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Cannabis advocate and entrepreneur Dasheeda Dawson has been fighting for the legalization of marijuana in New York for years. And on March 31, part of her goal was actualized when New York Governor Andrew Cuomo signed a bill to legalize recreational marijuana across the state, making New York the 15th state to have legalized the plant (Virginia and New Mexico followed soon after, bringing the weed legalization tally to 17 states, Washington, D.C. and Guam). In a historic move, the New York law includes automatic expungement of previous marijuana convictions. And, according to The New York Times, 40% of tax revenue from marijuana sales will be poured into Black and brown communities, in which many have been disproportionately targeted with severe prison sentences. Under the new law, those with past convictions will also be able to participate in the new legal market.

“As the largest legacy [underground] market in the world, New York’s historic legalization will be a guide for other states’ emerging markets and eventually, the federal level,” says Dawson. “I believe that a national legal marijuana industry rooted in racial and economic equity is imminent, and New York’s bill sets the precedent for providing education, entrepreneurial access, and financial support for individuals and communities devastated by disinvestment and over-policing during the failed war on drugs. It’s time for our people to tap in.”

It seems the proverbial green rush is gaining momentum, and that Black cannabis entrepreneurs will finally get their due. But while this legislation is a step in a hopeful direction, there is still much to be done in making the cannabis industry more accessible to Black and brown folks. And it’s Black women in particular who are leading the charge to ensure this industry serves communities of color. 

Women like Kali Wilder, CEO of cannabis edutainment company EstroHaze, is one of the many cannabis advocates who are hopeful for what continued legalization across the states could mean for Black and brown communities, but she’s wary. Black-owned cannabis businesses remain rare despite diversity efforts, and the cannabis industry is still incredibly difficult and expensive to enter, particularly if you’re actually growing cannabis. Additionally, according to VICE Media Group’s fourth annual survey of cannabis usage and perceptions among the VICE and R29 audience, only 40% of Black women think that, by 2030, anyone — regardless of their race, gender, ethnicity or social standing — will be able to safely produce and sell cannabis products. 

“We know a number of instances where plant-touching owners have all their ‘ducks in a row,’ with a tight, robust investment opportunity, and despite this, the systemic racism and illicit bias at play make potential investors question their expertise, experience and resulting success in this industry,” Wilder says. Between varying regulations from state to state and obstacles within the banking system, it’s a difficult playing field for any businessperson in the industry, but particularly women and especially women of color.

“Communities of color have borne the brunt of racially biased enforcement of cannabis prohibition, so it makes sense that cannabis entrepreneurs of color, specifically Black women, are leading the conversation on equity and social justice opportunities as the country continues its march towards full legalization,” says Dawson, City of Portland Cannabis Program Supervisor and Founding Chair of Cannabis Regulators of Color. As a Brooklyn native, Dawson says she recognizes the tremendous effort made to pass an equity-centered legalization bill and create the framework for an inclusive and equitable New York cannabis industry. She spent years advocating for legalization rooted in racial and economic justice in New York and beyond. And last year, she transitioned to the public sector as a cannabis regulator to get a closer look at the obstacles to creating an equitable industry with Black, Indigenous, and Latinx ownership. 

“I’ve learned that it starts with the law and civic engagement,” Dawson adds. “While we advocate for states to legalize the right way, centered in equity and access, women of color can also capitalize on the rapid growth of employment and entrepreneurial opportunities within the same market.” 

And in the past few years, they have. As Buzzfeed reported in 2016, and as Marijuana Business Daily confirmed a year later, legal cannabis businesses are largely white. In 2017, women held 27 percent of executive-level positions in the cannabis industry (which actually reflected a 9 percent dip from two years prior). But although women have held top tier positions in the industry, most of those women are also white, as Ebony Costain, founder and CEO of BDTNDR — a job training platform for cannabis workers — told Fast Company that year. It doesn’t seem too much has changed since these numbers were reported. This means Black women still sit at the challenging intersection of racial, gender and financial obstacles. And yet, in many ways, Black women have been able to find success within the industry.  

Organizations like the Minority Cannabis Business Association and Minorities for Medical Marijuana have made it possible for Black people to thrive in the cannabis industry in spite of the roadblocks. Other women-led initiatives such as Women Grow have created opportunities for Black women cannabis entrepreneurs to make an impact in the industry. As EstroHaze CMO Sirita Wright notes, “Black women are becoming more active and vocal participants within the cannabis industry because of the barriers they’re faced with.”

Black women are becoming more active and vocal participants within the cannabis industry because of the barriers they’re faced with.

