How I Became a Feminist Historian, and Why It Matters Now More Than Ever

In August, the Department of Women’s, Gender and Sexuality Studies at the University of Texas at Austin will close. I joined the department last year after leaving the University of Iowa’s Gender, Women’s and Sexuality Studies department, which also closed this year. As programs in women’s studies, ethnic studies and Black studies disappear across the country, I’ve found myself reflecting on how I became a feminist historian—and why this work matters now more than ever.

Back in 2005, as an undergraduate student at San Francisco State University, I took a course on feminist activists and read Angela Davis’ Women, Race, and Class. Davis argued that the experiences of Black women could only be understood through the intersecting forces of race, gender and class—and that confronting racism, misogyny and poverty was essential to liberation. From that moment, I knew a feminist view of history could transform how I understood present-day inequality and how I wanted to teach those ideas to future students.

For years, I brought that framework into the classroom, helping students connect the histories of voting rights, reproductive justice, racial discrimination and gendered violence to the challenges they see unfolding around them today. As feminist studies and ethnic studies programs come under increasing attack, I remain convinced that this work is indispensable. Nearly 45 years after Davis historicized the triad of women, race and class, we still need that critical lens to understand our world—and to defend human dignity and justice within it.

Black Women Political Candidates Are Expected to Be ‘Likable,’ Qualified and Tireless. Men Aren’t.

What I experienced during my 2014 run for office wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to me.

The year before, I had run for president of the Young Democrats of America (YDA), a national political party office role, against a popular opponent. The opponent was a Black man, so race wasn’t a factor in the election; however, gender was.

Before my campaign, I was vice president of YDA and had heard only good things about my service: my fundraising efforts, the partnerships I had engineered with progressive organizations, and programming coordination for the membership. However, when I decided to run for president, I instantly became ‘difficult to work with’ and ‘mean.’

Research on women candidates confirms that voters are less likely to vote for a woman if they don’t like her; by comparison, voters don’t need to like men to elect them. But when I was running as the Black woman candidate in a seven-candidate primary for public office, with two other women in the race, I noticed almost nothing about my being ‘difficult’ and more about my ability and work ethic.

My experience running for public office reflected the systemic bias and double standards not just for women candidates, but Black women candidates who dare to aspire to any sort of political leadership—and that needed to change.

We need more progressive Black women in public office for a myriad reasons, but we also specifically need the younger generation of Instigators in office, candidates who understand the times in which we live currently.

Electing more Black women will take real investment in changing the biases and attitudes (conscious and unconscious) of mostly white donors, media, campaign staff, consultants and institutional leaders to help shift the culture and systems. But this support needs to be substantively increased so that we can rebuild an inclusive, multiracial democracy with the leaders we want and need.

(Excerpted from The Instigators: How Black Women Have Been Essential to American Democracy by Atima Omara.)

Silence Should Never Be the Price of Progress

Dolores Huerta’s revelation lays bare a painful truth too many women already know: Silence is often the price of progress.

For generations, women—especially women of color—have been expected to absorb harm to uphold institutions, movements and powerful men. “La lucha” is always supposed to come first. Huerta was forced to carry that burden alone for decades.

This dynamic is not unique to one movement or one moment. It is embedded in the very structures that shape our society. Women are told, implicitly and explicitly, that speaking out will jeopardize the greater good. That calling attention to harm, even violence, will derail progress. And so many stay quiet, carrying the weight alone, believing their silence is necessary for something bigger than themselves.

I’ve witnessed this reality firsthand, in my own family, in workplaces, and in the stories women share when they finally feel safe enough to speak.

We cannot continue to treat harm as collateral damage in the pursuit of progress. Movements rooted in social justice must also practice it internally. That starts with listening to survivors without judgment, creating environments where speaking out is met with support rather than skepticism, and recognizing that accountability strengthens movements—it does not weaken them.

A future where women are not asked to sacrifice their dignity for progress is not just possible—it is necessary.

Equal Pay Is Getting Pushed Further Away. We’re Pushing Back.

Amid the celebrations of Women’s History Month, it is a bitter irony Equal Pay Day—marking how far into the year women must work to earn what men did in the previous year—has been pushed back to March 26. The end of the month is shadowed by the knowledge that the gender pay gap still exists and is widening.

Black women, women with disabilities, moms and all women of color are paid significantly less than white men in comparable positions. Affordability is already a concern, with prices rising at the gas station and the grocery store. The pay gap is compounding these concerns to create further financial disparities for women of color.

A Reckoning Long Overdue: Dolores Huerta’s Moment of Truth Must Also Be Ours

Civil rights icon Dolores Huerta has shared a devastating truth she carried alone for 60 years: that her closest colleague, mentor, boss and the internationally revered face of the farmworker movement, César Chávez, sexually abused her. As she approaches her 96th birthday, and in the wake of a New York Times investigation revealing that she was not alone—that Chávez also preyed upon other young women, including underage girls—Dolores made the painful, courageous decision that she could no longer keep this secret.

