notes on how to be a Black woman
for Shirley

too Black, too strong

Black women in politics are stumbling as they walk the fine line between being seen as electable, conservative, liberal, radical, out of touch, hubristic or self-loathing.

dionne st. hill wonders if it’s possible to balance political and cultural expectations without an inevitable ignominious ending.
So, does the rise and fall of Kemi and Kamala paradoxically prove, it is time to move away from the so-called ‘minoritised model’ of Black women in elite political positions?

Is the term over for Black women in politics who stay silent about their identity, racialised injustice and oppression whilst attempting to secure partisan success?

Author: dionne st.hill 

Read time: 13 mins

The first Black woman to run for president in America, back in 1972, was born Shirley Anita St. Hill. I’m not claiming any direct familial relationship; in fact, as my 17-year-old son wryly reminded me, it’s more likely that we share a historical legacy of onomastic colonialism – the enforcement of colonial naming conventions – than close family members and family reunion invitations.

But through the mire of indigenous name stripping, patrilineal labelling, cultural erasure and the emotional disorientation of imposed surnames, I’ve found a deep connection with St. Hill.

I’ve loved being a St. Hill, and my love made me historically and culturally short-sighted, I didn’t linger over the jumble of possible origin stories tied to my name – brutal enslavement, colonial control, greedy plantation owners, British immigrants stealing land under the guise of ‘settling’ or even the deceptively benign idea that my name was inspired by an idyllic geographical space somewhere in Britain.

Growing up and perhaps even more so since my father’s passing, my name, despite its painful provenance, feels like a gift from my father – not an imposition from a vile oppressor.

maverick and beautiful audacity

I was born in 1970, my parents weren’t married, and I could quite easily have been left with a sense of illegitimacy, but my dad always wanted me to know I was loved and wanted, unexpected for sure, but wanted by him and embraced by my sprawling St. Hill family.

And now I find myself enjoying the link, however tenuous, that my family name of St. Hill provides with the maverick and beautiful audacity of a pioneering political Black woman.

My name has always felt rare and in many ways remains so, for when Shirley (whose father was a Guyanese St. Hill and moved to Barbados, where he met Shirley’s mother) ran for president back 52 years ago, she was using the name of her first husband, a Jamaican man called Conrad Chisholm, so it is Shirley Chisholm that made history, rather than Shirley St. Hill.

Over a half a century later, we find ourselves in interesting times for Black women in politics, just like Shirley, Kamala failed in her bid to become the first Black woman to hold ultimate office in the US. And as some of us mourn the defeat of Kamala Harris and perhaps tacitly reflect on Kemi Badenoch’s victory as the first Black woman to lead the Conservative Party; there is a painful paradox awkwardly positioned amid the layers of political posturing and rhetoric.

incendiary political space

They are Black women making their way as pioneers; but just as we know there is no such thing as a perfect victim, unless, of course, you are a White woman; there is certainly no such thing as the perfect Black woman politician. Kamala’s failure to directly address Black concerns or criticise the Israeli government and the genocide we are witnessing in real time, many argue contributed to the resurrection of Trump and his band of White capitalists and wannabe supremacists.

It takes a particular kind of Black woman to enter an incendiary political space destined to douse you in misogynoir.

Kemi Badenoch is the first Black British African leader of a British political party; but sadly, this does not feel like a celebratory moment in Black British women’s social and political story.

My mother excitedly sent me a text sharing the news of her win; a lifelong Liberal, my mother’s political interest does not stray far from the comfort zone of her political affiliation; so when I told her nonplussed, I had expected this announcement, but felt no joy or excitement about the result; I felt a moment of guilt that I could not celebrate the achievements of another Black women with my mother.

male, stale and pale

When Diane Abbott became the first Black British woman to become an MP in 1987, I was the same age as my eldest son now – 17. I was young and not particularly interested in politics, and certainly not as wry or cynically humoured as my firstborn can be; I just knew back then that I was drawn to both liberalism and labour – the respective political positions of my mother and father.

But despite the distance between events and my deep interest, these were powerful moments seeing Diane, Keith Vaz, Paul Boateng, and Bernie Grant become a melanated part of an elite male, stale and pale political establishment.

