I Won't Shut Up: Finding Your Voice When the World Tries to Silence You

Your voice has unimaginable power, and you have every right to use it. This book will show you how.

from the foreword by Danielle Coke, illustrator, advocate, and entrepreneur

"With candor, wit, and wisdom Ally Henny breaks it all the way down in her debut book, I Won’t Shut Up. Through an exploration of her life and experiences, Ally offers a glimpse of what it looks like to be your full self in a way that will not be silenced by the racism that often prefers that Black people be neither seen nor heard. I Won’t Shut Up isn’t just about finding your voice but amplifying it to create a more just and inclusive world."

Jemar Tisby, PhD, New York Times bestselling author of The Color of Compromise and How to Fight Racism and professor at Simmons College of Kentucky

This book is a love letter to every Black woman and girl who has been told that we are too loud, too angry, too intimidating, too outspoken, too nonconformist, too Black, too feminist . . . too much. Ally Henny draws deep from the well of her own experience to show us that we do not have to silence, shrink, or contort ourselves to fit a world that was never made for us. We can live loud, love loud, and even leave loud.

Dr. Chanequa Walker-Barnes, clinical psychologist, public theologian, and author of I Bring the Voices of My People and Too Heavy a Yoke

Ally Henny has given us a timely gift: a brilliant but humorous prophetic testimony and a road map for freedom in a world that often seeks to silence our voices. For every Black voice that has struggled to speak of freedom, this will loosen up your vocal cords.

Tyler Burns, president of The Witness: A Black Christian Collective and lead pastor at All Nations Worship Assembly Pensacola

"I Won’t Shut Up is a powerful and bold declaration that reminds us of just how sacred Black women’s voices are—especially when they’re loud and proud and unapologetic. In her refusal to let white supremacy shut her up, Ally Henny gives us permission to do the same: to not let white supremacy dictate how we live, move, and have our being in this world. This book is a true gift—a guide while on this journey of collective healing and liberation. To those who have ears to hear, let them hear."

Kat Armas, author of Abuelita Faith and host of The Protagonistas podcast

Thank God Ally Henny won’t shut up. In this honest, provocative book, written in the spirit of liberation and love, she speaks the kind of truth that can set us free. Like the prophets of old, she invites readers to experience transformation, hope, and the possibility of a better future, if only we have the wisdom to listen.

Phil Snider, pastor and editor of Preaching as Resistance

© 2023 by Ally Henny

Published by Baker Books

a division of Baker Publishing Group

Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerbooks.com

Ebook edition created 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

ISBN 978-1-4934-4115-0

Some names and details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals involved.

Published in association with The Bindery Agency, www.TheBinderyAgency.com.

Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.

For my Ancestors.

To my descendants.

Contents

Cover

Endorsements    1

Half Title Page    3

Title Page    5

Copyright Page    6

Dedication    7

Foreword    13

Author’s Note    15

Overture: Confessions of a Loud Black Woman    17

Act I: The (Not So) Secret Origins of Ally Henny    29

1. A Walking Contradiction    31

Learning to Lay Down the Burden of White Supremacy

2. The Constellation of Harms    43

Understanding the Interconnectedness of Injustice

3. Losing My Voice    54

White Kids Say the Darndest Things

4. Unpretty (I Wanna Dance with Somebody)    66

When You Fail the Beauty Standard and the Beauty

Standard Fails You

5. White Noise    75

When White Supremacy Seems Totally Normal

Intermission: Easy On Me    81

Why I Chose to Write into the Wound

Act II: If White Folks Don’t Do Nothing Else, They Will Make Sure to Do Racism    85

6. Faking the Funk (the Sacrifices We Make)    87

When We Endure Racism Out of Self-Preservation

7. Barack Obama Is the Antichrist    96

White Folks Don’t Care If You the Head Nigga in Charge

8. Keepin’ It Real    108

Resisting Racism and Finding Your Holy Hell No

9. Stonewall Jackson, Hear Our Prayers    118

When Trying to Fight Racism Goes Horribly Wrong

10. Finding My Voice    129

Learning to Push Back against Injustice

11. Diverse Don’t Mean Free    139

Dealing with Institutions That Consider Themselves to Be Diverse

12. No, I Won’t Shut Up    150

Staying True to Your Voice and Message

Intermission: A Letter to My Children   159

Act III: It’s Time to Get Free    161

13. You Don’t Have to Shut Up Either (Leave Them On Read)    163

How to Respond When People Try to Silence Your Voice

14. Be Loud and Right    175

Reclaiming Loudness and Using It as an Oppression-Fighting Tool

15. Letting Go (White People Need Their Feelings Hurt)     183

When to Let Go of People Who Are Invested in Oppression

16. Loss Management (Trouble in My Way)    194

Learning to Cope with the Losses That Finding Your Voice Can Create

17. Waiting to Exhale    205

Longing for Freedom in an Oppressive World

Curtain Call: Acknowledging the Community Who Encouraged Me Not to Shut Up    213