Sirita Wright

Poet Jasmine Mans, who is the founder of Buy Weed From Women — an apparel company whose proceeds go toward advocating for the efforts of women in the cannabis space — agrees. Mans, who found herself wanting to tap into the cannabis industry but unable to afford a cannabis license (the application fee in New Jersey is $20,000), made a way for herself through product design and branding. “If I don’t touch cannabis, I have the opportunity to unify all of the people who do,” says Mans, who founded Buy Weed From Women in 2019. Since then, she’s hired a small team who works out of a small facility in her home state of New Jersey, and has been building her brand even throughout the COVID-19 pandemic. 

While many businesses folded under the harrowing weight of coronavirus, Mans’ business flourished, and her mission became clearer amidst demands of those seeking justice and equity for marginalized communities. “I’m realizing that the pandemic shifted people’s mindsets,” she says of last summer’s social upheaval and the widespread call to bolster minority-led brands. “People didn’t want to simply invest in convenience, but they wanted to invest in integrity. All of these moments of protests created a space of like, ‘Is that a Black-owned company?’ ‘Is that company ran by women?’ ‘Where do their dollars go?’” 

Other Black women entrepreneurs, like Solonje Burnett — co founder of Humble Bloom, a cannabis education and advocacy platform — have addressed such concerns by providing visibility to women and Black-owned brands within the cannabis space through education. And since the onset of the pandemic, the company has shifted to a consultative model, offering guidance to brands genuinely seeking to become more inclusive. 

“We are helping brands bloom consciously and incorporating all of our learnings and what we’ve been doing, and the ideals and values that we’re putting forth are resonating,” says Burnett. “I think with George Floyd and Black Lives Matter, everybody was trying to figure out, ‘How do we diversify?’ ‘How do we make this a part of our brand ethos more than just performative marketing and just minimal corporate social responsibility?’ So we’re helping them with coming up with their mission and vision and pillars. We feel like we’re doing this transformative work now in the businesses, which is really amazing because we are not capitalized enough to do it ourselves.”

For entrepreneurs like Malaika Jones, founder of plant based beauty and wellness  brand Brown Girl Jane, the work is as much about making alternative forms of wellness accessible to women of color as it is about ensuring business women like her are seen and supported. “I always say I’m an unlikely wellness founder, and that’s because my professional background was on Wall Street,” Jones shares. “What I found throughout my professional and personal career is that I was supporting other people, but what I hadn’t done was really formulate any sort of wellness plan for myself.”

Jones began her personal wellness journey by researching ways to manage pain from back injuries sustained while giving birth to her youngest daughter. Along the way, she discovered CBD, learning about its many uses and the ways it could be incorporated both internally and topically for pain relief. But when she started telling her friends and women of color about it, she found that no one had heard of it. “We weren’t being spoken to in the industry as a whole,” she says. This led her to found Brown Girl Jane along with her sister Nia Jones and wellness expert Tai Beauchamp so that women of color could have access to wellness products as a solution for their health issues.

As the green rush continues to surge and legalization makes its way across the country, Black women entrepreneurs are looking ahead at the expansion of profitable opportunities in the cannabis industry.

“We need to talk more about the ancillary opportunities that people have, more opportunities and willingness to get into the space,” says Mary Pryor, founder of Cannaclusive. “That can be in the form of a marketing agency. It can be graphic design. It could be accounting. It can be so many other things.” But the key to success, she adds, is doing adequate research, as well as aligning with a supportive community, whether it’s in the industry or not. Because, like any industry, expansion often means bigger players with bigger pockets who, as Jones says, try to overwhelm smaller businesses — in this case, Black-owned brands.

Mans understands the value of sisterhood within the cannabis space through firsthand experience. “I’m literally learning from other Black women how to run a successful business, and it’s going well, and it’s something that I’m proud of,” she shares. “Because the cannabis industry and the laws are so particular to each state, and because wealth among women is so different, we have to become more clever. And the cleverness of it is what exposes the brilliance.” Legalization is just the beginning. Ultimately, how Black women work together will dictate their future in the industry — and so far, against all odds, they’re winning.

R29Unbothered’s High Impact is rewriting the rules of wellness, wealth, and weed for Black women with real and dynamic conversations that put US at the center.

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Post-COVID life — whenever that comes — is predicted to usher in a new Roaring Twenties era. The decade, which marked both a period of economic prosperity and social change, came right after the 1920s influenza pandemic, and gave rise to a time of profound transformation of life as folks knew it back then. Poised and assured as ever, Flo Milli is channelling that renaissance energy in her latest track and manifesto, “Roaring 20s,” her first offering since the release of her breakthrough mixtape, Ho, why is you here ? 

“Everything was flourishing at that time, so I feel like manifesting that into my career,” a soft-spoken Flo tells me over the phone. Her calm and airy demeanor is a stark contrast to the bravado heard on tracks like “Pockets Bigger” and “Not Friendly.” She sounds focused and grounded. Perhaps it’s because, at 21, the Mobile, AL rapper is also at the beginning of her own rebirth — and she’s setting out to make the most of the decade. 