In later years, in my days as a journalist with The Voice Newspaper, I was blessed to meet, spend time and interview Bernie Grant. He invited me to the House of Commons, showed me around, we hung out in his chambers, and he treated me to lunch. He was an adorable and radical man, that centred his political purpose in the communities he represented both locally and ideologically. He compromised nothing in his political trajectory.

nuanced realities

Back then, when Diane Abbott and her pioneering colleagues made it to parliament, it felt powerful and exciting, a seismic shift in the political and social landscape. Their identity and their relationship with the socially excluded was amplified rather than muted; gender and its proximity to Blackness felt celebrated rather than sidelined.

Kemi’s rise, as she settles into the leadership of the Conservative party, feels sadly like a retrograde step, with the only celebrants of her success, perhaps being proponents of the ideology of white supremacy and racialised inequity.
This is a time of complexity and tension for Black women in politics. I find myself, like many other Black women, wading through the nuanced realities we face when one of us rises in prominence, but not in solidarity with the broader interests and struggles of the communities we are a part of and understand.

For many Black women, Kemi’s rise means nothing. In fact, we feel more vulnerable to gendered and racialised injustice and inequity because of her anointment.

‘Black women I hate’ list.

None of us will ever forget what Diane Abbot had to go through when a Tory donor openly reflected on his desire to kill her and then shamelessly contorted a correlation between this violent fantasy and his feelings of hate for all Black women. I wonder if Kemi made it to the top ten of his ‘Black women I hate’ list.

Black women are subject to a constellation of systemic failures and inequity, including financial pay gaps based on race and gender, health care disparities, disturbingly higher rates of birth mortalities, vocational and academic discrimination and tired, violent tropes that reduce us to angry, strong, one-dimensional women immune to pain and undeserving of empathy.

We have always known, but now more than ever – be it here or in the States – that representation alone does not translate into progress or radical change.

Shirley Chisholm’s 1972 presidential bid was a groundbreaking effort that required navigating a complex political landscape. While vying for the Democratic nomination, she sought to represent a broad coalition of marginalised voices, including women, working-class people, and Black, Brown and Hispanic communities. Recognising the specific concerns of Black people, Shirley Chisholm engaged with influential figures like Huey Newton of the Black Panther Party, who initially expressed scepticism about her and her mainstream politics but ultimately endorsed her.

‘Champion for all disenfranchised people’.

Shirley emphasised shared goals of racial justice and systemic change while maintaining her stance as an independent thinker determined not to be pigeonholed solely as a ‘Black candidate’ or a ‘woman candidate’ but as a ‘champion for all disenfranchised people’.

Despite her distance from perfection – when Shirley Chisholm expressed her desire to be remembered as a ‘Black woman who lived in the 20th century’ – she captured the fullness of her humanity and the historical context of her life.

Shirley Chisholm wanted her identity as a Black woman to remain central to her legacy, recognising the unique challenges and triumphs that came with being both Black and a woman in a society dominated by White Patriarchy. She saw herself as a symbol of resistance, resilience, intelligence and determination against systemic barriers.

We are seeing some contemporary Black women candidates refuse to enter the political arena leading with their gender and cultural or ethnic identity. As if to do so would accelerate an inevitable ignominious failure.

empty and toothless

Diane Abbott’s election to Parliament was not merely symbolic; her presence felt transformational because she remained an advocate, facing racial hostility but persevering in her commitment to the people of her constituency and beyond.

What might have felt groundbreaking in one era, now feels empty and toothless without the courage, advocacy and solidarity that drives tangible change.

Kemi Badenoch has arrived at this position amidst Conservative Party’s controversies and policies that often do not align with the social progress many of us seek. This juxtaposition of Shirley and Diane and Kemi and Kamala underscore the difference between representation for representation’s sake and representation that advances communities’ needs.

Black and Brown women who rise in conservative politics are often viewed with mixed feelings, Kemi joins Priti and Suella as women in British politics who have morphed, through their words and actions, into part politician, part pariah.

what does “making it” really mean

Their approach to politics, highlights the depth of loss for those who choose or find themselves in positions of power, that mean they must align with structures that have historically perpetuated injustice against people who look like them.

