A Love Letter to Female Black Rappers

I’ve never been very much into rap, but recently, I keep finding myself gravitating towards it. My friends are confused when I say I love CupcakKe or I love Saweetie; I’ve never really shown interest like that before. I guess this does still apply though, because what actually awes me is not the music per se, but the female powerhouses that create it.

Black women are one of the most marginalized groups in society – the intersectionality of their identity leads to what seems like a harsh double penalty. The events of this year have highlighted just why we need the voices of Black women more than ever, and their mere existence onstage may be more crucial than we even realize.
So with that, here’s a long-pending love letter to female Black rappers.

A rapper’s most revolutionary role is as a storyteller.

Cardi B became famous via social media, when she still worked as a stripper in order to fund her education. She joined a gang at 16. She grew up in poverty, and dealt with an abusive relationship during her adolescence.

Megan Thee Stallion grew up with her single mom while her dad was in prison. Because of her height and size, she was called a “stallion” when she was young – a nickname that foreshadowed her iconic stage name. Despite her rap stardom, she studies health administration at Texas Southern University.

Lizzo also grew up in Houston. Her father passed away when she was 21. When she was trying to break into the music industry, she spent a while living out of her car. She refuses to declare a gender, and is one of the loudest voices in body positivity and self-love movements today.

It’s simple: these stories of lived adversity might not be conventional, but they matter deeply – not because these women are celebrities, but because in a narrative genre like hip-hop/rap, female Black rappers voice a group that is consistently ignored. Too many of the struggles these artists have faced – incarceration, homelessness, domestic abuse, poverty – are disproportionately braved by people of color. Malcolm X once said the most disrespected, unprotected, and neglected person is the Black woman. In these lady figures, others might find invaluable beacons of inspiration, representation, and hope.

Historically, rap hasn’t treated women well. In 2019, The Brew Podcast formulated a list of the 50 best rappers of all time…and somehow there were no women on it. Even the ratio of female to male rappers in curated rap playlists on streaming platforms is undoubtedly low. Women being excluded from the mainstream? Not particularly surprising. But it is ironic that a genre created to amplify the voices of the marginalized has excluded one of the most oppressed groups of all.

Even less appetizing is the depiction of Black women in rap music itself. Blast any popular rap today and you’ll hear female slurs, sexualization, or objectification (if you’re lucky, all three). More often than not, it presents Black women as primitive, immoral sex objects, representing all types of negative stereotypes. Even as someone who grew up used to this music, I am left cringing at the often vile graphics permeating popular media. Sometimes, it feels morally wrong to be singing and dancing to lyrics that fundamentally violate what I stand for as a progressive, feminist woman. Sometimes, the cognitive dissonance is way too real.

But the female Black rappers that we know and love today – from Doja Cat, to Flo Milli, to Mulatto – are slowly but surely reclaiming the framework that rap music constructs around them. In “Trick,” Cardi B swaps her stigmatized role as a stripper with the sexually dominant role usually assigned to men. Instead of them using her, she mentions taking control and using her own body to take advantage of men she portrays as sleazy and stupid. In “Anaconda,” Nicki Minaj flaunts her sexual agency, using sexual innuendo only male rappers are generally lauded for. In a genre where women are minimized into their physicality, female black rappers flip the sexist power dynamic. Their sexuality is addressed exactly as it should be: on their own terms.

Women are already held to stricter standards of beauty than men. When you’re a Black woman, there’s an added layer of critique when people judge you. There is a long history of fetishizing and exploiting Black bodies, dating all the way back to colonial Africa. European physical standards still dominate, leaving little room for women of other colors, shapes, and sizes. Until recently, few Black or brown women were in the media to represent alternative body types at all.
Today, female Black rappers use their platforms to provide this representation, and their outspokenness about self-love and self-empowerment sets a crucial example. By using their personal experiences, artists like Lizzo are especially important in advocating for body normativity and inclusivity, highlighting the universality of the issue and celebrating that different women look…well, different. In an industry where being physically conventional is rewarded, listeners are encouraged to ignore the capitalistic, societal noise and remember that they look Good As Hell.

The fact that these female Black rappers grabbed my attention the way they did is itself a testament to their greatness. They demand everyone’s attention in the same way, unabashedly and unapologetically. In disowning the previously passive spaces women have always occupied, they pursue the exact opposite. The “angry Black woman” trope has been used to trivialize, ignore, and discredit Black women for years. Megan Thee Stallion said it herself, in a piece she recently wrote for The New York Times: “there’s not much passionate advocacy if you are a Black woman.” Those in rap music set this idea ablaze by claiming the same loudness, boldness, and confidence that is used against them.

Black women have always been integral to rap music, but recently, it has felt like somewhat of a Renaissance for women of color in music. A reclaiming and a rebirth.

Today’s female Black rappers pave the path towards a day we won’t need to preface the word “rapper” with “female” as if to categorize them separately simply because of their gender. They make this genre what it is, and drive it forward in the best way possible. As a female listener, I am endlessly empowered by them.

So to female Black rappers, if you can hear me: here I am, thanking you for your existence.

Written by Sanjana Sanghani