INTRODUCTION
Look at the picture in the opening pages of this book: Vertamae Grosvenor, with her regal height on the far left; Alice Walker, her coat on and bag slung across her body as if she’s ready to walk out the door; Toni Morrison, unimpeachably cool in her leather duster and gold jewelry; June Jordan, standing on the far right in a striped hippie dress and no coat—it’s her apartment, so she’s not dressed to head out into a cold February evening in New York; Nana Maynard, seated on the far left, the only other woman not in a coat—perhaps she planned to hang around after the others left; dead center in a crouching trio, Ntozake Shange, Lori Sharpe, and Audreen Ballard, all smiling, Shange looking like she was caught in the middle of a laugh. Look at these women: squeezed together happily to fit into the picture, gathered around a framed photo of Bessie Smith, in a room with the high ceilings and architectural molding characteristic of prewar apartments in the city, in warm light but with shadows that show it is evening stretching into night. Every one of the women looks straight into the camera.
This photo, “The Sisterhood, 1977,” has become the subject of legend among readers, scholars, and writers since it first appeared in print in Evelyn White’s Alice Walker: A Life in 2004. I saw it for the first time in graduate school when Farah Jasmine Griffin told me there was a photo that I absolutely had to see in White’s new book. I rushed to get a copy, opened to the section of photos in the middle of the book, and saw this stunning image of powerful, smiling Black women writers, some of whom I recognized
right away and others whose faces and names were new to me. White’s caption describes the photo this way: “A group of black women writers in New York who met informally during the 1970s. Back row, left to right: Verta Mae Grosvenor, Alice Walker, Lori Sharpe, Bessie Smith, Toni Morrison, June Jordan. Seated, left to right: Nana Maynard, Ntozake Shange, Audrey Edwards.” I put a sticky note on the page so the photo would be at hand anytime I needed to look at it and started taking notes about this group of women who called themselves “The Sisterhood.” Five years later, Cheryl Wall, knowing that a project on The Sisterhood was bubbling in the back of my mind, told me excitedly that she had spotted references to the group in June Jordan’s papers at Harvard. A request for records from that archive led me to an agenda and minutes for one meeting of the group. This was my first thrilling clue that The Sisterhood was not just a group of women who got together once in a while, but rather an organization that met on a regular basis to tackle specific issues.
A couple of years later, I made my first trip to Alice Walker’s archives in Atlanta. Sitting in an ornate, high-ceilinged room at Emory University’s Rose Library, I held a physical copy of The Sisterhood photo for the first time. I turned it over and saw a handwritten note from June Jordan: “Dearest Alice: Remember the days when you needed that doublebreasted overcoat? Much Love to you Always.” The names of the women were there too, in purple ink and different handwriting. This told me at least two things: first, that the “Love” visible in the photo was real and lasting—“Always”—and second, that Walker knew this group was important enough to go back later and make sure that all the names of the women were on the back of the photo.
Like anyone else who has looked at the photo and recognized even only two or three of the women in it, I knew from the start that it documented something important. This image now regularly circulates on social media as a source of inspiration, and a few books and essays include the photo or briefly describe the group. More than a decade after first holding “The Sisterhood, 1977” in my hands, I learned that the purple writing on the back had misidentified Audreen Ballard as Audrey Edwards. Both women were in the group and both were important journalists, editors, and activists, but Ballard is the one in the photo. A quick note on the back of an archival photograph became solidified in cultural memory, as many later reproductions of the photo and descriptions of The Sisterhood repeated this misnaming. This is an important reminder that there is so much more to the story of The Sisterhood than one iconic photo.
The Sisterhood: How a Network of Black Women Writers Changed American Culture draws on members’ poetry, fiction, essays, meeting minutes, correspondence, biographies, and interviews to uncover and narrate the everyday work of The Sisterhood to secure publication, publicity, and recognition for Black women writers. This image records more than one incredible Sunday in February 1977. Rather, it’s a window into the everyday, collaborative work among Black women writers that changed literary history.
