In Touch, In Style : Essence has been remodeled many times over its 25 years. But it’s still a place where black women find themselves.
It’s been a big sister. A stand-up mother. And in times of crisis, an abundantly informed but never too preachy best friend.
It has dispensed good-sense how-tos, spiritual guidance and up-to-date home science--tips on mixing makeup to create “flesh” tones in varying shades of brown or developing health programs for bodies of African descent.
This month, Essence magazine celebrates its 25th year, with cover girl Oprah Winfrey looking like a vintage Supreme sheathed in a shimmery cocktail dress. The 300-page issue is a long glance back, a cautious stroll through an old senior high annual.
Since “Dynamite Afros” and “Careers in Data Processing,” Essence women have made remarkable strides--Pulitzer and Nobel winners, astronaut, presidential candidate, mayors, CEOs--and the right to call themselves superstars.
In May, 1970, Essence joined the coffee-table stacks alongside Ebony and Jet in black households and beauty shops--just as black women were beginning to find their collective voice within the crosscurrents of the black pride and women’s liberation movements. Neither completely spoke for those struggling with the twofold challenge of being black and female in a climate indifferent to both.
In every dimension of the struggle--from politics to identity--Essence has strived to be more than simply a mirror. Instead, a dispatch journal, if you will, chronicling events from the dawn of post-civil rights pride to the midday heat of Afrocentrism. Essence, ostensibly a beauty magazine, has worked to integrate style with substance--for the soul of a movement is in that balance.
“In this magazine,” says executive editor Linda Villarosa, “what is not political becomes political.” Everything resonates and signifies--from the politics of hair, to the ratio of light-skinned versus dark-skinned models, to the stipulation that advertisers provide black images on these pages.
Many of these efforts, at face, small, are tools for shaping larger issues of self-esteem. They rework long-accepted, narrowly defined standards of beauty.
From the beginning, “It was a place,” she says, “where black women could find themselves.”
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Founded by two men--president Clarence O. Smith and publisher Edward Lewis--Essence had to be different.
“There was a void,” Smith recalls. “No magazine was being published for African American women. A magazine that would help them make that next step forward. Those women at the center--teaching, working, nurturing children. Strong and self-confident and self-actualized.”
Editor in chief Susan L. Taylor has seen the readership blossom (5.2 million) and a strong surge in spiritual growth as well.
“Twenty-five years ago, we were just getting ready to define ourselves as African Americans,” she says. “We learned not to be ashamed of our culture, to be liberated.” Today, “African American women know who we are and what we want to achieve, and we are ready for the challenge.”
The Afro-crowned divas who graced many a cover of Essence have been replaced by women free to regularly reinvent their personas--including everything from springy Senegalese braids to bone-straight pageboys to sun-bleached dreadlocks. Politics have broadened accordingly and, in many ways, Smith acknowledges, “There is a cultural identity that is even stronger than the ‘black is beautiful’ years. I think its mission will continue to be to point the way to the better future for African American women,” he says. “I think it will always devote pages and articles and features to our history and connect our history to our future.”
Black magazines with black agendas--such as Sepia or Elan--have come and gone. But others thrive: This year Black Enterprise and Ebony celebrate their 25th and 50th anniversaries, respectively. That longevity gives more recent start-ups such as Emerge, Heart & Soul and YSB a sense of purpose--and at the least, an ounce of hope.
Stephanie Stokes-Oliver, editor in chief of Heart & Soul (a health and fitness publication targeted at African American families), like many women of her generation, grew up with Essence in the household. “I was in college when Essence came out. It was the hottest thing since whole-wheat bread,” she says. “They came to Howard University and I stood in line to see Susan Taylor, and I just thought that the job she had was so glamorous. I wanted to do that.”
Stokes-Oliver started her career at Mademoiselle and then worked at Essence for 16 years, years that shaped her professionally and fed her inspiration. “We, as black women, don’t graduate to other magazines. In one household you might have three generations reading it.”
And what has most contributed to that durability has been an unwavering focus.
“Over the years, we have had editors who keep their ears pressed to the hearts of black women,” says Taylor. “It’s where black women find the information critical to their forward movement.”
