, the sat-all-day-on-the-stove unappreciated of it and pull them into the garden to grow the foods Bigma grew up on, the turnip greens that keep reseeding, the collards that sprout up only when you forgot you sowed the seeds, the okra-kids always going through growth spurts, the melon I can’t grow past the size of my fist. Work them not for their labor or to go backwards, but to attach history like a forgotten appendage, re-member it to our lineage, undiagnose it as poor people’s work, give it to them as currency, tell its stories together, its a line dance, a freestyle, oxtail stew. Watch them bring in the harvest, chop the fruits of our labor, laugh their heads off as we sing the Jackson 5 and Lauryn Hill and Willow. Watch them beam with the joy of unsecret stories, knowing how, being able to; a mom who isn’t worn into the ground unwatered, too schooled to teach. One who has been forced on a spoonrest long enough to taste the roots of inheritance wafting through the kitchen. Send them kids off to bed before the news blasts its statistics across our images and asks us to pay for ‘em.

Karma Yoga Village- Connecting Families

For parents, teachers and community leaders centering community, collaboration and culture for the holistic healing of our collective inner child, and holistic education of our youth and future generations. Montessori-based.

By MeraBaid

Quick Reminder

The Blackstack Family Reunion ticket sale will end of May 1st, 2026, and the hotel cutoff is May 19, 2026. If you are interested in the booking link for the hotel the link will be sent to you once your reunion ticket it purchased.

The final schedule will be shared once the final count of guest is confirmed. However, we have a weekend packed with events and workshops in the Bay Area the weekend of Juneteenth. Can’t wait to meet y’all, if you are coming let us know in the comments to connect with each other!

Here is the link to get your ticket: https://www.theblackstack.org

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A system that feels like we can’t break free from it, like it’s got us chained at the neck. Our souls yearn to be free, to create from the beauty we witness in the world when we are free to explore and enjoy it. We call it living, as if we need freedom to live. Well this system names the cost of living, and it’s far from free.

I think y’all are going to enjoy reading ’s collection of poems, “Tired Systems” because it’s definitely one of those poems that you find yourself carrying days, months, and years after you read it.

Also, let me know in the comments how y’all likes this “Seven Days of Black Poetry” series, it was fun curating and giving the Black poets the stage!

Tired Systems

Written by

Pay Your Dues

Everyone can be an artist until rent is due.
Chasing your dreams and letting your worries slip through.
Everyone is only some
one that tend to lend from
their trusted hands creating art for
their unburden soul until
the money fails transactions turn art into rations.
What kind of artist can be made of you if
you worked for the next months due?
Wishing to live off of dreams and paid by praise
everyone can be an artist until
the rent is due, expiring food staring back at
you from an empty fridge you
try to keep the hunger for art at bay
so that the rent is paid.

To be a Black poet

Are my thoughts “thought-worthy”?
Enough to put words on a page alongside the greats then be seen in spaces with pale faces. Continuously told, “it has been said before” as if expansion is not necessary nor wanted. As if past thoughts have been listened to and learned as promised.

Are my thoughts “thought-worthy”?
When my shared traumas and sorrows are awarded because of the skin that holds them. Then the magic that gleams beneath is passed to a man, bingefully profiting off the fruitful words laid on the table, positioning us to fight over who gets to serve the man the next plate.

Are my thoughts “thought-worthy”?
After my thoughts are exhausted, tear filled, and visibly bloodied. After my thoughts prove to be entertaining, do they show their worth from those that hold no claim. The thoughts of a Black poet worthy of having around.

Christianity is the nightclub we’ve all tried to get into

And damn, the line is always fucking long. The streets are packed like hoarded sheep ready to feast on the energy from the partygoers high from the wine they passed in the line. You’ve heard the raves of the special guests who give promotional blessings if you do their dance before you rest. The music can be felt thumping deep through the doors. Though the tune sounds eerie and not quite to your taste, you nod your head anyways. Christianity is the nightclub they’ve all tried to get into and it always has poor reviews. They have you bend at the knee for your stamp of entry before cleansing your skin naked and bare, to be branded with peasant and listen to the lord’s olden prayer. The Satanist crew pass out tea and blankets for you to stay warm while waiting in the chilled air. Those in line sneer and shout in horror at their presence then shoot you a possessive stare for accepting their offerings. No one ever speaks of the partygoers that leave battered and bruised through the club’s back entrance. But they’ll continue to shout shames and made up stories at those who choose to stand out of line.