What then, does this mean for Black women in politics. Achieving positions of influence or has politics become more about sustaining values and commitments that benefit the broader concerns of Black and Brown communities?

It’s essential to keep sight of the systemic challenges that remain, regardless of who is in office. Black women in the UK continue to face disproportionate economic, educational, and health disparities. Diane Abbott’s recent experiences of overt hostility underline how these issues persist—even as though society might celebrate moments of ‘progress.’

These disparities remind us that individual so-called ‘success’ stories, like Badenoch’s, don’t shift systemic inequities. Addressing those inequities requires collective action and a willingness to challenge structures of oppression directly.

both occupy political spaces as ‘firsts’

As a Black woman, especially one who has lived through different political landscapes, I find myself continually re-evaluating what it means to be true to my values, to celebrate or critique certain figures, and to engage in meaningful and transformative ways.

Kamala Harris and Kemi Badenoch, both occupy political spaces as ‘firsts’, yet they have both chosen not to centre their race and gender in their public personas and political strategies. This choice speaks volumes about the complex ways Black women in politics are forced to navigate identity, representation, and the expectations placed upon them by both their constituencies and society at large. For Black British women who are deeply affected by racialised and gender-based discrimination, Harris’s and Badenoch’s approach is disappointing and frustrating.

Perhaps ‘how to be a Black woman’ in these colour-coded political times means honouring a commitment to authenticity, justice, solidarity, activism and community, even when some “firsts” feel hollow and performative.

This time, though disappointing, is also a reminder of the need to foster, support, and celebrate Black and Brown woman politicians who are both representative and committed advocates.

openly shared their concerns

Politicians who are openly critical of Kemi Badenoch’s stance on issues of race, particularly her opposition to discussions on systemic racism, structural inequality, critical race theory and Black Lives Matter, politicians including Bell Ribeiro-Addy, Dawn Butler, Naz Shah, Zarah Sultana and Marsha de Cordova have openly shared their concerns that Kemi’s views risk a sense of alienation and undermine the lived experiences of Black Britons, believing Kemi’s approach is dangerous and regressive.

Bell Ribeiro-Addy, a Labour MP of Ghanaian descent, is clear about the political world’s problems: “Ignoring systemic racism or attempting to shut down discussions about it only perpetuates the problem,’ she reflected. ‘We need leaders who are willing to address these issues, not dismiss them as divisive.”

The next generation is watching, just as I watched Diane Abbott and her peers, 36 years ago, just as a nation watched Shirley Chisholm over 52 years ago, my sons, will likely be inspired by leaders who champion the causes that truly matter to our communities. What will they feel in years to come when they remember Kemi and Kamala?

Perhaps all they’ll recall from this time are the chills they felt when the fierce and powerful 22-year-old Hana Rawhiti-Maipi-Clarke, Aotearoa’s (New Zealand’s) youngest MP, honoured her ancestral traditions by kickstarting a Haka – a powerful act of resistance – to protest a controversial bill aimed at ‘reinterpreting’ the country’s founding treating with the Māori people that threatens Māori sovereignty. As she performed the Haka, she ripped up the bill, awakening a collective chorus of protest, resistance and celebration of identity.

I’m intentional about being strong’

In an interview with Hana shortly after being elected, that spoke to both her detractors and supporters, she asserted her refusal to be bullied: ‘I’m too young, I’m too female and I’m too Mauri. I’m quite aware that younger girls are watching me too, so ‘I’m intentional about being strong’.

When her fearless ancestral call to action against White patriarchy went viral, it felt like a timely gift from those who came before her. Divine and radical, these gems and guidance from another realm, spiritually and politically, pushed back on the audacity of White patriarchy and a vain attempt to reinstate the cultural erasure that comes with the control embedded in colonialism.

I want more free-spirited, fearless women in politics. Social activists and divine womanists with a cultural conscience, a spiritual connection and a direct line to our foremothers. Political women who are not afraid to call upon their ancestral power and use it.

I want, and we deserve, a deeper, safer, more impactful form of leadership and political posturing— power moves that go beyond optics and alchemise into genuine strides toward equity and justice that centres and celebrates Black women.

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