Many have declared that Vice President Kamala Harris is giving “auntie” energy. As a young Black girl, I recall the admiration I had for my aunties — particularly my mother’s youngest sister, Dr. Julie Rousseau. Auntie Julie, also known as “AJ,” was (and maybe still is) the coolest Black woman in America over 50. She was the youngest WNBA coach of all time in 1998, then the head women’s basketball coach at Pepperdine University for a decade, but most importantly, she was the reason I got to meet Lisa Leslie, miss a free throw in front of Michael Jordan, and sit next to Serena Williams in awe while I waited for my aunt to get her hair silk pressed. She embodied cool, she personified generosity, she offered wisdom, and she demonstrated unconditional love.
These are the same attributes I may assign to all the other women I’ve called auntie in my life — most of whom I don’t share DNA with. They are my parents’ friends, church congregants, and sometimes just an elder in my life where any other title just doesn’t seem to capture their essence. All of the women I’ve honored with this title have been women of color.
We discussed what we might expect this auntie era to offer us in terms of sustained political mobility.
Harris’s presidential nomination is historic at almost every level. She is the second woman, the first Black woman, and the first South Asian woman ever nominated for president. Her nomination has energized women from every social and cultural demographic, but particularly Black and South Asian women who have mobilized in unprecedented ways. That’s why I recently revisited the term “auntie” — a term of affection for the Black American diaspora denoting love, adoration, and admiration for a Black woman — as well as “aunty,” a term of respect for South Asian women elders that denotes both family ties and an acknowledgment of cultural connection.
It’s also why I recently invited a few friends to my virtual living (i.e. Zoom) to explore this political and cultural moment through the colloquial lens of “auntie-hood.” We investigated the complexities of identity and representation reflected in this historic moment, while also creating space to acknowledge generational shifts in attitudes towards identity and the challenges of navigating multiple cultural identities and influences. Most importantly, we discussed what we might expect this auntie era to offer us in terms of sustained political mobility and collective efforts of resistance and liberation against systems that continue to do harm.
I spoke with Aisha Becker-Burrowes, an impact consultant and the co-founder of Feminist, the largest media platform for intersectional feminism in the world; Suchitra Gururaj, PhD, a leader in community engagement and APIA civic engagement for more than 20 years; Nithya Mani, MD, a pediatric psychiatrist leading an access program for mental health in central Texas; and Meme Styles, an Afrofuturist and the founder of Measure, a national research and data-driven activism organization. I hope this intimate conversation offers you inquiry and perhaps inspiration to tap into the auntie and aunty energy that is emboldening us to reimagine the world for our collective liberation.
Virginia Cumberbatch: When you hear the term auntie, what does it mean to you?
Suchitra Gururaj: I grew up in West Texas, and we had a close community of South Asians. When I think of aunties, I think of all my surrogate moms. They were the eyes and ears for my mom. They fed me, they advised me, they taught me how to wrap a sari. They were my cheerleaders. A close community of women and moms. Who really cared and loved all the children.
Now at 50-something years old, it’s been an honor to grow into my own auntie-hood, and reflecting on how critical it was to me growing up, I’m so aware of the need to offer that to the next generation.
Nithya Mani: I think of an older Indian woman. She may or may not be related to me. I may not even know them. But it’s a term of respect. A term of familiarity.
To me, aunties have always been a crux of community-centered care.
Growing up, particularly in middle school, the majority of my friends were white. So it felt so different to be around their parents and call them by their first name. And if I did that in front of my parents, they would be so upset and we’d have a conversation about it on the car ride home. It really demonstrated/emphasized for me that this was a cultural practice, something that is significant within my South Asian community. And now it comes up for my own kids and what they are calling my friends. And it signifies who is important to me and therefore me signaling to my daughter who gets such respect and who is in her community. For a child of immigrants, our community was people who looked like us. But for my kids it’s more. It’s all the people in their lives that offer support and safety.
Aisha Becker-Burrowes: To me, aunties have always been a crux of community-centered care. The term auntie represents love and care. It’s both a place of non attachment and a place of wisdom. They aren’t quite an elder, but they can be. They can share from a level of generational wisdom that is more accessible than a grandmother. My aunties have been able to provide for me financially in a way too — especially to help alleviate the burden on my single mother — gifting me a laptop for college and in so many other ways. And as a Black woman with a Caribbean lineage, everyone becomes auntie, as a form of respect and not always closeness. It’s a sign of respect and deep gratitude.
