Aya Collective Publishing

By now, you have heard about the massive number of Black women who have been laid off since the start of 2025. For me, it’s a reality that feels frightening and leaves me asking why—why are Black women so expendable in spite of what we provide to organizations and institutions, families, and communities? Why is our labor, though often demanded from us, cheapened and devalued so frequently that, at the end of the day, the places where we tirelessly labor make the decision to get rid of us instead of doing right by us?

For many of the Black women who lost these positions, I am sure that the loss of income and security feels the most intense. Income is tied to survival, and we all need food, clothing, shelter, and water—things that demand that we have an income in order to meet them. But beneath the physical need for material resources to survive, or maybe equal to it, I wonder how many of these women felt discarded in their positions long before they were shown the door.

I wonder how many times their ideas were minimized in public meetings, and then stolen right from under them.

I wonder how many times they were denied promotions and opportunities and had to consistently prove themselves to justify the jobs they did have.

I wonder how many times their research was discounted as unimportant, their writing deemed not scholarly enough, their credentials considered invalid—even when they held more credentials than others they worked alongside.

I wonder how many times they felt invisible and unheard.

I wonder how many times they had to coach themselves before going into a meeting, policing their words and behavior so as not to come off as the angry Black woman.

If I had to guess, I would not be surprised if nearly every one of these Black women had experienced some version of these things. To be a Black woman in America, regardless of the industry or occupation in which one works, is to experience silencing, questioning, and exploitation consistently. In fact, it is a rare occurrence when Black women don’t experience these things.

Even though many of us are left feeling as if it’s just us—just us not getting the promotions, just us being overlooked and demeaned—if we take a collective account of each and every one of us, both those who were forced out of their positions and those still within them, we would realize that we are not alone in what we are facing. There is power in understanding that we are not having isolated, individual experiences.

In addition to these wonderings, however, I also wonder how many of these Black women wrote about their experiences. How many wrote, not only for their own catharsis, but to leave a symbol, a record, a memorial stone reminding us of our collective struggle laboring in institutions that do not love or care for us?

Unfortunately, I know that for many Black women, taking the time to pause and write about our experiences while we are in the midst of them feels so daunting that we would rather struggle through them than evaluate them. Evaluating our experiences while we are living them feels like a particular kind of labor that many of us just don’t have the bandwidth for while juggling our other responsibilities.

And yet, this is precisely why our writing matters.

At the Gates: Black Women, Knowledge, and Liberation in Higher Education seeks to create space for that kind of remembering, reflection, and record-making. This is a text that invites all of us to stop and consider: What are we, as Black women, collectively experiencing here?

An anthology and workbook, At the Gates is one example of the symbol we all need. It represents a living, breathing archive of our experiences: the ones that have shaped us and made us who we are, as well as the ones that nearly broke us, taking everything we have.

Co-edited by Stephanie Morgan and myself, with authors Charise DeBerry, Nadine Spring, Clementia Jose, Da’Shon Carr, Gabrielle Haggins, Brittany Smotherson, Tristen Brenaé Johnson, Janaka Lewis, Aisha Powell, Bulaong Ramiz, Shaundrea Brown, Tendayi Dzinoreva, Jennifer Mercer, Kenyada J. McLeod, Pamela Fletcher Bush, Leah Fulton, Shakita Thomas Kpetay, and Bisola Wald, this text not only shares our stories, but tells of how we, as Black women in higher education, have overcome even as we create additional strategies to survive and thrive within its walls.

Additionally, every chapter contains reflection questions that readers can ask themselves so that they can begin to strategize a freer, much truer future for themselves, whether they decide to stay in or leave higher education.

This work is necessary. It’s not just necessary in times of crisis, when so many Black women are out of work. It is necessary for self-preservation and renewal.

This is what makes this work sacred.

Writing is an agentic, spirit-filled way to become our best selves. And it is alchemical, because even as we testify about how we have overcome, we are prophesying about who we will be with every single word written on the page.

We have always produced knowledge.

We have always recorded our stories.

We have always found ways to leave something behind for those who come after us.

At the Gates is part of that tradition. It is part of our ongoing work of remembering ourselves, documenting our experiences, and making sure that Black women’s knowledge has a place in the archive of higher education.

We are excited to open our site for pre-orders in the next few weeks. In the meantime, we want to know:

What are you most looking forward to in reading this book? What do you have reservations about? And are there Black women you know who need to get a copy of this?

Share your thoughts with us by emailing ebony@ayacollectivemn.com. We will be selecting three responders to receive a copy of the book for free.