“I’m a big person on manifesting and speaking things into existence, because there very much is a power in the tongue,” Flo muses. Flo’s tongue is mighty, as she proved to us on her debut, and she solidifies that fact on the Kenny Beats-produced “Roaring 20s.” “You can’t hate on pussy if it rule the planet,” a cocksure Flo boasts over a sample of “If I Were A Rich Man” from the classic Jerry Bock and Sheldon Harnick musical Fiddler On the Roof. “Roaring 20s” is an apt song title for the young rap dynamo, who spent most of the previous year gearing up to kick ass and take names. In 2020, Flo quickly became a salve for unbothered Black girls everywhere. “Flo Milli Sh*t,” her now illustrious catchphrase, was repeated so often across social media that one could call it a mantra. 2021 is her coming-of-age year, and if the trajectory of 2020 is any indication of where the star-in-the-making is headed, you can rest assured that Flo is here to stay—and it’s not just because the industry is trending in her direction. 

2020 marked a year during which women rappers ran the world. In May, Nicki Minaj and Doja Cat tag-teamed on the inescapable “Say So,” while Beyoncé dropped bars alongside Megan Thee Stallion on the chart-shattering remix to “Savage.” For two weeks, the ladies occupied the top spots on the Billboard Hot 100, stamping historic milestones for Minaj, Doja and Megan. Not only did the trio land their first No. 1 hits, but “Say So” also became the first single by two female rappers to reach the top of the chart. Come August, Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion would drop “WAP,” the sex-fueled collaboration heard around the world. Meanwhile, Rico Nasty, Bbymutha, Junglepussy, Chika, City Girls, and Mulatto were all releasing captivating new music. Chi-town’s CupcaKKe made her comeback. Overseas, Lex Amor stunned with her debut album, Government Tropicana and became a fave on music platform COLORSXSTUDIOS. The list goes on.

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Then, there was Flo Milli—skilled, irrefutable, and not one to f*ck with. Her confident take on Playboi Carti’s “Beef” (“Beef FloMix”) took TikTok by storm, leading up to the release of her landmark debut EP. The 12-track, 30-minute mixtape was featured in multiple Best of 2019 lists — including The New York Times, NPR, and Complex — and has racked up 500 million plus streams and video views across the world. “In The Party” is now RIAA gold certified. Flo was also nominated for Best New Artist at the 2019 BET Hip-Hop Awards. But while she may have gained momentum through viral fame, Flo quickly (and graciously) corrects me when I allude to her as an internet sensation.

“I never was a viral internet star. I just used my internet platform to my advantage, but I’ve always been an artist first,” she tells me. If anything, Flo considers, the attention she garnered through TikTok taught her how to use her social media platform to market herself as an artist. This skill would prove beneficial amidst a global pandemic, when many people were quarantined and scrolling on their phones at home. I ask her if she feels the circumstances of the pandemic slowed her down at all, if things ever became tough for her to navigate despite all her success. “The best thing to do in the music industry right now is to take advantage of your circumstances,” she says.

That’s something Flo has done throughout her career. And if managing a budding music career while the world was on fire got to her, she isn’t showing it. “I feel like I had a lot of free time, and with that free time I was able to be inspired by a lot of different things instead of being discouraged,” she says. “I feel like in order to make something dope, you can’t always be serious, you have to have some type of fun with it. You gotta be free with it.” In that free time, Flo’s been working on her follow-up album, teasing that fans can expect new work at the end of the year.

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Born Tamia Monique Carter in 2000, Flo is part of the last in a generation of kids raised on MTV and BET, when music video countdowns still reigned over the airwaves. She cites shows like BET’s 106th & Park as inspiration. “I swore up and down I was gonna be number one on that top 10,” she says. “I swear I used to always say that.” The artists she was introduced to back then served as notable influences. “Nicki Minaj was somebody I was heavily inspired by watching her on 106th & Park. I thought [she] was dope,” she says. “Nicki was everywhere when I was growing up. She very much inspired me in my era and she still does.”

Flo says there weren’t many artists breaking from Alabama when she was growing up, though Rich Boy, whom she admires, immediately comes to my mind. When I mention him, I hear her voice brighten.“I still have mad respect for him for doing the things that he did do and getting the respect that he did get. That’s the only person I really knew. And then after that it was just kind of like, you know.” She pauses, and I feel like she may be taking a moment to reflect.

She remains short when I ask her about what her life was like when she was growing up, which doesn’t surprise me, since there isn’t much mention of her family life in her other interviews. But what she does share (she cites navigating a “rocky road,” alluding to an overcoming of odds) further solidifies her destiny to be where she is today. She performed at school talent shows, at restaurants, and even started her own rap group (Real & Beautiful, later renamed Pink Mafia). “[I did] anything I could do to get my name out there. It was really kind of like a little girl with a dream from a small town.”