About the Author    217

Back Ads    219

Cover Flaps    222

Back Cover    223

Foreword

Danielle Coke

I first came across Ally Henny and her work in a way that you probably can relate to—a witty, honest social media post about the Black experience in white America. She was responding to an incident where a Black woman’s work had been stolen by a white woman, and the internet was, justifiably, in an uproar. While Ally’s comedic take on the issue drew me in (and had me cackling), it was her persistent pursuit of justice and her dedication to using her voice for the good of others that made me want to stick around.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned after years of being a Black woman and artist speaking out against racism on this wild internet, it’s that there is no right way to do it that will keep you in the good graces of the white gaze. Whether you’re shouting out against injustice in the streets through protest, or you’re quietly sitting at home sharing art as a form of digital activism, you will always be too harsh, too aggressive, too intimidating—too loud—for white supremacist culture. In this book, Ally doesn’t just want you to face this fact. She wants you to use it as fuel.

Through a collection of personal experiences, careful reflections, and unfiltered truths, Ally is setting us free. On these pages, you will find language that confirms those thoughts you’ve long held in the back of your mind as you’ve navigated a justice-focused life as a Black woman, along with a safe space to bring those thoughts out in the open. You will be given tools that you can use right away to keep honing your voice and owning your story. You will be able to rest in the fact that you’re not alone and that your life has always mattered.

You are about to be taken on a journey through the places that shape us. From the predominantly white spaces that try to rob us of our light to the pews where we are taught that we better let that light shine, Ally reminds us that we are always worthy—even when the winds of white supremacy seek to blow us out.

Here, you won’t need to be resilient or strong, but you will need to be brave. Be brave enough to believe that the voices who say you are too much—or not enough—do not get the last word. You don’t have to shrink or edit yourself for, as Ally puts it, Dwight Mahn. Your voice has unimaginable power, and you have every right to use it. This book will show you how.

Ally’s words are bold, empowering, and necessary. She is loud on purpose, and through sharing her story with us, she’s equipping us to be the same—without apology. As long as racism rears its ugly head in our culture, it will continuously require bold opposition. Rise to the occasion.

Never shut up.

Author’s Note

This book is a work of nonfiction, but it is neither an autobiography, encyclopedia entry, newspaper article, nor courtroom transcript. I have tried to retell the life events contained in this book to the best of my recollection, calling upon old journals, correspondence, and other personal writings to help give me an accurate (if not always precise) account of what happened. In some instances, I have changed names and other identifying information in order to maintain privacy or for narrative clarity. In other instances, I retained names and identifying information so that my work doesn’t feel like I’m talking about someone else’s life. Occasionally, I combined two or more people, incidents, and/or events to streamline the narrative. I tried to be truthful in everything shared within this book’s pages—even when those truths hurt.

As I have written this work, I have worked to prioritize intersectional equity by taking into account various minoritized histories and experiences, and I have tried to use inclusive language. In order for this work to also be readable, I took some shortcuts with language so that my larger point would not get bogged down. There are times where I use Black, Black people, or Black folks where some iteration of the phrase people of color could also fit. Please know that the spirit of this work is inclusivity, even in places where my language isn’t as inclusive as it could be.

Additionally, I come to this work as a Black, straight, cisgender, gender-role noncompliant, relatively able-bodied (except for these ankles and knees, Jesus), country-born, city-dwelling, mid-Atlantic informed, Midwest raised, geriatric millennial, Christian woman and with all of the privileges and shortcomings that might accompany those identities and perspectives. I have attempted to do the difficult work of pulling universal truths from my experiences while also attempting to speak to an audience with unique yet overlapping experiences. I don’t claim to have done this well, but I gave it my best shot.

Finally, I want to acknowledge and honor the fact that many (if not most) of my readers do not share my Christian spirituality. I want to say up front that the bulk of my adult life and work experience up to this point has been in the Christian church, and so it is an unavoidable fact that parts of my story would be set there. With that said, the church is merely a setting. The truths and wisdom that I pull from the harm that I experienced in the white Christian church are for anyone who wants to be free from racism. Any references to spirituality are for narrative or illustrative purposes; I am not trying to convert you to Christianity.

I hope that this work invites you in and creates space for you to ask questions, wrestle with hard truths, and experience the beauty of healing and liberation.

Overture

Confessions of a Loud Black Woman

I am a loud Black woman.

All of these things are outside of my control, yet I have grappled with each of them in some way for as long as I can remember.

I am a loud Black woman.

I am loud.

I am Black.

I am a woman.

LOUD.

BLACK.

WOMAN.

