Three Generations of Black Womanhood: A Conversation on America, Change, and Continuity

By Maurice Woodson

The late afternoon sun spills into Monique’s living room, painting the walls a soft amber. The place feels lived in and loved—family photos crowd the shelves, a faint vanilla candle burns somewhere in the kitchen, and the air holds the warmth of three generations gathered together.

I’m here as an interviewer, but also as a 50 year old Black man who has lived his own version of the same story we’re about to discuss. I remember the sting of being told to watch my tone, of being taught that survival depended on obedience and invisibility. But I really wanted to get it from the gaze of Black women, since honestly, it has always been Black women who carried this country forward while still being the most disrespected. I knew their observations would be powerful and informative, especially coming from these different generations.

Sitting across from Monique, Jasmine, and Aaliyah, I realize I’m looking at history in motion—the past, present, and future of Black womanhood in America.

I ask them to start at the beginning: What was it like growing up Black in your era?

Monique, 56, takes a breath before answering.

“For me, in the ’80s and ’90s, the message was simple: work twice as hard, be twice as good. My parents said it constantly. Education was supposed to be the key. But even with good grades and a degree, you’d still walk into spaces where people made you feel like an intruder. It was like carrying your whole race on your back—every move judged, every mistake magnified.”

Her daughter Jasmine, 34, nods, her tone thoughtful but edged with fire.

“I felt that same pressure, but the world around me was different. Social media came along and changed everything. The racism my mom talked about—we recorded it, shared it, made people confront it. Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, George Floyd… those names weren’t just in the news, they were in our phones every day. It was heavy, traumatizing even, but it also gave us a movement. We weren’t invisible anymore. But being seen all the time brought its own kind of weight.”

Aaliyah, just 15, shifts in her seat, her honesty cutting through the room like a clear note.

“I’ve never known a world without protests or hashtags. Sometimes kids at school say racism isn’t real anymore because of Obama. But I feel it. I see how teachers treat us different, how people talk about my hair like it’s something weird. I don’t always know what to say back, but I know what it feels like.”

As she speaks, I can’t help but remember my own teenage years, when the lessons were the same: walk carefully, watch closely, don’t give them an excuse. Different decades, same undercurrent.

I ask: Do you feel things have changed, or are they still the same?

Monique shakes her head gently.

“The details change, but the feeling doesn’t. My mother didn’t have social media, didn’t see herself on TV, but she knew the same reminder: this country wasn’t built for us. And yet we kept going. Each generation has its own version of that reality.”

Jasmine leans forward, her words deliberate.

“I don’t want survival to be the whole story anymore. My generation got tired of shrinking, tired of code-switching just to exist. I want Aaliyah to know that thriving matters. Taking up space unapologetically is just as important as staying safe.”

Aaliyah’s eyes light up.

“I think of being Black like a superpower. Even with all the struggles, I feel proud. We make music, fashion, culture—and the whole world copies us. That makes me feel strong, like we’re more than the bad stuff.”

Her words linger in the air, and I realize I’ve never heard my generation describe Blackness that way. We were taught to carry pride quietly, protectively. She says it boldly, with no hesitation. That alone feels like change.

Finally, I ask: What has carried you through, across all these struggles?

Monique’s voice softens, carrying the weight of memory.

“Pride. Always pride. That’s what my mother gave me, and what I tried to pass to Jasmine. Even when the world lies about who we are, we know the truth.”

Jasmine glances at her daughter, a small but powerful smile forming.

“That’s the thread across us all. Different battles, different tools, but the same truth: being Black in America means carrying pain and beauty at the same time.”

Aaliyah straightens in her chair, her voice filled with the kind of hope only youth can give.

“And maybe by the time I’m my mom’s age, the beauty will win more often.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but full—of memory, of struggle, of love. I sit there, feeling both the weight and the gift of what I’ve just heard. Three women, three generations, one story told in different keys.

Their words remind me of something my own grandmother once said: We didn’t survive just to survive—we survived so you could dream.

Looking at Aaliyah, I see that dream still alive, still growing.