Making it out of Mobile, AL is no easy feat, Flo shares with me. “I was the first girl out of Mobile. All the other rappers were boys.” Her story points to the trajectory of the hip-hop industry as a whole, in which male rappers are magnified while women are marginalized. “I think it’s very empowering to see women dominate a male sport.”

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It’s significant to note that Flo is just one of two breakout female rappers presently representing Alabama on the mainstream charts. In August, fellow rap darling Chika, who hails from Montgomery, was featured as a member of XXL’s 2020 Freshman class. Flo pitched herself for a spot, but ultimately was not nominated. Chika shouted out Flo in her XXL profile. “I love seeing another woman from Alabama rapping her ass off and consistently applying pressure,” she said when asked who else should have been featured. “I’m down to support her, always.”

The feelings are mutual for Flo, who is excited to see a fellow Alabama native putting on for Black women in rap. “I meet girls [from Alabama] all the time who tell me that we inspire them. It’s dope to see people who come from where you come from, and it inspires those out there who are looking to be in the music industry.”

I realize early on in our conversation that Flo, a Capricorn, has had her career mapped out for a while. Capricorn women, the powerhouses of the zodiac, are known for their headstrong ambition and unshakable drive. Flo, who turned 21 on January 9, is no different. But this is deeper than a dream. This is the drive of someone connected with their divine calling — someone who knows what they’re destined for. 

“I was always going after what my heart wanted instead of just listening to people,” she shares with me. “I’ve had teachers tell me to come up with a plan B. I remember telling a teacher that I wanted to be a rapper at 10 years old, and she told me to come up with a plan B. I had church members tell me that. I never really listened to anybody. I never listened to naysayers. I always listened to my intuition and this is where it got me.”

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Following one’s intuition is key, says Flo, who tells me with conviction that “everybody on this earth has an intuition, and if they say that they don’t, then they’re lying.” It’s the key to “stepping into one’s higher self,” something she mentions a couple times throughout our conversation. I ask her to elaborate on what she means when she refers to a “higher self,” and she says, “Only you know what your higher self is. Only you know what your intuition is.”

Sure, this could sound woo-woo to some, but would explain why she got the number 777 tattooed on her neck two years ago, at the start of her career. Flo says she starting seeing the number everywhere — while traveling, attending label meetings, on billboards, you name it. “It was just crazy,” Flo recalls. “I looked it up and I found out that it meant that as long as you see those three numbers you’re gonna continue to work on your higher self. I felt like that was cool to have on my neck, because whenever I look in the mirror, I’m gonna see it. And when [people] look at my neck, they’re gonna see it, too.”

As a breakout star, Flo is as focused on being a source of inspiration for her fans as she is being a successful artist. But, as she’s noted in multiple interviews, she especially wants to be a champion for Black women—a crucial mission within an industry where misogynoir continues to leave Black women on the back burner. “I’ve always felt like a strong Black woman. We’ve always been the strongest even over time. We should just continue to know our power and our worth, and that’s what’s gonna allow us to stay strong.”

And in terms of keeping her momentum going, she has no worries.

“People fell in love with me because I was always myself, so I’m gonna continue to be myself and they’re gonna continue to love me. What’s for me is for me and what isn’t isn’t.”

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This holiday season, Team Unbothered wants you to put your coins where your mouth is. So we’ve rounded up a list of dope businesses owned by Black women for you to support this Black Friday. Satin lined beanies, organic hair serums, pure matcha powders, poppin’ eyeshadow palettes, and more trustworthy Black-owned products are waiting patiently for you to scoop them up off the shelves. Hey, some are even on sale, if you're in the deal-hunting spirit. And for the ones that aren't taking part in the whirlwind of Cyber Week madness, you can never go wrong with dishing out a few extra bucks to support a Black-owned business.

Here are 16 mostly independent brands fully run by Black women that you can support this year — because #BuyBlack should be more than a hashtag.

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In 1973, Roe v. Wade made abortion legal across the U.S., but, as is the case with many other laws and landmark decisions, its application throughout the country was anything but simple — or equal. Decades after the Supreme Court’s ruling that a person’s freedom to have an abortion without excessive government limitations is constitutionally protected, various restrictions continue to pose obstacles for people seeking abortions. And, with the appointment of several new conservative judges to the Supreme Court, as well as a rise in restrictive abortion legislation being passed at the state level, the road ahead isn’t looking much clearer. 

In 2019 alone, 25 new abortion laws were passed — including bans on abortions after six weeks of pregnancy in Mississippi, Kentucky, and Georgia, and a full abortion ban in Alabama. “We saw these political attacks on the reproductive rights of Southerners [in 2018] across Georgia, Mississippi, and Alabama,” Quita Tinsley, co-director of Access Reproductive Care-Southeast, a regional abortion fund, told Refinery29 last year after the signing of Tennessee’s near-total abortion ban. With 2020 and the advent of the coronavirus pandemic came a slew of new challenges, including the fact that abortion services are now considered “non-essential” medical services in many states.