Meme Styles: I personally use the term all the time. As an Afrofuturist, I regularly time travel 150-200 years backwards and then 150-300 years forward. And through this spiritual exercise, I visit my ancestors. And I see our ancestors as our aunties. When I sit with them, I acknowledge that they are the ones that prayed for who I am today. Aunties are who understands the potential in us as Black women. As a mother, you sometimes are so clouded by all the harms, dangers, and hardships that surround your child that you can’t see the total future or potential of your child, because you are wrapped up in their needs. But that auntie is one step away from motherhood so all she sees is your potential. All she sees is your future. So when I am transported back to that porch or plantation in the Carolinas, I see that they have prayed for me in my utter potential. Your auntie, our aunties, are futurists.
VC: Kamala Harris is often referred to as giving “auntie/aunty” energy. Why do you think that resonates within the cultural zeitgeist of Black America?
ABB: Something about her being called Mamala I think invited us to see her as this figure of care. Mamala signals to us someone who is seen in a familial way, without the blood or familial ties. That posture is absolutely part of the auntie culture and lexicon. And, Kamala is of that auntie generation. And, the folks that are fighting for her in this election are of that auntie generation too.
The folks that are fighting for her in this election are of that auntie generation.
Like my mother-in-law, who is so excited about a Kamala presidential election. Much like how we once saw images of Barack Obama proudly displayed in her home and Black households across America — on living room walls, mantels, kitchen spaces, and alongside cherished family portraits — we’ll witness this with Kamala Harris. The term “auntie” holds a cultural specificity for me, though. While it is not exclusive to Black or Brown women, my association with it is deeply tied to these communities. In my experience, “auntie” reflects a familiar, almost maternal figure whose identity is rooted in Black and Brown cultural contexts.
MS: For so long, Black women have existed without being seen. Even when we ascend to the CEO level. Even when we become presidents of universities or get to high levels of politics. On the grand scale, we still feel unseen. And so for me, future President Harris elevates the role and the understanding that we have for an auntie. Because she is who she is, and when she is president, then it feels like in a way that I, too, will be seen.
I am not going to apply any deity or god-like or impossible level of Black girl magic to her, because that type of expectation, that type of superwoman role, is what Black women have always had to carry in order to endure the systems of this world, and we don’t deserve that burden. That will exhaust us, that will kill us. But she is who we’ve always been — exceptional despite systems of oppression.
VC: Harris is described by most media as the first Black female Presidential nominee, often omitting she’s South Asian, and/or choosing not to articulate her multi-racial or biracial identity. How does that framing sit with you?
NM: For me, the most exciting part is that she’s biracial. I think it means that no one person can over-identify with her. Meaning that you have to appreciate, accept, and acknowledge all of her. It’s undeniable that there is anti-Blackness in the South Asian community. Now not all of their own making, some is systemic. But there is a big need to challenge it. And I think if we embrace and celebrate Kamala Harris as representing South Asians, we also have to celebrate her representing the Black community. It also means we have to let people identify how they want, and stop forcing people to identify as one or the other.
ABB: First off, it’s not surprising — it’s identity politics at its finest. And, I believe Americans can have trouble holding multiple truths at once. As a Black woman, who is biracial, I intimately know the feeling of never being enough and letting other people’s perceptions of who we are or how we should identify take center stage. As someone of mixed heritage — both Black and white — my parents emphasized my Black identity. This was not to negate my white ancestry but rather to acknowledge the realities of how I would be perceived and how I would have to navigate the world. They understood that society would primarily view and treat me as a Black woman. Which, I believe, is what we see playing out with Kamala Harris — this country not holding space for her multiple truths. It’s shaped how she is seen or spoken about.
Like most mixed folks, what is defined by the media, versus what she’s able to define for herself is the constant friction. That is the nuance that matters. She is the first Black and South Asian woman vice president and presidential nominee, and that is important. She should absolutely be able to define it for herself, and we should be able to embrace it.
VC: What does having the first woman of color as a presidential nominee mean to you? Does it elicit excitement, fear, or some combination?
ABB: Can I be honest? When it was announced my first reaction was I felt really really tired. Most folks in my life were reaching out to me with excitement, but for me, I felt fatigued or maybe even exhausted by the idea. A few days later, we had the murder of Sonya Massey, and I so acutely remember the amount of labor that was required of us just to see a loss of momentum around the Black Lives Matter Movement. I guess I just recognized the work we would have to do, no matter the outcome of the election. I felt this immense weight of what it would mean for her and then what it would trigger for society. And therefore, what it would mean for Black women, and specifically, the Black women in my life, and all the work that would be asked of me, of us — both the physical and emotional labor. And transparently, I am still there.