In 2006, as “The Sisterhood, 1977” photo began to circulate, Alice Walker described the formation of The Sisterhood in an interview with Amy Goodman:
Well, The Sisterhood was the brainchild of myself and June Jordan, because we looked around one day—we were friends—and we felt that it was important that black women writers know each other, that we understood that we were never in competition for anything, that we did not believe in ranking. We would not let the establishment put one of us ahead of the other. And so, some of us were Vertamae Grosvenor, Ntozake Shange, Toni Morrison, June Jordan, myself, and I think Audrey Edwards, who was at Essence, and several other women that I don’t tonight remember.
Walker went on to recall details from the first meeting of The Sisterhood at June Jordan’s home: the women ate gumbo and gathered for a photo around a framed portrait of Bessie Smith as if she were a member of the group “because Bessie Smith best expressed our feeling of being women who were free and women who intended to stay that way.”
A few years later, Walker reiterated her words about The Sisterhood in an interview with scholar Rudolph Byrd: “June and I were rebels of the first order against ranking of any kind imposed beyond ourselves. We thought we must create a space for black women writers to honor each other, to know each other, so that nothing from outside could make us fight over anything. Or even feel competitive. This was The Sisterhood’s purpose. We met only a few times while I was still in New York.”
It matters that The Sisterhood resisted “ranking” and “competition” among Black women writers. In the way repetition makes myth, though, these accounts leave out a lot of useful information. What did it look like to
practice Walker’s declaration, “We would not let the establishment put one of us ahead of the other”? How did The Sisterhood work to resist “competition” and “ranking”? What are the ways that Black women writers worked to “honor each other”? What does it mean that there were many members not in the now famous photo and whom few accounts name? These questions and practices matter for literary history and for Black feminist organizing right now.
The Sisterhood’s collaborative labors, including conflicts and the group’s eventual dissolution, are as informative, useful, and inspirational as the 1977 photo. Like any group, they disagreed and argued. This is not surprising given that, while they shared the goal of transforming literary culture, there were many differences among them. Sisterhood members came to New York City from a variety of geographic and economic backgrounds. During the two years the group met, members worked as writers, editors, teachers, students, and journalists in a wide variety of outlets, often as the only Black women in their workplace. Some were well established in their fields, others were at the start of their careers, and several were pursuing graduate degrees. Their ages spanned about thirty years, from young members in their early twenties who had just graduated from college, such as Renita Weems and Judith Wilson, to members in their late forties and early fifties, such as Paule Marshall and Rosa Guy, who had both helped create earlier collectives of Black writers and artists. Zita Allen was regularly publishing articles in her role as Dance Magazine’s first African American dance critic, and Audreen Ballard had worked at Redbook and was a contributor and editor at Essence. VèVè Clark was completing her PhD and teaching at the University of California, Berkeley, but traveled to New York for meetings of The Sisterhood. Audrey Edwards had recently completed her MA at Columbia University and was working for Black Enterprise, Family Circle, and Essence. Phyl Garland, an established journalist and author of The Sound of Soul (1969), was teaching in the School of Journalism at Columbia, where she would soon become the first tenured African American professor. Vertamae Grosvenor, author of Vibration Cooking: Or, The Travel Notes of a Geechee Girl (1970) and Thursdays and Every Other Sunday Off (1974), was writing essays about food and culture for Essence, Ebony, and other outlets. Jessica Harris was the book review editor at Essence and a member of the English Department faculty at Queens College. Margo Jefferson was on staff at Newsweek and about to start as an assistant professor of journalism at New York University.
Patricia Spears Jones was the grant program director for the Coordinating Council of Literary Magazines.
These women brought many and varied skills as writers and intellectuals into the city apartments where The Sisterhood met. They also faced serious obstacles to putting those skills to use, both in their individual working lives and in their collaboration as The Sisterhood. Outside the group, they faced daily encounters with racism, misogyny, and homophobia. Inside the group, they navigated dissent among members about its purpose. These external and internal pressures led to the breakup of The Sisterhood after just over two years. In those two years, however, these women made Black feminist writing central to magazines and trade publishing, and they laid the foundation for Black feminism in the academy.