Many of these bans occurred in alignment with a common goal of anti-abortion lobbyists: the potential overturning of Roe v. Wade. And while the need to protect people’s access to abortion care has always been an urgent one, especially for Black people, the necessity feels particularly pronounced amid this country’s double crisis: not only has the coronavirus run rampant throughout the U.S., but this nation’s ongoing epidemic of anti-Black racism continues apace. 

At the center of it all exists America’s most vulnerable population: Black women and girls. As the recent grand jury decision surrounding Breonna Taylor’s murder demonstrated, American institutions do not protect Black women. And why would they? They’re not intended to do so. This fact is evident in the various systems of oppression that make it difficult for Black women to survive in this country. It’s evident in how they are treated in the workplace. It’s evident in their experience of excessively high rates of pregnancy-related deaths, many of which are preventable, but are exacerbated by a discriminatory healthcare system. And it’s evident in abortion restrictions that disproportionately harm Black women. All of this is a reminder of how long-standing systemic racism is built into every facet of our society; it’s why Black and brown lives are not safe, and never have been.

Of course, the endangerment of Black women’s lives is not new. Black women’s sexual and reproductive health in particular has been in jeopardy for decades. “Black women’s bodies have been a site of control since slavery,” Zakiya Luna, PhD, Associate Professor of Sociology at the University of California, Santa Barbara and author of Reproductive Rights as Human Rights: Women of Color and the Fight for Reproductive Justice, tells R29Unbothered. “They were thought of as vessels for reproductive control for the benefit of white slave masters and their families, even as Black women were providing so much important, critical labor.”

In the same way that slavery was rooted in the exploitation of Black bodies, anti-abortion efforts have white supremacist roots in which Black women were pushed aside in order for white men to increase their own wealth and power. “Prior to the Civil War, abortion and contraceptives were legal in the U.S., used by Indigenous women as well as those who sailed to these lands from Europe,” reports the American Civil Liberties Union. Back then, most women received reproductive health care from midwives, not doctors, and around half the women who provided reproductive health care were Black women.  “[Black women] also were keepers of knowledge of how to actually terminate an early pregnancy before ‘quickening,’” a term used to describe the first sensations of fetal movement, says Luna.

But, once Black women’s prowess within the field posed a threat to white men looking to capitalize in the field, midwifery was decried as a “degrading” form of obstetrical care. Male doctors lobbied to ban the practice and abortion along with it, positioning themselves as superior, and ultimately removing Black and Indigenous women from the same spaces they helped cultivate. Of course, it had been those same Black women whose bodies were probed and prodded in experimental, dangerous surgeries that ultimately made it possible for the kind of obstetrical advances that would further delegitimize midwifery. “Dr. Marion Sims famously wrote about his insomniac-induced ‘epiphanies’ that stirred him to experiment on enslaved Black women, lacerating, suturing, and cutting, providing no anesthesia or pain relief,” notes the ACLU. In addition to being used, mistreated and mutilated, Black women were also barred from practicing inside hospitals once they came into existence. Another effect of the sidelining of Black midwives was the banning of abortion and contraceptives; this made it possible for white men to have all the power when it came to women’s reproductive choices, and also made it illegal for Black women to help their communities in the way they’d been doing for generations.

What we’re experiencing now, then, a time when Black women are jumping additional hurdles to obtain the reproductive care they need, feels horribly familiar. “It’s a different moment, but it’s similar in that restricting who has access to the means of reproduction is part of the history of the U.S.,” stresses Luna. “Black women in particular have been used in a way to develop policies that end up having a broad affect on all women and people, controlling the reproductive possibility of their lives.”

There is no arguing the fact that abortion bans disproportionately harm Black people, who are three times as likely to die during childbirth as white people. Making it more difficult for Black people to access reproductive healthcare literally puts their lives at risk. With multiple states calling for the postponing of abortion procedures amid COVID-19 — during which Black and brown communities are being hit the hardest — Black women are being met with the prospect of navigating an already treacherous healthcare system to birth children during a pandemic if they are unable to gain access to abortion care.

“[The COVID-19 pandemic] certainly makes it all the more tenuous for folks to get the kind of care that they need,” Kwajelyn Jackson, Executive Director of the Feminist Women’s Health Center in Atlanta, Georgia tells R29Unbothered. “We know that folks are taking a tremendous risk just by being outside of their homes during this period of time. But also, abortion care has always been an obstacle course.”

