Everything about Black women is magical -- their minds, their resolve, their souls. They are the gift of life and a testament to undying compassion. They beam as bright as the sun in a world that frequently has them eclipsed.
They are the bedrock upon whom this American caste system was built. They have been forced to survive the dastardly trials thrust upon Black Americans since we were forced onto American shores in Jamestown by our ancestor’s kidnappers. Black women have served as both protectors and breadwinners. Nurturers and teachers. They live at the intersection of Blackness and femininity and have nurtured and made me the man I am. Without them, I am looking through the bars of a prison cell, or worse, dead. They have consistently fought for their men and fellow women, only to find themselves demeaned, degraded, and disrespected.
I am honored to learn about writing narrative non-fiction from noted author, scholar-activist, and USC adjunct professor Janice Rhoshalle Littlejohn. The anatomy of a story -- the who, what, when, where, why, and how of things--fuels her. She is focused on the anatomy, the bodily autonomy of Black women, and their reproductive health. This is the anatomy of how she reclaimed her crown.
She was born in August of 1967, amid a long hot summer when 159 race riots erupted across the United States. Two years earlier, her parents, a “country girl” from Tennessee and a first-generation Angeleno, met at The Boys grocery store; their first “date” when he drove her home from work as the Watts riots broke out in the predominantly Black community.
Her writings reflect her curiosity about a world still engulfed in racial tensions—and even her private world. She began writing stories in letters with childhood pen pals, corresponding with folks in Denmark, Germany, and other places worldwide. She most frequently wrote to her cousin, Angelique, who was a year younger and lived in Tennessee. Her love of writing – and being a voracious reader of magazines – primed her for a life in journalism.
“All of my projects are some version of me. Some part of me is trying to understand the world around me and connect to the world around me.”
She began her foray into professional writing during her second semester at Los Angeles Trade Technical College. Initially, with aspirations of becoming the president of Nordstrom, she looked at delving into the world of fashion merchandising. But she hated both marketing and accounting.
It was a woman named Gwen Jones, the former editor of the Herald-Examiner, who taught the class on fashion writing. Jones, the beautiful, well-dressed, petite, Black woman, instilled inside Littlejohn the desire to be like her.
Initially thinking Jones’ writing class would be an easy A, Littlejohn soon discovered that her writing teacher saw more in her and believed in Littlejohn’s potential. With her help, she landed an internship at Women’s Wear Daily and the W. Littlejohn, enamored with the joy and rush of being a writer, came home and told her parents that she wanted to be a journalist. Her father turned to her and asked, “What is that exactly and how much does it pay?”
Drawn to chaos, unrest, and trauma – Littlejohn uses her writing to explore and change generational hardships for Black communities, particularly in Los Angeles. Only in confronting, owning, and mastering these strivings can we own ourselves. And as Littlejohn stated in her “Growing Gray” article, “owning oneself is not simply noble, or fiercely courageous—but beautiful.”
It is, for this reason, I opted to learn from her. No one is more qualified than Black women to observe such a sordid world and tell the stories of strivings, passion, and pain; their stories are the metronome that keeps the cadence of the workings of our society.
I want to identify with that struggle; I need to own myself.
And as I labor through the unrest of my writing development, she is nurturing and encouraging me through a process I find daunting and arduous. Yet, what I adore most, is neither her pronounced beauty that is subtly intimidating nor is it how she adorns herself in stylish outfits. Instead, what I cherish the most is her soft, cloud-colored hair.
Black women have their beauty and bodies poked and prodded, copied and exploited, commoditized, and scrutinized. Yet their strength, femininity, and versatility are evident in their crowns. Black women’s hair is as versatile and diverse as their skin. From the silky straight 1A hair follicle to the kinky 4c coil, a Black woman must withstand the pressure, heat, and demands that force them into roles where they are equally lioness while moonlighting as a chameleon. Their survival depends on it. Their children rely on it. Our community would die if it were not for it.
Littlejohn and many Black students at Loyola Marymount University (LMU) in 1990 endured the brunt of feeling unwanted, unseen, and unheard by the university.