They worked together under enormous pressures during a period of increased visibility for and public attacks on Black women. The Sisterhood accomplished a lot in this short period, and the two years they met mattered for the rest of their lives and careers. Their Black feminist collaboration— including dissent and dissolution—offers a model for collective action to change cultural institutions. They believed in the power of literature as an agent of political and social transformation. The Sisterhood contributed to the creation of literary celebrity for a few members, especially Alice Walker and Toni Morrison. Members read, reviewed, and taught one another’s books. They helped establish Black studies and African American literary studies in the academy. Most immediately, in the years after The Sisterhood stopped meeting, they wrote books that defined the 1980s as a spectacular decade for Black women writers in the United States.
Some of the many works that Sisterhood members published just from 1980 to 1990 are Alice Walker’s The Color Purple (1982); June Jordan’s Passion: New Poems: 1977–1980 (1980) and Civil Wars: Observations from the Front Lines of America (1981); Paule Marshall’s Praisesong for the Widow (1983) and a reissue of her 1959 novel Brown Girl, Brownstones with a new afterword by Mary Helen Washington (1981); Ntozake Shange’s Sassafrass, Cypress & Indigo (1982) and A Daughter’s Geography (1983); Audre Lorde’s Zami (1982) and Sister Outsider (1984); Renita Weems’s Just a Sister Away (1988); and Toni Morrison’s Tar Baby (1981) and Beloved (1987). Among other accolades that Sisterhood members earned in the 1980s, Shange won an Obie Award; Jordan received a National Endowment for the Humanities Fellowship; Lorde, Morrison, and Walker each won an American Book Award; and Morrison
and Walker won Pulitzer Prizes for fiction. The 1980s remains unrivaled in terms of visibility for writings by African American women.
This stunning body of work from the 1980s is not a matter of suddenly increased output but rather of a time of increased recognition in terms of prizes, readership, publication, and academic study of Black women’s writings. Members of The Sisterhood were active participants in a cohort of Black women writers and intellectuals who created that recognition and struggled to navigate the dangers of their increased visibility in the literary marketplace and the academy. The story of The Sisterhood is one of hard, everyday, largely unseen labor that made that spectacular period possible.
The Sisterhood was more formal and structured than most writing about it has suggested. After Jordan and Walker convened the first meeting in early 1977, the group met at least once a month for over two years, kept minutes of their meetings, and collected dues. Members took turns hosting the group in their New York apartments. The thirty or so women who attended one or more meetings of The Sisterhood understood that they could always bring one guest to any meeting as long as that guest was a Black woman writer, academic, journalist, or editor. In practice, this meant that members were “really just high achieving women who loved literature. . . . Feminists who loved literature who were trying to move the needle.” The members of The Sisterhood were cofounders June Jordan and Alice Walker; journalists and editors Zita Allen, Audreen Ballard, Audrey Edwards, Phyl Garland, Margo Jefferson, Susan McHenry, and Diane Weathers; culinary writers Vertamae Grosvenor and Jessica Harris; poets Patricia Spears Jones, Ntozake Shange, and Audre Lorde; novelists Rosa Guy, Paule Marshall, and Toni Morrison; scholars VèVè Clark and Judith Wilson; theologians Rosemary Bray and Renita Weems; and other women writers and activists who worked in a variety of spheres including television, radio, K-12 education, law, and nonprofit foundations.
They decided to name themselves “The Sisterhood” because the term signified a kinship forged in political consciousness in the 1960s. Their name reflects the group’s vision of collaboration rooted in love for self, for one another, and for Black women’s writing. They called it “The Sisterhood”— always capitalized in their meeting minutes and correspondence—right from the start, claiming the importance and potential of the group to shape the world far beyond their own careers and lives. “Sisterhood” has an openness; it names a group that could have turned out to be almost anything—a press, a professional association, a book club, a writing workshop, or something
else altogether. Over the course of two years, they worked through, figured out, and revised “The Sisterhood” to mean a group that worked to get Black women’s writings published, read, reviewed, studied, and taught. They used their personal and affective bonds to struggle together to transform public culture.
