I am now a fan of Phoebe Robinson. I cannot tell you how dope this book is. How funny this book is, eloquent it is, and how much I needed another Black girl as snarky a me to help through this complete trash, wholeass trash event that is this tyrannical fascist-light shit show that is the American experience in its current permutation.
I love her cadence, her confidence and her ability to point at her own flaws—as they, too, are trash.i found myself more than once screaming laughing. Why? She said some of the same things I had only thought of saying—or wouldn’t say in mixed company. This is the other problem of being a writer. You are liable to say anything (uncut, no filter).
But the beautiful thing about this book, as funny as it is (there are too many parts here to mention—read it! Or if you get it on an audiobook platform it’s even better!), I love the freedom Phoebe has to give observation, commentary in the intersection of Blackness and femaleness. I love her voice, her strength and unflinching nature. I am known for saying the pen has no shiver to it—cause it doesn’t. Phoebe’s pen has no shiver.
As it should be.
The planet is warm, the coronavirus is a plague, am internet troll is president and you still have to pay to drink. That’s all trash. Yet, laughing is still free. Black women still out here making life a little more bearable.
Black Girl Magic is medicine.