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Ending Colorism: The Impact of Skin Tone Bias and Discrimination

By Maurice Woodson

In Spike Lee’s 1988 film School Daze, there’s a powerful scene where a group of light-skinned sorority sisters confront their darker-skinned counterparts. It’s an iconic moment—one that reflects a painful truth still haunting our communities today: the internalized division of colorism.

Colorism—bias or discrimination based on skin tone, often within the same racial or ethnic group—didn’t start with us. Like so many of our struggles, its roots stretch back to slavery. Enslavers deliberately sowed division by assigning lighter-skinned individuals to house duties and relegating darker-skinned people to grueling labor in the fields. Lighter skin became associated with beauty, value, and proximity to whiteness, while darker skin was deemed less attractive, less worthy.

That toxic hierarchy, designed to divide and weaken us, continues to poison minds centuries later. Even now, in social media, in pop culture, and in everyday interactions, people are still judged—praised or dismissed—based on how light or dark their skin is.

The damage is deep and enduring. Some Black individuals have gone so far as to seek relationships with white partners in hopes of having lighter-skinned children—believing, consciously or not, that this will afford their children a better life. Meanwhile, many darker-skinned people are exhausted and enraged by the constant bias they face, even from within their own community.

This has to stop.

But how do we undo generations of psychological conditioning? How do we dismantle a system that taught us to view ourselves—and each other—through the lens of white supremacy?

It begins with truth and intention. Skin is just skin—regardless of hue, tone, or shade. It’s irrational and destructive to let outdated, colonial-era standards dictate how we see one another. Especially now, when Black people globally are still fighting for recognition, respect, and justice, unity is not optional—it’s essential.

Black is beautiful. Whether dark, light, or anywhere in between, we are extraordinary. When we come together, we are powerful. It’s time to stop being our own enemy and start seeing one another through the lens of love, pride, and solidarity.

We must support, uplift, and celebrate all Black people. Because if we don’t, who will?

30 Day Challenge: A One-Month Fitness Reset for Men and Women

Sometimes the hardest part of getting fit is just starting. Between busy schedules, gym intimidation, and the endless stream of conflicting advice, it’s easy to put health goals off until “next week.” The 30 Day Challenge is designed to remove those excuses. With simple workouts you can do at home or in the gym, paired with straightforward healthy eating guidelines, this one-month plan helps men and women build momentum, stay consistent, and see real results.

The Rules of the Challenge

1. Commit to 30 days. No matter what, move your body and stay mindful of your nutrition each day.
2. Alternate strength and cardio. Keep your muscles and heart equally engaged.
3. Keep it simple. No fad diets, no complicated routines. Just basics done consistently.
4. Track your progress. Take notes on your workouts, meals, and how you feel—energy and mood matter as much as numbers.

Weekly Workout Structure

• Day 1: Full-Body Strength (gym or bodyweight)
• Day 2: Cardio (walk, jog, bike, dance, or HIIT)
• Day 3: Core & Mobility
• Day 4: Strength (upper body focus)
• Day 5: Cardio (intervals or steady-state)
• Day 6: Strength (lower body focus)
• Day 7: Rest & Stretching

Home option: Push-ups, squats, planks, lunges, resistance bands, and stair sprints.

Gym option: Dumbbell or barbell lifts, rowing machine, treadmill intervals, and cable exercises.

Repeat this cycle each week, gradually increasing intensity.

Healthy Eating Made Easy

Nutrition is half the battle, but it doesn’t need to be complicated.

• Focus on whole foods: lean proteins, fruits, vegetables, whole grains, nuts, and seeds.
• Hydrate: aim for 8–10 glasses of water daily.
• Balanced meals: half your plate vegetables, one-quarter protein, one-quarter complex carbs.
• Limit processed sugars and fast food without banning them—moderation is key.
• Prep ahead: cook meals in bulk to avoid last-minute unhealthy choices.

Sample day:

• Breakfast: oatmeal with berries and almonds
• Lunch: grilled chicken salad with olive oil dressing
• Snack: Greek yogurt with honey
• Dinner: baked salmon, roasted vegetables, and quinoa

Staying Motivated

• Set small goals: “I’ll do today’s workout” is easier than “I’ll lose 20 pounds.”
• Use accountability: share the challenge with a friend or post updates online.
• Celebrate non-scale wins: better sleep, improved mood, clothes fitting differently.

