As a Black man committed to justice, I have come to understand that any struggle for freedom that does not include the voices, lives, and leadership of Black women is a dead end. For too long, our movements have been fractured—split by ego, by patriarchy, by silence. But if we are serious about liberation, we must be serious about listening to and standing with Black feminism.

Black feminism is not just a woman’s issue—it’s a people’s issue. It is a revolutionary framework that has challenged every system of oppression that touches our lives: racism, patriarchy, capitalism, and imperialism. It has shaped the most transformative movements in our history, even when it was ignored or pushed aside.

I write this not just as a witness to that power—but as someone who has grown because of it.

Sojourner Truth: The Question That Haunts Us All

In 1851, Sojourner Truth stood before a crowd in Akron, Ohio, and asked:

“Ain’t I a woman?”

That question wasn’t just for white feminists who excluded her. It was also for Black men who expected Black women to fight our battles while carrying the weight of invisibility. Her words still hit hard today. How often have we expected the labor of Black women—on the frontlines, in the home, in our movements—without truly seeing them?

We, as Black men, must wrestle with that.

Learning From the Women Who Carried Us

When I look back, I see the hands of Black women in every fight for freedom. I see Ida B. Wells risking her life to expose lynching, while many men stayed silent. I see Ella Baker, who refused to be in anyone’s shadow and instead built leadership in others. I see Fannie Lou Hamer, who didn’t wait for permission to speak truth to power at the 1964 Democratic Convention, declaring:

“I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

These were not side characters. They were the architects. They didn’t just support the movement—they were the movement. And too often, we have honored them in theory but not in practice.

The Combahee River Collective: Naming the Full Truth

In 1977, a group of Black socialist feminists came together and created something that shook the foundation of liberation politics. They called themselves the Combahee River Collective, and they wrote:

“If Black women were free, it would mean that everyone else would have to be free since our freedom would necessitate the destruction of all the systems of oppression.”

That statement made me pause. As a Black man, I’ve been taught to fight racism—but not always to examine how patriarchy lives in me. Black feminism showed me that we cannot destroy one form of oppression while protecting another.

If we say we love Black women, we have to do more than say it. We have to stand on that love politically.

Intersectionality: Seeing the Whole Picture

Legal scholar Kimberlé Crenshaw gave us the term intersectionality in 1989, but Black women have lived it forever. It means understanding that oppression is not one-size-fits-all. A Black woman doesn’t get to fight racism on Monday and sexism on Tuesday. She experiences both—at the same time, all the time.

Crenshaw said:

“If you’re standing in the path of multiple forms of exclusion, you’re likely to get hit by all of them.”

As a Black man, I’ve come to understand that intersectionality doesn’t weaken our movements—it makes them more honest. It helps us see what we’ve ignored and who we’ve left behind.

The Wisdom of Black Feminist Thinkers

There are writers and warriors whose words changed the way I understand the world. bell hooks taught us that love is a political act—that domination has no place in our homes, our relationships, or our movements. Angela Davis showed us how capitalism, prisons, and patriarchy work together—and why none of them can be reformed. Audre Lorde gave us language for difference, for rage, for care, and reminded us:

“The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.”

Reading them wasn’t just academic for me. It was spiritual. It was humbling. It reminded me that freedom has a sound, and it often sounds like a Black woman speaking truth no one else wants to hear.

Black Feminism Is Not an Add-On. It’s a Blueprint.

I’ve seen brothers build movements with revolutionary slogans but patriarchal foundations. I’ve seen cisgender men dominate spaces meant to be healing. I’ve seen the pain of our sisters, and too often, I’ve seen us ignore it.

Black feminism is not here to divide us—it’s here to save us. It is a medicine, a mirror, and a map. It is a tradition that says no one is free until the most marginalized are free. That we don’t get to freedom by climbing over each other—we get there by walking together, truthfully.

We cannot build power while replicating harm. We cannot speak of justice if we uphold gender violence. We cannot talk about revolution if we are too afraid to examine our own power.

To My Brothers: This Is the Work

Black feminism has taught me that being a man is not a license to lead—it is a responsibility to listen, to learn, and to unlearn. It has shown me that masculinity doesn’t have to be violent, dominant, or hard. It can be soft. It can be accountable. It can be transformed.

If we want to be free, we must follow the leadership of those who have been holding us down for generations, even when we didn’t deserve it.

To my brothers: read the work. Sit in the discomfort. Apologize when necessary. Change what you’ve normalized. And show up—not just in words, but in actions that align with love and liberation.

Because as June Jordan said:

“We are the ones we have been waiting for.”

And I believe that. But we’ll never get there unless we carry every sister, every mother, every Black woman with us. Not behind us. Beside us.