Black South Africa’s incremental strides toward freedom, explorations of biracial issues, financial advice, the swift sweep of AIDS--Essence editors keep readers informed about issues that affect their political and personal selves.
That grab bag of information is what has kept Donna Armstrong, an elementary school teacher, reading since 1974. “It is like coming home,” says Armstrong, who collects clippings in a photo album. “I always struggle with what is right for me,” she says, crediting Essence for providing an intellectual testing ground.
“Of course, I’m not Kate Moss, not even on the best day or on the weirdest carnival mirror,” cracks Khisna Griffin, 29, who coordinates Motheread, a literacy program sponsored by California Council for the Humanities. In Essence, “There are people like me and my family. I appreciate their little articles about what women are doing in their communities.”
But it has been a struggle to be all things to all people: Cutting-edge political. Incisively topical. Fun. Glamorous. Hip. And above all attractive to a wide spectrum of readers varying in age, class and regional passions. And as allegiances shift, the magazine has taken hits as well as praise with the same measured dignity.
Karen Harris, an on-and-off reader, is at times frustrated by some of the magazine’s limitations.
“The repetition of certain themes: ‘Does color really matter?’ . . . It tends to focus on negative aspects of black male and female relationships,” she says. “I see myself in those pages pretty much, but would like it to be more so. I don’t see much on non-traditional lifestyles. I would like to see more spiritual topics, not necessarily focusing on traditional religion.”
Despite her reservations, Harris finds herself checking in from time to time, what she sees as an ingrained ritual. “I should read it more, actually, because I do get more about black culture here than anywhere else.”
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That loyalty speaks to a unique place that Essence and other black publications occupy. In certain respects, their challenges today are startlingly similar to those they faced as start-ups more than two decades ago.
While the opportunities for black people in mainstream journalism have improved somewhat, it hasn’t been enough to make a dent in the decision-making areas of these institutions. It is here the black press has held forth, nurturing writers, editors, artists, photographers.
“What is sad is that it has taken 25 years and there hadn’t been anything else until YSB and Emerge, or Ebony Man,” says Marjorie Whigham-Desir, former Essence health editor and now features editor at Black Enterprise. “If it were not for black-owned magazines, a lot of African American journalists would not be here.”
The effect of that proverbial glass ceiling can be glimpsed at any newsstand. Race- or culture-specific publications still fill gaps, dealing with issues that fall through the cracks in mainstream publications.
“I don’t know if much has changed,” says Whigham-Desir. And, like they did in the social movements of the ‘70s, these publications can push issues as an advocating force. “We are still looking to see ourselves represented, the dualities of our lives addressed--we work in one environment and we live in another--and with these magazines, you can feel that somebody else is finally articulating the feelings you have.”
Especially for specialized publications, survival means constant change. Adaptation. In suiting up for the next millennium, part of Essence’s focus remains trained on the next generation. Their tastes, issues, concerns, intellectual and social conundrums will help shape the Essence of the 21st Century.
As well, Essence now boasts a regular male readership of 29% --even if it is a sneak perusal while waiting for a sister or girlfriend. And that feedback will also help shape Essence’s next 25 years.
Even though it can be “a little hard on men,” says Gregory Mays, “Essence has always had this broad idea about what beauty was--short-haired models, long-haired, dark, light--it fit in with my experience at Howard. If all the beauty is right here, why shouldn’t it be reflected on a magazine?”
But even more striking, he says, are the powers of collaboration, the points where women and men don’t clash but reconcile.
“Black men and women have more in common with one another than with other people. And this magazine was started by these two men who have been able to step back and let women create the magazine. I don’t know to what extent Susan Taylor shapes the magazine’s image, but she represents it quite well--as someone who has overcome obstacles.”
Surviving the daily battles, demanding black readers require a specialized point of view, outside what mainstream journals offer--a voice that sounds like family.
“They want another perspective, one that’s not necessarily one-sided or all-glorifying,” Whigham-Desir says, “but to put what’s going on in context, based on something other than sensationalism. It’s sort of a pity that this is the only way we can get in the pages or on covers of magazine. . . . Right now we are still trying to get to that mountaintop Dr. King was talking about.”
