Top Three Healing Albums for Black Girls Over The Past Five Years
BY MORAYO OMOGBENIGUN
The lived experiences of Black women have been majorly left out of the mainstream feminist movement until recently. What we often think of as hallmarks of the feminist movement have often been exclusive of Black women - for example, in the Jim Crow Era, Black women’s suffragist organisations were discouraged from joining the larger, feminist groups as their presence might anger more conservative, Southern members. Or, the fact that Black women being victims to medicinal racism in the UK has largely been ignored until recently.
According to the UK Confidential Enquiry into Maternal Deaths, between 2014 to 2016, Black women were five times more likely to die in childbirth than our white counterparts. Not seeing yourself in mainstream feminism causes one to look elsewhere for common ground- representation, places where you feel seen and understood.
For me, this was music - listening to Solange sing about being angry, or hearing Jamila Woods sing about how pissed off she gets when people mispronounce her name felt like a much needed hug. So, I’ve compiled my top five healing albums to listen to as a Black woman when it feels like I am screaming into the void.
A Seat At The Table by Solange
Typical, I know. A Seat At The Table’s release in 2016 coincided with my understanding of what exactly racism was - with Tamir Rice being murdered in 2014, my worldview started to expand past what was in my immediate grasp (GCSEs, going to Wagamama’s, hanging around Hyde Park). The feelings of injustice Solange describes in Mad, and the uneasiness she sings about in Weary acted as a signifier to my complex emotions around the start of the Black Lives Matter movement.
Often, Black women’s anger is interpreted as being completely unjustifiable - breaking the social etiquette that requires Black women to neither be seen, nor heard. Those feelings of confusion, fear and uncertainty that come with existing as a Black person in a predominantly white space, or world rather, were perfectly described in this album. The breakout songs Don’t Touch My Hair and Cranes In The Sky were made by a Black woman, for Black women. There was something liberating about being in a crowd full of Black women yelling “Don’t touch my hair!” along with Solange last summer at LOVEBOX.
A super fan myself, I was determined not to cry, but as soon as Solange sang the first note to Cranes In The Sky, I felt emotional release - I didn’t have to explain to my white friends what a ‘microaggression’ was, or why ‘being Black is so hard’. All I had to do was be one body in a sea of other Black bodies existing. For that, I’m eternally grateful to this album for. My other favourite tracks include Junie, F.U.B.U and Borderline (An Ode to Self Care).
HEAVN by Jamila Woods
Above all else, this album is about self-care, and self-preservation. I never really understood the importance of Black self-care until the past few months - seeing videos of people who look like me being brutally murdered circulate on social media, or having to constantly explain what exactly racism was to (non-Black) others has been extremely taxing. Then, I came across this quote from my fairy godmother, Audre Lorde: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare”. This quote immediately reminded me of HEAVN.
Again, this is another case of unique experiences being sang about - one of the tracks I relate to the most is In My Name. As someone with a non-English name, I have gotten used to hearing people mispronounce my name. Even though it's a cool six letters with no ‘foreign’ sounds, I’ve had to abbreviate it to ‘Mo’ for the past few years, as it seems like when I tell people my name, they don’t hear me, and instead parrot back something they think is appropriate. Or, they can’t tell the difference between the letters ‘o’ and ‘a’, or click copy and paste when replying to an email. ‘Dear Moroya’. ‘Dear Mariah’. ‘Dear Moroyo’. These lyrics particularly stood out to me:
I like to make you wash your mouth before you talk about me
Keep my name out your mouth 'cause you can't handle the fleek
Don't cut your tongue on my syllables
Bet you need a syllabus to teach you how my vowels sound
My name means “I have seen joy again”. The beauty of Yoruba names is every time you say them, it's like casting a positive affirmation into the world. So, why would I allow others to mess up my positive affirmation? Because they can’t be bothered to think? Nope. Other tracks like VRY BLK, Black Girl Soldier and Popsicle (Interlude) are unapologetically Black and militant, with no care for external perception.
The standout track, to me, is Holy - lyrics like “Woke up this morning with my mind set on loving me” and “My cup is full up, what I got is enough. Nobody completes me, don't mess with my stuff”. These are great mantras to say to yourself when the going gets tough.
Telefone BY Noname
This album just had to make the list. Telefone is important to me, because it describes the unique experience of being a Black girl. It forces you to be nostalgic, and think back to the innocence of childhood. This is key in a world where Black children face adultification, where they are perceived as older than they are. This results in harsher punishments and Black children not being given the space to express their emotions.
The opening track, Yesterday is an open invitation to the listener to conjure up their feelings of nostalgia, as sometimes that’s the only thing that can keep one going in trying times. As a Black kid, realising racism exists is quite literally gut-wrenching. So, it makes sense to want to cling onto your ignorant years. In Diddy Bop, she raps about playing outside and listening to B2k in the car. Another one of my favourite tracks is Reality Check, because it so perfectly encapsulates what it's like to have imposter syndrome on your mind all the time:
The Grammy's is way too lofty
And I could stay here forever
I could die here
I don't have to try here
Journalism is over 90% white, so of course, as a Black woman attempting to do this full-time, imposter syndrome is always on my mind, so the positive chorus (“You are powerful, beyond what you imagine”) is exactly what I need to keep pushing. Throughout the album, Noname talks about the effect of police brutality. Even though her lyrics are specific to Chicago, her hometown, a lot of Black people can relate to this fear of the police and state-sanctioned violence.
I have found solace in Audre Lorde’s collection of essays When I Dare to be Powerful. She talks about how “the transformation of silence into language and action [being] an act of self-revelation”. These albums helped me understand my position as a Black femme in the world. This year has been difficult for Black women across the world.
Oluwatoyin Salau
The death of Oluwatoyin Salau hit me especially hard - she was my age, she was Nigerian, she was young, Black and angry. Her death felt like an international day of mourning for Black women everywhere.
So, when we find things that give us joy, we must hold on to them. I encourage everyone, regardless of if you’re a Black woman or not, to listen to these albums and seek both healing and understanding.
This year’s FUZE is in aid of two charities: ArtRefuge and Black South West Network.
