The Inside Scoop: Working Differently as a Black Millennial Woman

By Jasmine Burnett and Paige Woods

The Inside Scoop shows what is possible when you disrupt white supremacy, grind culture and all of capitalism's other oppressive forces and distractions. We narrate what we went through - the good, bad and downright ridiculous - as a Black-women-led creative consulting cooperative in the hopes that our journey c

• Language: English
• Publisher: SPOONS CONSULTANCY COOPERATIVE CORPORATION
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737944119

Book preview

Menu

Appetizer

Introduction

Discovering Our Purpose

Humble Beginnings

What is a Spoon?

Our Philosophy

Where We Are Now

What to Expect Here

First Course

Finding Your Trade & Building Your Base

Serving Your Base

Bet On Us

How Spoons Grew

Second Course

Monetizing Your Vision

Communicating Your Narrative Effectively

Don’t Rush the Process, Never Stop Ideating, Write Down All of Your Ideas

Messages from Collaborators

Contributor: Nurture Your Network

Contributor: Build the Brand, The Money Will Come

Third Course

How to Avoid Getting Played Along the Way

Aunt Tika and Uncle Henry

The Rebeccas

Ivy Brunch Boot

Fourth Course

How to Move Past the Fuckery

How Spoons Work Differently

Messages from Collaborators

Contributor: Working Differently in Entrepreneurship: An Interview with Paula Harrell

Contributor: Lessons on Building an Institution of the Future: The Anna Julia Cooper Learning and Liberation Center

Fifth Course

Investing in Things You Didn't Know You Needed

Sixth Course

Reaping the Benefits of Your Realignment

Shifting Mindsets to Allow for More Balance

Working in Affirming Spaces

Addressing the Systemic Issues that Often Show Up in Work Dynamics

Dessert

Contributors

Appetizer

Introduction



Discovering Our Purpose

Imagine Sex and the City—but with Black women. Paige. Jasmine. Nonye. Symone.

Four friends and recent graduates of Harvard College seeking to find their way into post-grad adulthood. It sounds like a vibe. Needless to say, our lives were quite different than the fictitious rich, white characters in the show. We didn’t have boatloads of money or access to the privileges granted to white women, and we weren’t nearly as pressed about men as those ladies. But we were figuring out adulthood, together and apart, for the first time.

We were living across four cities and two continents, deciding which virtual application we should use to stay connected. While some of us moved out-of-state and into the corporate world, others were studying abroad. Initially, we planned to document our experiences through a shared blog to help us process the trials and tribulations of being early-twenty-something Black women. And when four suddenly became two, due to the impending demands of medical school, it was—Jasmine and Paige—who continued the mission of connecting Black women and femme folks navigating the transition to adulthood. Unlike the wildly entertaining and love lost white ladies hoping to find their way in the bustling city of New York, we found our way through the internet.

Our journey together began in college, which was, to put it plainly; traumatic. During our first semester of freshman year, the school paper ran an editorial equating affirmative action (apparently the only process through which a Black person could get into Harvard) to a blind person flying a plane. We had just stepped foot on campus and the racist shenanigans were already afoot. To make matters worse, the school administration offered next to nothing in defense of its Black  students. In fact, whenever Black students aired grievances about the ways we were oppressed, all we received from the administration was another working group.

As Black women, specifically, there was no way to escape the rampant misogynoir on campus. Rapes and sexual assaults were common. Finals clubs were the only physical spaces for social life, and Black women were often turned away at the doors if they didn’t fit a particular profile (read: light skinned and skinny with straight hair). Even within the classroom, we weren’t safe. The head of Jazz Initiative at the Hutchins Center for African and African American Research is a whole white woman. She is also the Quincy Jones Professor of African-American Music. Yes, that’s right. Jazz. African and African American Studies. Quincy Jones. All of these titles were given to a white lady. The same white woman who thought it was fine to say ‘nigga’ when dissecting a hip hop song for class, and then burst into tears when confronted by angry Black faculty and students. All of this was infuriating, but it was not the only time an instructor weaponized their white femininity to get away with blatant racism. Another section leader repeatedly said nigger (yes - with the hard -er) to prove a philosophical point.

But the white people weren’t the only obstacle in our college experience. Harvard is an elite institution, so a huge chunk of the Black community was classist, assimilatory, and frankly bougie af. Both of us grew up in predominantly Black communities or neighborhoods, where being Black isn’t a performance or anything to be ashamed of. Harvard was the first time the two of us experienced Black people who genuinely seemed irritated by other Black people for being Black and disinterested in whiteness.



Finding our tribe amidst this dual culture shock—white people who weren’t shy about racism and Black people who didn’t seem to mind it—was terribly tough. All at a time when we were supposed to be finding ourselves and growing into adulthood. Instead, we had to spend most of our time protecting our self-esteem and rebutting the dominant culture of wealth, whiteness and aspirational whiteness.

It’s not like these complaints were something we could talk about back home. When we tell people we went to Harvard, we get one of two responses. If the person we’re talking to is white, they assume we meant Howard (which would have definitely been more of a move, but simply isn’t what we said). If it’s another Black person, they express genuine joy and pride, and want to know what the experience was like. Because Harvard is such a prestigious place, and getting in is viewed as a life-altering gift, it’s hard to complain about our time there without coming off as ungrateful. As Black women who did not come from wealthy backgrounds, people expect you to bypass the discomfort that comes from spending your formative early adulthood years in an institution that was not made for you. An institution that was actually made in the image of the antithesis of you—wealthy, white, cisgendered men. We often put the onus on Black people to overcome ‘imposter syndrome’ without examining the hostile environment that is cultivated within predominantly white institutions, like Harvard. 

Healing from our traumatic college experience meant exploring ways to express our musings of the past, present day aspirations and real time learnings. We asked ourselves: do we want to spend our time writing in our journals on some Moesha energy or open the dialogue and create community? The answer seemed simple enough—

create a blog.



photo by Nia Hockaday

At the time, we were in the era of think pieces and lengthy social media statuses. One could say we never left that era, but the early-to-mid 2010s was the golden decade of viral Medium articles and believing that the internet was an appropriate place to unload your feelings. It was a wild time. Tweets were politicized and niggas were still on Facebook. Shit was brazy.

And we wanted to throw our hats in the ring.

We began doing market research and looking into different platforms to find our exact niche in the blogging space. We looked into brands that were writing about, or on behalf of, young Black millennial women. This process helped us learn so much about ourselves. Though the blogging space seemed like a