Alina Is Typing 💬

Alina Moore (she/her) is a black lesbian writer from Chicago. Alina is Typing is where she shares personal essays, insight into her creative journey, poetry, prose and her short fiction stories.

By Alina Moore

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As a Black woman who wears a gold hoop earring everyday, I can attest to the magic in door knocker earrings. It’s our superhero cape, our “bat” in Batman, our “super” in Superwoman. Society calls them ghetto, then will turn around and make them a standard of beauty labeled as street fashion.

It’s something magically about being a Black woman, yet so dangerous. Either way, I’m grateful to be gang, I wouldn’t have it no other way. And ’s poem is going to make you feel the same way.

Black Girl I Love You

Written by

I see you in them high flyin’ lashes,
they gotchu floatin’ baby;
nobody got the backbone to bring you down.

That nose ring you got
compliments them door knocker earrings;
I see you shinin’ too.

That slick back/28inch ponytail combo
got heads on a swivel;
go ahead and give ‘em whiplash.

Anything you do with your hair
is alchemy in motion;
the type of expression they fiend for.

Black girl you belong in the stars.

You belong in board rooms,
and in mosh pits.
On college campuses,
and on magazine covers.
Black girl, you belong on
award winning stages,
not on “missing” posters
and nightly news casts.

Black girls,
they tell us we are demonized.
That we are the most persecuted
and unwanted.
They want us ostracized
and lonely;
fragmented with energy depleted,
because they know we are the spark
that lights their candles.

defy them, wondrous child;
embody all they are afraid of.

Kintsugi Soul

writer/spoonie/philosophizer/weirdo/creative/changemaker poems, essays, random distorted thoughts and opinions

By Maya Jeanne

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Can I be honest for a second, y’all?

When I received this submission I kept reading it over and over to find inspiration for a proper curation. Then in moments of what I call “crunch time” all I hear in my ear was, “Watch out for the big girls,” and immediately I caught the spark I’d been waiting for.

What I love most about this poem that submitted is her wit. One of my favorite lines is, “Um I’m fat so, I’ve never lacked.” That line right there could spark a whole thesis essay out of me, what’s your favorite line?

Tell us in the comments.

Fat & Black

Written By:

To Be Black 
Fat &
 Dream.
Oh the 
 things I've seen
for me,
 Imaginative creativity.
 Um I'm
 Black 
 Gratefully I 
Decree!
 Trial Trial
Tribulations,
have
always 
 tried to 
 take me.
 But 
 Um I'm fat
 so, I've never
lacked.
Even though, me
 mind they tried to
crack. 
So, Um I Say
when they look me
in my face, and say you're
Black & Fat 
and got the nerve to
Dream!?!
Yea! You 
Didn't know?
How else would I 
fit in this God like
Chair.
Seeing 
how my Black ass
dreams 
finally
came to be.

Fatgirlviewsshow

flim/TV Nerd music & Books Junky Foodie ecentric,eclectic, eclectic

By Artist Green

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Before the vanilla scent that hits your nose when you step foot into my home, you see him on my wall as you take off your shoes. He’s the protector in our family, he’s been the only constant man in my life after my mama and daddy split. When no one else could, he made it his business to step up and do.

Granddaddy. My mama’s daddy.

It’s something so special about that particular one sometimes. ’s poem brought back memories, I had a Paw Paw growing up, and I think of him too as one of the calmest men I knew.

Paw Paw

Written by

My grandfather, Jewell, is probably the calmest man I know.
There.
Back there in HIS chair, he would sit.
Chocolate complexion. Classic eyeglasses.
Just the right amount of black hair stashed above his lip
and resting on his head.
Slender, well built man since I met him.
My “Paw Paw…,”
or “Daddy,” as my mama calls him.
The man who cut my umbilical cord.
Good Ol’ Jewell.
Collective.
Calm.
Cool.
White button up. Colorful tie.
In that black, backroom chair watching all who walks by.
Man — what that man’s eye could spy!
What that man’s ears could hear.
“Quit all that actin,” he’d say
In a stearn, yet subtle way…
Evoked by just the right amount of fear.