LMU has somewhat evolved since Littlejohn saw the “Niggers go home” spray painted in black over the school entrance signage. In 2020, the campus created the LMU Anti-Racism Project. The project’s focus is to “regard and treat all people with respect, recognizing the inherent dignity and immutable humanity of all peoples, made in the image of God.” It challenges the Catholic campus community to act out their faith to “welcome and include their varied religious traditions and worldviews—towards social justice for all.” LMU’s Anti-Racism Project has three outcomes: “increasing the diversity and inclusiveness of the LMU community and committing resources to do so; ensuring that their organizational climate and culture are anti-racist, equitable, and inclusive, with particular attention to anti-Black racism.”
Like LMU, Littlejohn has grown more resolved and mature as her magnificent grey hair attests.
Littlejohn’s article, “Crowning Achievement,” was the cover story for LMU’s LMU Magazine and runner-up in the 2022 Los Angeles Press Club Journalism Award (Race & Culture). The article profiles the documentary of LMU alumnae and filmmaker Stephanie Bell, Defending our Crowns, and centers on respectability politics and the hair discrimination Black women face in entertainment and the workplace.
Littlejohn has been forced to fight and give explanations about her grey crown.
A year before her essay with LMU Magazine was published, Littlejohn pitched the article, “Growing Gray,” a first-person narrative and story that was an exercise in owning herself. In the article, Littlejohn discusses the angst and struggles of growing “good hair,” but also coming to grips with prematurely finding silver streaks of silk on her scalp.
“Black women have always had to hear about long hair, silky hair, and good hair...It was my own personal protest against beauty standards that I didn’t connect with.”
But the tall, self-proclaimed “homely,” “‘ugly duckling’” with full lips and small almond eyes hidden behind large framed glasses,” which received attention for her cotton-colored hair, would soon garner the eye of the editor of her alma mater.
“Growing Gray” went unnoticed and undesired by 14 publications before Ms. Magazine picked up the piece and was where the editor at LMU Magazine noticed her work and approached her on writing for the school’s magazine.
Littlejohn wrote a profile piece for LMU on Bell, and the CROWN (Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair) Act as serendipity loomed. The first legislation passed at the state level in the United States to prohibit discrimination based on hairstyle and hair texture by extending protections under the Fair Employment and Housing Act and the California Education Code.
“To be able to live in the world as you are, is something Black people have never had the luxury of doing,” Littlejohn states. However, her article is a testament to how Black people opt to wear their hair, that it is professional; their skin is professional, it is all beautiful, and it all encompasses the rich tapestry of Blackness. Black hair proclaims its humanity to the world, and European beauty standards and sensibilities don’t apply. But unfortunately, for society to oblige and acknowledge it, it had to become law.
Although the email from her editor informing her that her story would grace the cover shocked her, she was curious to see the cover art. When she saw it, she was overwhelmed with joy and happiness.
“There, on the cover of LMU Magazine, representing my alma mater, was a young Black woman, with her hands powerfully on her hips like Wonder Woman, with a ‘fro’ that was like ‘Ahhhhhhh.’ It was like an angel of hair, this cloud of black hair.”
Then, her editor satisfied her in unimaginable ways; he shared the responses of old alumni from the 50s and 60s who were appalled by the cover.
“‘How dare we!’ One woman wrote how she was so glad her husband did not live to see this on the cover of his alumni magazine,” Littlejohn states, holding back laughter and a pearly-white smile that would make Heaven jealous. “It brought me so much joy; I cannot begin to tell you! I was like, ‘HAAAAA!’”
For Littlejohn, that moment made her feel seen. It made her feel heard. It is moments like the letters that drive and fuel her work.
“I write to be heard.”
In the days following the magazine release, Black alumni wrote Littlejohn stating that they “finally” felt seen, and their praise equally satisfied her as much as the bigots’ vitriol. For the USC professor, the article was a culmination of a lifetime to be seen and heard.
And although she wanted first place, the fact that a committee of her peers deemed her work, tackling race and culture, worthwhile made her feel validated. Her works are honest testimonies of who she is and how she sees the world around her.