In order to get an abortion, patients often need to take time off work, find childcare, secure safe transportation, and find someone who will be able to be with them throughout the day, particularly if they’re undergoing a surgical procedure that requires them to have anesthesia. There’s also the challenge of  paying for the care, which may be especially difficult right now, with 54 percent of Black women reporting that they were facing some sort of economic hardship in June — including being laid off from their jobs — amid the rapid rise in unemployment seen as a result of the pandemic. In states like Georgia, Jackson explains, the Hyde Amendment has been deployed to ban the use of state Medicaid funding to cover the cost of abortion care in most cases. Worth noting: Georgia has one of the highest Black maternal mortality rates in the country, making it clear their policy isn’t borne out of concern for women or children.  It’s why reproductive justice advocates of color are fighting to end racist and classist legislation like the Hyde Amendment. 

And with Black and brown pregnant women being more likely to be exposed to and die from COVID-19, their fight has become especially critical. Not only do abortion bans perpetuate the systems of oppression that threaten Black women’s lives daily, but during this especially prounounced period of anti-Black racism and social unrest, it becomes increasingly difficult for Black women and their families to survive in their homes and communities.

“What is very clear is that [access] very much depends on your geography, and that has been the case with abortion access in the U.S. for a long time,” says Luna. “For some folks, that likely meant that they ended up taking a pregnancy full term, but then there’s other folks who did what people did before the Roe v. Wade decision that legalized abortion federally, where there was patchwork and access varied state by state: they will travel to another state if they’re able to.”

In either case, the stakes are high for Black women and girls, who — without safe and legal access to abortion care — will continue to die, especially those who may not be able to afford to travel. Black women, Jackson adds, are in a place where it doesn’t feel safe to continue a pregnancy, particularly during a pandemic. It doesn’t feel safe to venture out of your home, let alone travel across the country to another state. It doesn’t feel safe to move through crowds of protesters in order to enter an abortion provider. And consistent, stress-free access to contraceptive care is becoming scarce. 

“There are so many systems that are working against our ability to live full, self-determined, autonomous lives when it comes to our safety and our reproduction,” says Jackson. As we continue to navigate this pandemic, one in which clear, up-to-date, science-based information regarding safety protocol remains unavailable to many in this country, people across the nation face a bleak future — but it’s Black women who will carry the heaviest burden.

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On September 23, former officer Brett Hankinson, one of three officers responsible for Breonna Taylor’s murder, was charged with three counts of wanton endangerment of the first degree by a Kentucky grand jury. Under the class D felony, he now faces one to five years in prison. He was not charged directly with taking Breonna’s life — nor were the other two officers who were involved.

By definition of Kentucky law, one is guilty of wanton endangerment in the first degree when they “wantonly engage in conduct which creates a substantial danger of death or serious physical injury to another person” and they do so “under circumstances manifesting extreme indifference to the value of human life.” Breonna, as many have called attention to, was not listed as a victim in the indictment. To the jury of Kentucky, Breonna Taylor — like the lives of many Black women in America — did not matter. To the Louisville Metro Police Department, her life had no value. It’s a painful song whose lyrics we’ve come to memorize over countless years of societal terrorism.

Five years ago, we began #SayingHerName; but it was 58 years ago that Malcolm X declared with pertinence that the most disrespected person in America was the Black woman, the most unprotected person in America was the Black woman, and the most neglected person in America was the Black woman. And while it feels trite to point to a moment so pivotal that most could never forget it, it also feels negligent not to revisit it during the tumultuous times we’re in. Because in addition to the death and devastation brought upon thousands globally amid the COVID-19 pandemic, if there’s one thing that 2020 has shown us, it’s that not much as changed at all: amid society, amid the “justice” system, the conservation of Black women’s lives remains to be seen at large.

The facts are clear. We watched our timelines as it took over three months from Breonna’s murder for Hankison to be fired from the LMPD. It took half a year for him to be charged. And according to The Washington Post, police have fatally shot at least 250 women since 2015, 89 of whom were killed inside their residences. Additionally, a number of Black transgender women’s deaths either went widely unreported or were only covered by a handful of news outlets — among them were Merci Mack, Dominique Fells and Riah Milton. And 19-year-old activist Oluwatoyin “Toyin” Salau went missing after tweeting about being sexually assaulted, only to be found dead one week later. The list of Black women’s lives who were callously ignored, erased, or terminated altogether in 2020, as the Black community is well-aware, is an extensive one.

If there’s one thing that 2020 has shown us, it’s that not much as changed at all: amid society, amid the “justice” system, the conservation of Black women’s lives remains to be seen at large.

Stephanie Long

When yet another one of us becomes a hashtag, we’re often left asking a question we’ve asked for decades: how do we move forward? As University of Florida law professor Michelle Jacobs told CBS News in June, a finite answer is impossible. 

“Yes, we have to get the police under control . . . but we also have to look at the conditions that lead people to be exposed to the police, to the view of the police. And, of course, that’s a much more complicated question,” she said.