“Helig Myers.”
“This Is It.”
“K’s Merchandise.”
…that man would sale WHATEVER item
Would pay the price,
For what began as a pre-dominantly white
Neighbordhood,
Our home
Sat in on that hill.
5pm CST we ALL knew it was “The Simpsons,”
Then “King of the Hill.”
Paw Paw you ARE our king on that hill.
King of Holiday Hills.
Hank on that lawn mower, damn sure not Bill!

Joy for the simple things in life —
Provide for your family.
Honor and protect your wife.
Drink a brew with your dudes
And listen to your tunes.
Little green pick-up truck,
When you would pick us up.
“Shooobie doo doo da bop,”
However you used to to sing them tunes.
We wanted 105.5,
You wanted 105.7.
You’d always win,
But even then —
I could see
Those moments
Were your subtle slice
Of heaven.

Raised me since
I was seven…
After raising four of your own…
A blessing!
Oh yea,
And three more of my siblings.
God — you are so giving!
One year opened your home to my paternal brother,
That there is unheard of.
Good Ol’ Jewell,
Man of few words.
Entire life, pure actions.

Started your own rim shop,
Who cares if it did not pan out
How you imagined.
Paw Paw, I love you forever and then some.
Big Red gum, on your tongue.
Four sticks left, “Paw Paw can I have some?”
Me and cousins
Rubbing
Vaseline on your corned feet…
And we thought it was fun.

Laundry room counter.
Iron and starch,
Aka the stuff
That kept Paw Paw sharp.
What did Pastor Leo used to say
About you and Carver Park?
“Cleanest brother in the projects wearing them suits!”
You told us them twins Jean and Jane
Wrote your name
On their shoes.
DAMN PAW PAW,
You was giving em the blues!

Damn Paw Paw,
It pains me to see you lose…
Your memories.
Your mobility.
But, never what you
Mean to me.
I KNOW YOU.
I REMEMBER.

Sitting in your black chair,
In the back room,
Placing logs in the wood burner in December.
Swatting flies in July.
Same chair.
Different vibe.
Cold, black skin
Blends
With the dark
In the night time.
All we see is
Glasses
And white eyes.
Ha Ha, Paw Paw,
That’s my guy!

They don’t make ‘em
Like you anymore.
Your legacy is deeper
Than any rim store.
JEWELL —your legacy is
YOU.
The way your quiet presence
Graces rooms.
Self-less character.
That made shit happen.

Jewell Roy Bankhead
A Rare Breed
A Man of Few Words
And Many Actions.

Trinity Ibrena

I’m a writer, poet & storyteller for the millennial soul. Author of Take It From Trinity. Here, I share honest reflections, a little laughter, and a lot of heart—like catching up with a friend who reminds you of your power.

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As Black people, there’s this weight that we carry. We joke about women carrying a lot of junk in the trunk, and niggas moving weight in the streets. But we never really acknowledge what we are carrying that creates that heaviness. The weight that men carry on their backs every time they walk through the door, and the world’s heaviness that women carry on our shoulders.

Yet, even while carrying that weight we still hold our heads high careful not to let our crown fall to the ground. We never question why the weight only seems to lie with us Black folk, we just carry it knowing to do so is to honor thy ancestors that carried it before us.

We may have our moments of exhale from all that we inhale, because we’ve learned that the key is to breathe through it. raises a great question in his poem, why is this shit so heavy?

Yeah, My Crown Is Heavy

Written by

Yeah, my crown is heavy
Like my chain and my bravado
My arrogance
My elegance
Reminds you of aficionados
Who flash bravado but practice peace
Who run the streets and remember to teach
That my crown is heavy
Like the weight lifted on my shoulders
Young
Impressionable
Filled with disdain
For the world I walk in
Forces us to play this game
With no head start and a hard to cheer name
You could understand why my crown is heavy
If you were like us
If you faced a fight every morning to love and trust
A world built by your blisters that you shield from rust
You add everything to the pot and yet you’ll never be a plus
So, the crown is real heavy
We’d love to let it sit on the throne
Dust off ya shelf and let it find a new home
But you wouldn’t cherish the care
Find strength in the weight
Linger in the light and let it contemplate
Why this shit so heavy?
How many people put this thing on
How many of my dawgs been singing this same song
So, you’ll make your own crown
And mumble all our songs
Yeah, this crown is heavy
Be glad you’ll never hold it for long

ALLDRESSEDUPP

Too many interest and Too much time on my hands

By B4

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There’s a lot of conversation now about our titles being used as verbs. Recently, the word ‘sisterhood’ has been introduced as a verb and that discourse triggered a thought about mothering and fathering as verbs.

