In 1990, when the first edition of Patricia Hill Collins's Black Feminist Thought1 was published, I was a ten-year-old biracial black and white “blackgirl”2 whose white mother had recently fled her violent white boyfriend who regularly screamed at and about her “nigger baby” in an alcohol- and drug-induced haze. That same year I found myself resentfully attending Alateen meetings while my mom attended Al-Anon3; ashamedly wetting the bed during nightmares; indignantly tolerating our etched-on-Michigan's-highways transience between my uncle's in Melvindale, grandmother's in Detroit, and school in Redford; and stubbornly expressing the worst attitude I could conjure up as a fifth-grader. My little blackgirl self was wounded, fearful, angry, and assured by...

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