As she went on to state, we must consider Black women’s safety within our society, and particularly the many systems put in place to hinder it. Where are we resting our heads at night? Is that place safe? Do we have the means to provide for our children? For those of us who are employed, are we being paid sustainable and equitable wages? The answer to some of these questions are rhetorical. And the factors, as Jacobs further explained, are all ones that contributed to the Ferguson era, in which said circumstances ultimately created  conditions leaving  Black people — and especially Black women — enormously exposed to police violence.

One thing Black women know for sure is that in order for anything to change, in order for our livelihood to gain any amount of fortitude under the weight of danger thrown upon us each day, people must begin to believe that our lives are valuable. We must be protected. And when protection isn’t offered, there absolutely needs to be a continued fight for our justice on a collective level, even when — such as in this disheartening moment — it may seem futile.

“America has to begin to think that Black women matter. We do matter,” Jacobs concluded. “We vote in tremendous numbers. We read like crazy. If there’s a Blockbuster film that needs to make its bank, it’s Black women that’s gonna put it over the top. We are significant members of the American society, and no one cares when we are killed.”

The amount of times we’ve had to say this is exhausting, but we will continue to say it until we’re blue in the face: Breonna Taylor’s Life absolutely mattered. Atatiana Jefferson’s life absolutely mattered. Bree Black’s life absolutely mattered. Brayla Stone’s life absolutely mattered. Sandra Bland’s life absolutely mattered. Korryn Gaines’ life absolutely mattered. Black women and girls absolutely matter.

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Every year — draped in stars and stripes — the majority of America celebrates July 4 as Independence Day. But what is the Fourth of July to the enslaved Black American? This was the question posed by Frederick Douglass during his poignant keynote address before the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society on July 5, 1852. Douglass, like many present-day Black Americans, challenged the notion that “independence” could exist in a country where Black folks still experienced staggering inequality and acute injustice. 

“This Fourth July is yours, not mine.”

Centuries later, not much has changed. And it’s for this reason many Black communities celebrate Independence Day on June 19, better known as Juneteenth or Emancipation Day. Juneteeth — “June” plus “nineteenth” — marks the day more than 250,000 enslaved Black people in Texas were made aware of President Abraham Lincoln’s signing of the Emancipation Proclamation more than two years earlier on January 1, 1863.

But because many enslavers chose to maintain the labor force on farms and plantations, it wasn’t until June 19, 1865 — after the Confederate Army commander General Robert E. Lee resigned and Union General Gordon Granger took command of the District of Texas — that the enslaved learned their independence was actually granted. Granger put forth action to see Lincoln’s order through, thus birthing the day that’s become symbolic of liberation for Black Americans. Although it’s not celebrated as a national federal holiday, Black people have and will always consider the annual event as a moment to reclaim Black joy.

The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free. This involves an absolute equality of personal rights and rights of property between former masters and slaves, and the connection heretofore existing between them becomes that between employer and hired labor.

General Order No. 3; Headquarters District of Texas, Galveston, June 19, 1865

Finding liberation by reclaiming Black joy feels especially important in this moment. But what does it even mean to be Black and free in America right now? Although slavery officially ended in 1865, its ghosts perpetually haunt our society through the mistreatment and modern-day lynching of Black bodies. This year, we’ve watched COVID-19 take a devastating toll on people around the world, and on Black Americans especially. All this while witnessing the continued murder of our Black brothers and sisters whose names are shouted in the streets amid calls for justice: Ahmaud Arbery, Sean Reed, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Riah Milton, Dominique Fells, Oluwatoyin Salau — among way too many others.

Black people are “free,” and we’re still being gunned down by police on the streets and in our homes. Black people are “free,” and thousands of our women and girls are missing. Black people are “free,” but we’re still trying to convince the world that all Black lives — queer, trans and disabled included — matter. If you are Black in America, you may be “free,” but your “freedom” is illusive.

It’s also a tough time to be Black in media. According to the 2019 ASNE Newsroom Diversity Survey, people of color make up 21.9 percent of salaried newsroom workers, while just 18.8 percent are newsroom managers at both print/digital and online-only publications. That reality becomes a heavy burden to carry during times of civil unrest in the Black community, when we’re often looked toward to lead while simultaneously trying to grieve. It becomes especially difficult when you find yourself within a company that strives for values that haven’t always been reflected in its practices. So what does it mean to be Black and free in the newsroom?

For us at R29Unbothered, being Black and free means controlling our narrative. That’s why — with the help of our amazing colleagues across VICE Media and a fantastic team of talented Black writers — it was important for us to highlight our experiences, our way. We’ve been Black and we’re always gonna be Black. So this Juneteenth, we’re celebrating ourselves — just as we always have.