And how would you apply that verb, the action, when it comes to the term, ‘motherland’? This question sparked in my mind reading ’s thought-provoking poem connecting the term to the womb and how we as Black people were extracted from both with no option to return “home.” I can’t help but wonder, is this why we long for home the way we do.

What is a Motherland?

Written by

I left home at 18 and never looked back (except during holidays)
small town in florida
no place for a girl with big dreams
florida, us is my homeland but not
my motherland

home is different from mother
homeland more temporary than motherland

why does a land one day become a motherland?
you are forcibly removed from it
before you are ready

the disconnect from the land
much like being extracted from the womb
sends you spiraling back to the day of your birth
taken from the land
much like you were taken
from the womb
unhoused for the first time in your life until you are carried home

motherland
a place you cannot return
if you are able to return to your motherland, much like returning to your mother, you are blessed.

hot girl research

study of tenderness, anger, eroticism, & more

By zackevia s.

Really excited to see this idea of the “Seven Days of Black Poetry” series come to life, if you missed the poem that started the series check it out below.

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Over the next seven days I will be publishing new poetry exclusively submitted to Blackstack by Black poets in the community. Y’all really don’t get enough love in the writing world, so I created the “Seven Days of Black Poetry” series for us.

To me poets are the bridge between written word and what Black music used to be, hip-hop and underground, word power. Telling a story in a few words, connecting the dots that others may struggle to see.

We honor the Black poets who are no longer with us today, so this is my way of giving our very own their flowers while they are living. On this Easter Sunday, what better way to kick off with the old school Sunday Service Announcements newsletter vibes. , thank you for lending your pen for us to enjoy.

I be a Ghost at 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama

Written by

When the church lady…
When the church lady passes out…
When the church lady passes out they
cover her with a white sheet.

Praise Jesus,
Our Savior.
Praise Jesus,
Jesus, our Savior.

When the church lady passes out…
the congregation shouts!
Praise Jesus. Praise Jesus.
And they, too, fall out.

But not to the ground…
up, up, and up.
Taken away by the holy spirit.
Their wings point up!

Heels beat the floor, louder than…
tambourines, louder than guitar.
Louder than preacher spitting into the mic.
Louder, louder, louder still…

Praise Jesus.

When the church lady passes out…
I stand in the back, tucked in the corner.
Two steps away from the speaker.
The choir sings, praise Jesus.

A church lady writhes against….
A church lady writhes against
an egg white wall while a church man
beats his chest then the drums.

Praise Jesus.

Then the roof opens up…
The roof opens up and…
The roof opens up and angels descend…
The roof opens up and angels descend into…

16th Street Baptist Church.
And the angels are white…
the angels are white,
but not like the pictures, but like…

bombs.
The angels are white.

And the angels open their mouths…
And the angels open their mouths and…
and the angels open their mouths and
deliver God's word.

Praise Jesus.

The angels deliver God's word and…
it's too much for us to handle.
I say, the angels deliver God's word and it's too much
for us to handle.

The word reshapes our bodies…
Reshapes us, separates us from flesh.
Separates us from sinners.
Separates us from saints.

Praise Jesus.

The church lady passes out…
all the church ladies pass out.
So does the men, the drummer, the guitarist,
the choir, and the preacher.

When the sirens come…
Praise Jesus.
When the sirens come.
I be floating in the air looking down.

Floating in the air.
I be looking down.
Down I be,
floating in the air with the angels…

and I see.
I see paramedics carrying out church ladies…
bodies covered in white sheets.
I see white sheets.
I see…

Praise Jesus.

I see when the church lady passes out…
they cover her in white sheets.
Praise Jesus, our Lord.
Praise Jesus. Our Savior.

At 16th Street Baptist Church
in Birmingham, Alabama.
I see white sheets.
I see, I see…

the church lady passed out covered in
white sheets.

E.A. Noble

E.A. Noble is an emerging speculative fiction author and poet. She is passionate about centering Queer, fat, neurodivergent, Black, and POC characters. She crafts stories that challenge the norms and celebrates underrepresented voices.

Let us know in the comments how ’s words resonate with you, I know for me I remember those white sheets oh so well. However, the lines in this poem will settle in my mind wondering the significance of the white sheet on a deeper level now. That’s one of the most beautiful things about poetry, right?

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