Patricia Spears Jones wrote to the members in 1978 that there was something “profound” in “a meeting place for a group of Black Women who share certain sensibilities as women, intellectuals, Blacks etc.” Sisterhood members knew this was true in the late 1970s and, years later, they recognized even more clearly how important The Sisterhood was, not just for their own lives and careers but also for literary history. Margo Jefferson reflected in 2018,
We were a consciousness, Black, feminist, literary consciousness-raising group, and that was both formal, meaning literature and scholarship being done . . . and a kind of airing of problems with our work, at our jobs. And we were trying to formulate basic, practical [ways of] getting through things and preserving your integrity. And that is a form of consciousness-raising and support, practical support. But we were also trying to identify, name this space, where literary and scholarly and journalistic people, many of whom were progressives—that was an absolute given—could function. I mean, in that way June and Alice helped, being some of the founders, that makes perfect, perfect sense.
Jefferson described the group in nuanced and insightful terms that refer to the specific details of their late 1970s work, their radical imagination for a changed future, and the long-term effects their work had on the broader culture.
A place exclusively for Black women was an absolute necessity for these teachers, journalists, editors, and writers. In the 1960s and early 1970s, as activists, they had experienced the racism of the white Women’s Liberation movement, which depended on the domestic labor of Black and Latinx women to get white women out of the home and into the workforce, and the sexism and homophobia of some civil rights and Black Power groups, which depended on endless and invisible labor from Black women but focused attention almost entirely on a few charismatic Black men leaders. By the mid-1970s Sisterhood members were navigating intense hostility at their jobs in workplaces dominated by white men.
The Sisterhood was a place to read and talk about Black women’s writings and to get a break from the overwhelming whiteness of their day jobs. Jefferson reflects, “I cannot tell you what a relief it was to have this other life,” meaning a life among Black women, because she and others were “alone” or “one of the few” at “white institutions” from academic departments to publishing houses to “Newsweek, Time, or even Ms.” The women of The Sisterhood strategized to “formulate basic, practical [ways of] getting through things and preserving your integrity.” “This space” was a foundation for their “literary and scholarly and journalistic” and “progressive” work advocating for Black women’s literature and liberation in hostile institutions such as universities, magazines, newspapers, and book publishers.
From its modest beginning, The Sisterhood went on to set and achieve ambitious goals, and then stopped meeting in early 1979 as pressures on individual members and dissent within the group grew. For some, the demands of their paid, professional work as writers, editors, and scholars became difficult to balance with the unpaid or underpaid work of political, literary, and academic organizing. Class and generational differences and varying degrees of success in the literary marketplace also meant that different members wanted and needed different kinds of support from The Sisterhood; this gave rise to arguments over the group’s purpose. As Black women writers became more visible, they struggled to control the terms of that visibility. Members disagreed in private and in print about Michele Wallace’s Black Macho and the Myth of the Superwoman (1978), which was the subject of extensive media coverage and public debate. The virulence of racism and sexism at the dawn of the Reagan era, federal disinvestment in social welfare, and a sense of despair after years without any one movement setting a clear agenda for Black liberation all contributed to the group’s dissolution. Against all odds, amid these obstacles to collaboration from within and outside of the group, The Sisterhood made substantive changes to the content of popular magazines and helped get Black women’s books published, reviewed, and recognized. They also developed intellectual communities and wrote books that would matter in popular and academic American culture for decades to come.
The Sisterhood: How a Network of Black Women Writers Changed American Culture makes three interdependent arguments. First, in its complexity,
contexts, and legacies, The Sisterhood is both a model for Black feminist collaboration and a cautionary tale. Second, the group’s collaborative labor in the 1970s dramatically increased the visibility of African American women writers, especially novelists, in the 1980s. Third, the story of The Sisterhood and Black feminism during this period is also a story of shifting relationships among political organizations, literature, and the academy. Members of The Sisterhood, like other Black women writers and scholars, moved their intellectual labor from political organizing in the 1960s and early 1970s to literary organizing in the late 1970s and then, in the 1980s and beyond, into colleges and universities.
