Jamila Woods: poet, singer, soldier

In the summer of 2016, Chicago native Jamila Woods released HEAVN, an album exploring the identity politics of black womanhood in America. Released amidst the dawn of #BlackLivesMatter, Woods’ music dives head first into the historically entrenched violence against black people. Yet, as a poet and soul vocalist, she does so all while maintaining an air of vibrancy. This post will primarily analyze the track “Blk Girl Soldier”, which encapsulates these characteristics. Ultimately, by invoking the enchanting power of “black girl magic” and drawing parallels to prominent black women of eras past, Woods presents an optimistic anthem for racial justice.

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“Blk Girl Soldier” sounds upbeat and poppy. It’s driven largely by Woods’ silky vocals, which are accented by lively percussion, groovy synthesizer and buoyant backup singers. While the song’s energetic sound does not conceal its emotional weight, it does reveal to listeners that its message remains hopeful.

Central to Woods’ theme is “black girl magic,” a term coined by activist CaShawn Thompson to describe the historical achievements of black women. From movies like Hidden Figures highlighting black, female NASA engineers to the media emphasizing black women’s role in blocking Roy Moore from the senate, there appears a mass recognition of this long marginalized demographic. In chorus lines “see she’s telepathic, call it black girl magic,” Woods seizes upon this movement, celebrating an unnamed black girl who stands for millions of accomplished yet forgotten black girls before her.

Despite the optimistic message of black girl magic, “Blk Girl Soldier” remains laden with references to racial trauma. In the first verse, Woods sings, “We go missing by the hundreds,” referring to the preponderance of missing black women in America, fueled by a system of broken policing. “They put her body in a jar and forget her,” she continues, alluding to South African Sarah Baartman, a black woman who was paraded around Europe in the 19thcentury due to her large buttocks, and posthumously displayed, grotesquely, in a French museum. In another line, the artist declares, “The camera loves us, Oscar doesn’t.” Here, Woods highlights the tension between white society fetishizing black women in cases like Baartman while under crediting their accomplishments in the arts (i.e., the #OscarsSoWhite movement). Through these potent examples, Woods illustrates how the world has constantly defined and subjugated black women.

Despite this trauma, the theme of “Blk Girl Soldier” is resistance. Woods expands the scope of her project by naming the historical figures from which she draws inspiration. In the third verse, she explains, “Rosa was a freedom fighter and she taught us how to fight,” referring to, of course, Rosa Parks of the Montgomery bus boycott. She repeats this pattern by replacing Rosa with Assata Shakur, Sojourner Truth and other black revolutionaries. Further, Woods threads this timeline together with poetic observations such as “last century last week.” Although the subjugation of black women has proven long lasting, so too has the tradition of resistance.

In conclusion, listeners can read “Blk Girl Soldier” through a lens of identity politics. As Greg Smith discusses, the danger of such artifacts lies in their inability to accurately portray an entire, diverse demographic defined by traits other than race and gender. After all, perhaps not all black girls want to present themselves as soldiers of resistance. Nevertheless, Woods aims to counter a history of white people defining her identity for her. Whether as “angry black woman,” “welfare queen” or passive victim, white society has long controlled the narrative surrounding what it means to be a black woman. To this, the artist says no more. In calling attention to the power and excellence of black women throughout space and time, Woods reclaims her agency.