The Payoff

By the end of 30 days, you’ll be stronger, more energized, and equipped with healthier habits that can last well beyond the challenge. The goal isn’t perfection—it’s consistency. This challenge is about proving to yourself that you can commit, adjust, and grow.

Because after 30 days of showing up for your health, the question won’t be “Can I do this?” but “What’s next?”

BLACK MEN MUST PROTECT BLACK WOMEN:

Silenced Twice

Why Victim Blaming Is Its Own Kind of Violence

By Maurice Woodson

When the allegations against Sean “Diddy” Combs resurfaced in the courtroom, with Cassie Ventura and several other women sharing accounts of abuse, the public response should have been one of compassion, outrage, and support. But instead, a familiar and ugly pattern emerged. On social media, in barbershops, at dinner tables, and even in some news outlets, many chose not to listen. They chose to judge.

“Why now?” “Why didn’t she leave?” “She looked like a freak—what did she expect?”

The questions weren’t meant to seek truth. They were weapons. A second violation.

Victim blaming is its own kind of violence. It might not leave physical scars, but its psychological damage is just as deep. It isolates survivors. It shames them. It tells them: You are to blame for your pain. And for many, that message is more traumatizing than the original abuse.

A Culture of Doubt and Disbelief

We live in a society where people are more comfortable scrutinizing a woman’s outfit than confronting a man’s abusive behavior—especially if he’s rich, powerful, or famous. Over and over, survivors are met not with empathy, but interrogation. If a woman speaks out, she’s asked to prove her trauma. If she stays silent, her silence is used against her. The system is stacked—and so is the culture around it.

When women accuse powerful men of violence or coercion, the reflex is rarely to believe them. Instead, the public demand receipts: videos, bruises, police reports, a perfect victim history. If she’s ever posted a revealing photo, she’s “asking for it.” If she’s stayed too long, she’s “complicit.” If she speaks up too late, she’s “lying.”

We talk about due process in court—but what about the court of public opinion? There, survivors are often already convicted—as liars.

The Psychology of Silence

The question isn’t why didn’t she say something sooner? The question is: Why would she?

When victims are blamed, mocked, discredited, or ignored, it’s no wonder they choose silence. Carrying trauma is hard enough. Carrying the weight of a society that doesn’t believe you, that scrutinizes your every move, that reduces your pain to a punchline—that’s unbearable.

And sometimes, tragically, that burden ends in suicide. The CDC reports that survivors of sexual violence are significantly more likely to attempt or die by suicide. The connection isn’t coincidental. Shame kills. Stigma kills. Disbelief kills.

Women Against Women

One of the most painful aspects of victim blaming is that it doesn’t always come from men. Sometimes, women—whether out of internalized misogyny, denial, or survival strategy—join the chorus of doubt.

“She’s just trying to get money.”

“She’s ruining his life.”

“I would never let that happen to me.”

These comments reflect a deeper cultural sickness: the myth of the “perfect victim” and the refusal to see that abuse can happen to anyone—regardless of strength, status, or self-image. When women attack other women in the aftermath of abuse, they reinforce the very systems that endanger them all.

The Price of Fame—and Fandom

Celebrity culture makes it even harder. Fans build parasocial relationships with public figures, defending them like family even in the face of monstrous behavior. “He made my favorite album.” “He was a genius.” “He helped my community.”

But none of that erases abuse.

When we prioritize talent over truth, and charisma over character, we enable harm. When we choose to side with abusers just because they’re famous, we tell survivors they’re expendable—background noise to a bigger, glossier story.

Accountability Is Love

Men need to do better. Not just in how they treat women, but in how they talk about women, how they hold each other accountable, and how they unlearn the dangerous narratives that tie masculinity to dominance.

Women need to support each other. Not blindly, but with compassion. With space. With the understanding that every survivor’s story is different—and that pain doesn’t follow a script.

And all of us need to remember: siding with the powerful over the vulnerable isn’t just a failure of justice. It’s a failure of humanity.