In the chapters that follow, I weave in and out of The Sisterhood’s twoyear life, using archival materials and interviews alongside close readings of Sisterhood members’ novels, poems, and plays to help tell the story of their collaboration. This is not a group biography, but I do seek to capture these Black women writers at a pivotal time in their intellectual lives. The Sisterhood proceeds chronologically from the mid-1960s to the present and travels spatially from political to literary to academic spheres, all grounded in New York. However, the group’s legacies reach beyond their late 1970s moment and defy any single linear story. The spheres these women occupied also overlap and shape one another, and The Sisterhood’s influence reached far beyond New York. I echo and reflect these temporal and spatial aspects of the group’s work in this book by sometimes leaping back or forward in time and by often attending to multiple spheres and locations of work at once.
This book must sometimes break chronology because the story of Black women in politics, literature, and the academy is partly a story of backlash and setbacks. I title chapter 1 for Audre Lorde’s assertion that “revolution is not a one-time event” because repeated erasure and resistance make it necessary to advocate for Black women’s writing and chart Black feminist intellectual history again and again, including right now. One urgent example of this necessity is that LGBTQ women and their vision were central to The Sisterhood and Black feminism in the late 1970s, but this became less apparent as Black feminism and African American literature solidified in the academy in the 1980s. Today, The Sisterhood’s twenty-first-century descendants, including writers Alexis P. Gumbs and Mecca Jamilah Sullivan, are putting queer visions, politics, and possibilities at the center of their writing.
Other erasures, too, require the repeated telling of Black feminist intellectual histories. Farah Jasmine Griffin writes that “a small but significant cadre of black women writers and scholars” made it so that “by the
mid-1990s black feminist literary studies was one of the most intellectually exciting and fruitful developments in American literary criticism.” However, by the mid-2000s, academic departments were already erasing or marginalizing this lineage of Black women doing Black feminist literary studies. In her “Retrospective of Black Feminist Literary Criticism,” Griffin points out that “the black women scholars who pioneered the study of these texts [by Black women] were becoming less and less visible—not only as members of university faculties but also in the footnotes of a voluminous scholarship devoted to black women’s writing.” The stakes of Griffin’s essay are to name the Black women scholars who made the study of African American literature possible, clarify the ways those scholars shaped the study of literature in general, offer new ideas rooted in a Black feminist intellectual tradition, and identify the material consequences of these moves in terms of employment, citation, and other conditions that are necessary for the continued production of Black feminist writing. This work is ongoing and remains urgent. Understanding Black women’s work as a determining force for politics, literature, and the academy is part of what is at stake in telling the story of The Sisterhood.
“The Sisterhood, 1977” photo is an inspiration and a model for the work still needed and still being done right now in political organizations, literature, and the academy. This book approaches the 1977 photo and the story of it with the kind of love and rigor that defined the group—the kind of love and rigor that Farah Griffin and Cheryl Wall instilled in me as the way to study and teach African American literature. With every passing year, I believe more deeply in the transformative power of African American literature as I see former students carry the inspiration, desire for racial justice, and capacity for critical thought that they learned from this literary tradition into their work and lives as lawyers, parents, bankers, school board members, writers, activists, and teachers. It is my responsibility as a white woman scholar of African American literature to use the privilege of my whiteness, institutional affiliations, and skills as a literary scholar to get as many people as possible to read, reread, and better understand as many books as possible by Black writers. The Sisterhood historicizes and narrates some of the important and vast amount of work Black women did to make the late twentieth century a time of a spectacular visibility for Black women writers and to make it possible for people, including me, to study, teach, and learn from Black women’s writing. It is my hope that this book will help us understand their remarkable achievement, the costs of their work, and the labor that remains to be done.