Across Latino, immigrant, labor, civil rights and farmworker communities—and far beyond—hearts broke and jaws dropped. César Chávez had ascended to the pinnacle of untouchable legend. And from that height, there was a long, painful fall.

There will be many debates about what comes next: what to do with the written history, the plazas, streets, schools, parks and holidays that bear Chávez’s name; how to reconcile the image so many of us learned with the disturbing portrait described by Dolores and the other survivors. I will leave the deeper historical reckoning to others.

But it feels both fitting and just that the holiday bearing his name be revised to Farmworkers Day—El Día del Campesino—and that every boulevard, park and street honor Dolores Huerta instead.

Equity Cannot Wait: Confronting the Unequal Burden of HIV and AIDS on Women of Color

Women have been part of the HIV/AIDS epidemic since the beginning, yet their experiences were long marginalized in research, surveillance and public narratives that focused primarily on white gay men.

As the United States marked National Women and Girls HIV/AIDS Awareness Day on Tuesday, the data tell a stark story: Black and Latina women continue to bear a disproportionate burden of HIV, shaped by systemic inequities that affect access to prevention, testing, treatment and long-term care.

Today, women account for more than one in five people living with HIV in the United States, but racial disparities remain severe. Black women represent about half of new HIV diagnoses among women despite making up only 13 percent of the U.S. female population, while Latina women experience diagnosis rates nearly six times higher than white women. These disparities are even more pronounced for transgender women—especially Black and Latina transgender women—underscoring that ending the epidemic requires confronting the structural inequities that continue to drive unequal risk and unequal access to care.

‘¡Este País También Es Nuestro!’: La Herencia Duradera De Las Mujeres Hispanohablantes En La América Colonial

Siglos antes de la Revolución Americana, las mujeres hispanohablantes cruzaron océanos y desiertos para construir comunidades cuyo legado aún define a Estados Unidos.

Dado que el sentimiento antilatino coincide con el 250.º aniversario de la fundación de Estados Unidos, debemos recordar que mucho antes de la Revolución Americana, las mujeres hispanohablantes habitaban el territorio que se convertiría en Estados Unidos.

Al igual que sus homólogas protestantes inglesas de Nueva Inglaterra, las mujeres hispanohablantes fueron las madres fundadoras de nuestra nación. Su legado perdura a través de sus descendientes y de las muchas otras latinas que emigraron a Estados Unidos en los últimos 250 años. Ante la detención generalizada de mujeres hispanohablantes, es crucial recordar que Estados Unidos también ha sido su país durante mucho tiempo.

(Este ensayo es parte de la serie FEMINIST 250: Feministas fundadoras, que conmemora el 250 aniversario de Estados Unidos reclamando la revolución a través de las mujeres y las personas de género expansivo cuyas ideas, trabajo y resistencia dieron forma a la democracia estadounidense).

‘This Is Our Country Too!’: The Enduring Legacy of Spanish-Speaking Women in Early America

Centuries before the American Revolution, Spanish-speaking women crossed oceans and deserts to build communities whose legacies still shape the United States.

As anti-Latino sentiment coincides with the 250th anniversary of the United States, we must remember that long before the American Revolution, Spanish-speaking women inhabited territory that would become the United States. 

Like their English Protestant counterparts in New England, Spanish-speaking women were founding mothers of our nation. Their legacies live on through their descendants and the many other Latinas who immigrated to the U.S. over the past 250 years. Faced with the widespread detention of Spanish-speaking women, it is crucial to remember that it has long been their country too.  

(This essay is part of the FEMINIST 250: Founding Feminists series, marking the 250th anniversary of America by reclaiming the revolution through the women and gender-expansive people whose ideas, labor and resistance shaped U.S. democracy.)

From Minnesota to Puerto Rico: How We Survive Together

In each of our communities, every day seems to announce itself. Whistles and shouts for our neighbors punctuate each hour, as blades of helicopters and flight drills slice through the air into the night. Increased military and federal government presence is visible, splitting images between the corners of our everyday lives and active battlefields. 

We write from two different places, often discussing them separately. We do, however, live as part of the same story.

From Minnesota to Puerto Rico, our struggles are one and the same. So is our strength. We are still here—not because the system is working, but because we work for each other. Maybe this is finally how we usher in a new world order.

(This essay is part of a collection presented by Ms. and the Groundswell Fund highlighting the work of Groundswell partners advancing inclusive democracy.)

Trump-Era Federal Layoffs Hit Black Women Hardest

There is a shift happening in the labor force that favors men in general, and white men in particular. And Black women—who historically have found more job security and upward mobility in federal employment—are now seeing those federal jobs slip away in record numbers.

“What we are seeing happening is a federal government that is intent on creating a DEI boogeyman to radically change how workplaces operate in ways that disadvantage women, people of color and LGBTQ workers,” says Gaylynn Burroughs, vice president for education and workplace justice at the National Women’s Law Center.