But now I am cautiously optimistic. Mostly about the momentum around what this means. I went to the DNC (Democratic National Convention) representing Feminist and our work around reproductive rights. And when I was standing on the floor, watching Michelle Obama speak, she said “This campaign represents the unfinished promises that our ancestors fought and died for.” And, she spoke about how Kamala Harris is “one of the most qualified people to ever seek the office.” That rang true for me, and it also underscores how much more we have to prove, the walls we have to overcome in the pursuit of liberation. And although Kamala Harris is not perfect, she’s absolutely the most qualified.
An auntie in my life checked me to make sure that every time I speak her name it’s not Kamala, it’s Vice President Harris.
MS: My first reaction was to question: is Kamala up next? And then I was quickly corrected by another Black woman when she said, “Put some respect on her name.” An auntie in my life checked me to make sure that every time I speak her name it’s not Kamala, it’s Vice President Harris or President Kamala Harris. That correction helped me truly embrace the real reality that Black women have. She is literally the best person for the job at this moment.
The moment made me tighten my weave a little stronger. [Laughs] I said, “Let me get myself together.” That week I got my nails done, did some journaling, took a mental health day, because I knew that along with her ascension to be the Democratic nominee, there would be a brutal beating that we as Black women would have to come against. Thank God I have my group of women to celebrate and lean on and process with. We’ve been able to talk about the hard parts. Her nomination affects all of us — at work, at school, at home. Her nomination means a fight for all of us.
NM: As cliche as it sounds, it just feels like progress. In my adulthood, there’s been a lot of talk of progress and gaslighting about the pendulum swinging. But the fact that we are here now, does feel like baby steps forward. Having kids and getting to tell them that having women in these spaces is not an anomaly, that it’s the default or normative, it makes the elevation of women and women of color a little less heroic. Some of these things are just truths. That was my immediate thought.
SG: At first it was purely political — what does this mean for our country? But then it became personal. Being in a classroom and having a teacher not being willing to pronounce my name. A feeling of being isolated and silenced. Being an identity that people don’t know what to do with. My reaction to her appointment as nominee emerged from my experiences feeling displaced or isolated. When folks asked me as a 4th grader in Lubbock, TX, what I wanted to be, president was not on the list.
VC: In the early 1960s during the most consequential years of the civil rights movement, we saw the efforts of Black people influence and expedite the liberation of all — specifically informing the 1965 Immigration Act that opened up pathways for Asian and South Asian immigration.
There has to be a shared mission around “saving democracy,” and hopefully everyone can get behind it.
With that as a precedent, what hope do you have for a new narrative where our communities truly co-labor with one another, and when necessary, serve as co-agitators? What could this moment do for intersectional feminism beyond the election, beyond 2024?
SG: I’ve been thinking a lot about my late father, who immigrated to the US in the late 1960s. And he came over with great appreciation for the movements of Black community leaders like Martin Luther King and Bayard Rustin and their Gandhi-informed principles and practices. And I think it made him constantly consider, “What is the potential of the country?”
So I think we have been working towards this moment for decades, and I feel really hopeful about creating more civic engagement around the AAPI community and in my community specifically. Historically, when people do campaigns, they don’t reach out to the AAPI community. That was particularly true for a campaign I supported for an accurate count on the 2020 census. So I think it’s time we acknowledge our collective power while paying appropriate homage to the leadership of the Black community in moving campaigns forward.
ABB: The optimist response to this question is intersectional feminism. Like Fannie Lou Hammer said, “Nobody is free until everybody is free.” It reminds us that solidarity has to be reciprocal. And in the history that you mention, Black people have always been at the center of movement-making in America. That may seem like a hyperbolic statement, but it’s true. And so it’s essential for all our communities to stand with Black folks and the most marginalized.
I also have been asking, what does solidarity in practice look like? And can we actually get there? Especially with so much of this movement-making happening online and sometimes ending online. We’ve watered down performing solidarity online, so we don’t necessarily have the muscle memory or tools to model what it looks like and requires. What would it look like to create a Zoom link and fund $1.5 million for Black lives or reproductive rights? And, I’m curious about how we can access this same level of coalition building across classes, races, and genders, beyond the election. There has to be a shared mission around “saving democracy,” and hopefully everyone can get behind it.
Virginia Cumberbatch is racial justice educator, writer, creative activist and the CEO/Co-Founder of Rosa Rebellion, a production company for creative activism by and for women of color. She’s a graduate of Williams College and The University of Texas at Austin’s Lyndon B. Johnson School and the author of “As We Saw It: The Story of Integration at UT.”