VICE Media Group is celebrating Juneteenth, the day all enslaved Black Americans were emancipated in the U.S., by highlighting stories important to the diaspora across VICE, i-D, Garage, and Refinery 29. Tune in to VICE TV for a full day of television honoring Black voices.

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2020 has brought almost crippling hardship upon the Black community. Amid COVID-19 — the novel virus that is still affecting thousands globally and has had a disproportionate effect on Black Americans – many are left reeling as they work to figure out how to navigate a bereft and trying social climate. 

But it’s not just the virus that is threatening Black lives. Since the pandemic hit its peak in the United States at the top of the year, we’ve also witnessed the continued killing and mistreatment of Black folks, namely in the wake of the recently reported deaths of those like Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor and George Floyd — as well as the victimization of those like Christian Cooper, a Black man who a white woman called the police on in Central Park after her asked her to leash her dog.

The recent events have brought allyship to the center of discussion as many white people explore how to be better advocates for the Black community. How can white people approach allyship in a way that’s productive and incites change? What hard truths do they need to sit with? And what self exploration is required before one can begin doing the work? 

R29Unbothered reached out to activist and community organizer Leslie Mac, whose work is rooted in helping white people become better allies. In this as told to, she discusses the importance of understanding white supremacy culture and why, as she’s said previously, “learning that racism and white supremacy exist is not an end goal.”

White people have been taught via society and “White Supremacy Culture” that their feelings are the most important thing in the world, therefore their natural approach to allyship is centered on themselves and how it will make them feel. 

After learning about white supremacy and racism, many white people feel badly. When white people have a bad feeling, their feelings are positioned as action. It’s why white tears are effective, and Black people get less pain medication than their white counterparts in emergency rooms across the country. To push through this, and understand that their feelings aren’t the destination — but instead a beginning — is a foreign concept. Nothing else in their world operates that way. We are talking about rewiring the internal mechanisms that white people are conditioned to respond to. It takes intention, deliberate action, accountability and humility to do this internal work.

The goal is not just to have people learn about white supremacy, but to understand how their personal lives support it. White people need to do a lot of introspective work to understand the ways in which they personally contribute to, benefit from and tolerate white supremacy. This isn’t about shame. I find shame to be a useless emotion that will keep people stuck where they are and focused on their own feelings. Guilt is something true allies need to confront on a regular basis. Not just the feeling of guilt, but what needs to be done in order to take action because of the guilt they feel. 

Any “allyship” rooted in performance is not effective. If the action you are taking has any component of making you feel like you did something versus knowing something was done, then you know you aren’t productive.

For example, with the hashtag #IRunWithAhmaud — Black runners were participating in that action as catharsis, to connect with someone they know could have been them on a different day in a different place at a different time. Why were white people running? To show that they ran? To make themselves feel like they did something of use? To perform allyship instead of being an actual ally?

What would it have looked like for white runners to offer distance “security” for runners in their area? Or research how Black runners in their location are being treated? Fundamentally, white people need to understand that whenever something happens that makes them angry or upset, the same thing is happening wherever they are located. The best thing they can do is to look for ways to make sure there is no Ahmaud in their city, and to learn who and how to support the Ahmauds that live where they do.

Effective allyship — and this is not just true for white people, but for cis people who want to be good allies to trans folks, and for able bodied people who want to be good allies to disabled people — is rooted in the needs of those most affected. Accountability and partnership is built into good allyship work — ensuring the action you are taking has not only been vetted by the community you are serving, but that it also works in concert with the work they are already doing. 

The sooner white people understand all the internal voices that stop them from taking action are rooted in white supremacy — and a basal distrust of Black people and Blackness — the easier it will be for them to start getting to work. Stop using “they, them & those people” framing when talking about white supremacy and racism, and instead root their thought processes in “me, we & us”.

A few examples of good white allyship are pushing your PTA to require anti-racism and anti-oppression training for all parents in a school system, a direct white outreach campaign to support bailing Black mothers out of jail, creation of a list of Black women to hire for everything from resume help to graphic design. All these examples are rooted in two things: 1) they are actions white people are able to take without Black labor and 2) they have direct benefit to Black people. Effective, accountable action is the goal.

White people should leverage the privileges they have at all times, specifically financial ones towards those doing direct on the ground organizing work. They need to consistently ask themselves how they can remove as many barriers for support as possible. When in doubt, give your money to Black women, especially Black trans women. It’s the very least you can do, and still be incredibly effective in taking that action.

White people will fail in their attempts to be good allies, and they need to prepare for this in advance. This is critical to their path of becoming an anti-racist person. Black people are not expecting perfection from white people. We know it is not a question of if they will mess up but when they will mess up. What I have been saying over and over is, when white people mess up, what will they do then? Will they retreat? Will they give up? Will they lash out? Will they push blame onto others? Or will they use this as an opportunity to learn what not to do and commit to doing better?

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