Each of these identities has been under attack my whole life. Proclaiming my loudness, my Blackness, and my womanness is an act of defiance and resistance. The world continuously tells Black women who we are as if we don’t know ourselves. They weaponize our attributes against us, taking the things we celebrate about ourselves and twisting them into something unrecognizable, undesirable, and inadequate. When we are witty, they tell us we are crass or insubordinate. When we display self-confidence, they tell us we are domineering. When we emote, we are told we are exaggerating, angry, or—even worse—threatening.

I refuse to allow the world to force its harsh, dishonest, and out-of-touch definitions on me, which is why I am determined to tell this world exactly who I am. By telling the world who I am, I aim to defy the stereotypes and limitations that society has tried to place on me individually and on Black women collectively. Engaging in self-definition is how I resist the lies that society has tried to tell on loud Black women.

I am a loud Black woman.

Loudness, Blackness, and womanness are considered repulsive by the dominant white male culture. White, straight, cisgender men have made themselves the gold standard, and it is they who dictate how and whether others get to exist in this world. People who hold contested identities regularly find themselves at odds with power structures and systems that were not constructed for their flourishing. These systems are rarely concerned with anything other than protecting and maintaining the status quo of white male dominance. Marginalized folks are expected to act in accordance with this system without resisting. They must push down every part of themselves that doesn’t conform to the dictates of the dominant culture. Living in such a world means that it took me a long time to fully own my identity, particularly the loud part.

Society is cruel to Black people, and it doles out a special kind of punishment to loud Black people. We can’t do ordinary stuff like have a cookout or hang out with our friends without white people hovering over us and trying to place limits on how we express and entertain ourselves. Our mere presence in a space is often all that is needed for us to be perceived as a threat or causing a disturbance, our actual volume notwithstanding. When white people believe that we are disrupting their sense of comfort, which they interpret as us creating a disturbance or posing some type of threat, they try to police us. When we fail to comply with their intrusive attempts to control us and Jump Jim Crow, they will call the actual police to put us in our place. The BBQ Becky incident is the perfect example of this kind of behavior.

In 2018, a white woman named Jennifer Schulte (aka BBQ Becky) called the cops on a group of Black people for having a cookout at a park in Oakland, California, because they were using charcoal in an area that had recently been made off-limits to charcoal grilling. Instead of finding a park ranger—or better yet, minding her business—BBQ Becky resorted to calling 911. Of all the actual emergencies that she could have used William Shatner’s three-digit hotline for, she chose to call it on some Negroes who were barbecuing in a park on a sunny day.

One might think that, being in California, Schulte was simply concerned that the charcoal could have sparked a wildfire. Considering California’s recent history with fires, one might even be inclined to view her actions as heroic. However, a quick listen to the recordings of Schulte’s 911 calls during the incident should be enough to show it ain’t that deep. Although Schulte said she was concerned that the coals from the barbecue grill could burn more children, her ultimate motivation was to ensure that her and her fellow gentrifiers’ taxes didn’t go up.1 Her concern for kids only extended as far as their protection meant that she didn’t have to pay more money in taxes. Put more directly, she was full of crap and gave a full-of-crap explanation to justify her racist actions. A frequent and reliable tactic of toxic whiteness is to use protecting the children and not wanting higher taxes as an excuse for racist behavior. White women are particularly adept at using their concern, outrage, and tears as cover for racial wrongdoing and violence.

If BBQ Becky was actually concerned about the untold danger that used charcoal briquettes posed to society, she could have contacted a park ranger, the fire department, or Smokey the Bear to help her keep her taxes low. Instead, she chose to call the cops, not once but twice, and spend two hours surveilling Black men who were doing nothing more than attempting to have a relaxing time at a public park.

BBQ Becky wasn’t out there tryna protect the earth, the children, or even her tax rate. She was doing what white people have tried to do for half a millennium: exercise authority and control over Black people who are doing nothing more than tryna live. When she was met with resistance, she attempted to flip the script and make on like she was the victim—a tactic that is frequently employed by white women seeking to exert power over Black people.

BBQ Becky is proof that being Black and loud in public often draws the voyeuristic eye of white folks who deem themselves to be morally superior and are determined to find a way to shut you up. They will fight, lie, and even fake cry to make sure you regret the moment when you realize that all you have to do in this world is stay Black and die.

Sometimes shutting you up means making an unnecessary call to the cops. Other times it means deciding to take matters into their own hands—which can have a fatal outcome.

For Jordan Davis, a seventeen-year-old boy from Florida, being shut up meant taking several bullets to the chest for listening to loud music. A white man got upset that a group of Black teenagers dared to hang out in a convenience store parking lot, bumping music that he disliked at a volume that he determined was too loud. That white man was sentenced to life in prison. Jordan’s parents no longer have their child. Being Black and loud can cost you your life.

Jordan Davis’s murder, BBQ Becky, and dozens of similar incidents are exactly why I am not