If we want to live in a world where survivors feel safe enough to speak, we need to stop silencing them with blame. We need to listen, believe, and act.

Because victim blaming doesn’t just echo the trauma.

It is the trauma—repackaged, repeated, and normalized.

Let’s do better. Starting now.

Natural Hair: Black Men and Women are Embracing Their Roots and Challenging Hair Bias

By Sean Henderson

The late hum of clippers mixes with the laughter of a Saturday crowd at a neighborhood barbershop. Across town, the smell of coconut oil and shea butter drifts through a beauty salon where women twist, braid, and style with practiced hands. In both spaces, conversations flow about work, family, and culture—but lately, one theme keeps resurfacing: embracing natural hair.

For decades, Eurocentric beauty standards dictated what was “professional” or “acceptable.” Straightened hair was praised, while afros, braids, and locs were dismissed as “unpolished” or “rebellious.” Today, Black men and women are rejecting those standards and leaning into authenticity. Natural hair is no longer just a personal style choice—it is a cultural statement, a health decision, and, at times, a form of resistance.

A History of Bias

From the early 20th century onward, straightened hair became the ticket into certain jobs and social spaces. Black women were urged to press or relax their hair, while Black men were told to keep theirs close-cut and “tidy.” Those who didn’t conform often faced consequences.

“I remember being sent home from work in the early ’90s because my boss said my braids were ‘too distracting,’” recalls Angela, 56, a retired accountant. “I never forgot that feeling—being told my natural self didn’t belong in the office.”

Stories like Angela’s aren’t rare. Even today, students are suspended for locs, job candidates are rejected for wearing afros, and athletes are told to cut their hair before competing. Hair bias, though sometimes subtle, has had real economic and emotional impact for generations.

A New Wave of Acceptance

The natural hair movement, first ignited in the 1960s and ’70s with the afro as a political statement, surged again in the 2000s. This time, social media amplified it. Platforms like YouTube and Instagram became hubs for tutorials, product recommendations, and representation.

“Seeing influencers who looked like me made all the difference,” says Tiana, 29, a corporate lawyer. “When I finally wore my twist-out to a client meeting, I expected side-eyes. Instead, I got compliments. That moment showed me I didn’t have to hide to be respected.”

Natural Hair in the Workplace

The passage of the CROWN Act—which bans discrimination based on hair texture and protective styles in multiple states—marks progress. But laws don’t erase attitudes overnight. Many Black professionals still navigate unspoken rules.

“Clients sometimes assume I’m younger or less experienced when I wear my hair in an afro,” says Darnell, 35, a marketing manager. “But I’ve stopped caring. If my hair makes them underestimate me, that’s their problem, not mine.”

Men and the Movement

While much of the spotlight has focused on women, Black men are also reclaiming their styles. From locs and braids to natural fades, hair has become both personal expression and cultural pride.

At Marcus’s Barbershop, the conversation is constant. “Black hair tells a story,” Marcus, a barber of 20 years, explains. “When young brothers sit in my chair and ask for twists or locs, I remind them they’re part of a tradition bigger than fashion. But I also prepare them—because bias is still real. I’ve had clients lose jobs just because of their hairstyle. That has to change.”

More Than Just Hair

The decision to embrace natural hair is layered—about identity, health, economics, and liberation.

“I grew up watching my mom spend hours relaxing her hair,” says Kayla, 17, a high school senior. “When I went natural, it wasn’t just about style—it was about saying I don’t have to damage myself to be accepted. That’s freedom.”

For many, that freedom is also financial. Natural hair care often saves money in the long run by reducing reliance on chemical treatments and salon visits. But more importantly, it allows Black people to show up in the world fully themselves.

Looking Ahead

The natural hair movement is reshaping definitions of beauty and professionalism. It’s a challenge to centuries-old bias, and a declaration that Blackness needs no modification to be worthy of respect.

As Marcus the barber put it best: “This isn’t a trend. It’s us finally refusing to apologize for being who we are.”

From grandmothers who once hid their braids, to professionals wearing twist-outs in boardrooms, to teenagers posting wash-day routines on TikTok, the message is the same: natural hair is not just hair—it’s culture, confidence, and freedom.

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