The one-drop rule used to be the measure of Blackness in America. From the 1600s through the Jim Crow era, this rule held that any person with even “one drop” of African ancestry was considered Black, regardless of appearance.
In 1662, Virginia law held that racial status and freedom were tied to the mother’s status (partus sequitur ventrem). If your mother was enslaved, you were enslaved. So if your mother was Black, so were you.
Virginia—the so-called “home of lovers”—added categories like mulatto (½ Black), quadroon (¼ Black), and octoroon (⅛ Black), trying to track how many generations removed someone was from Black ancestry.
By the 1800s, many states considered you Black if you had 1/8 African ancestry (one great-grandparent). Louisiana, extra as ever, defined it at 1/16 (a great-great-grandparent).
After Plessy v. Ferguson (1896) upheld “separate but equal” segregation, the one-drop rule hardened. By Virginia’s Racial Integrity Act of 1924, a person with any African ancestry at all was legally Black.
The hardships and limitations of the past—like redlining that dictated where Black people could live, or Jim Crow laws that dictated how we lived—are major reasons for “passing,” hiding ancestry, and pretending to belong to the majority culture.
Yet Black history in the United States is a story of resilience, brilliance, and immeasurable contributions to the nation’s progress.
It is a history rich in invention—from Garrett Morgan’s traffic signal to Madam C. J. Walker’s beauty empire, George Washington Carver’s agricultural breakthroughs, and countless modern innovations in technology, medicine, and engineering. Gladys Mae West’s satellite math laid the foundation for GPS technology.
Our history is steeped in science and scholarship—with pioneers like Dr. Charles Drew revolutionizing blood banking, Katherine Johnson calculating the trajectories to send and return astronauts from space, and Neil deGrasse Tyson expanding our imagination of the cosmos.
Our history is one of wealth and entrepreneurship—from Newport’s Black Gilded Age to Black Wall Street in Tulsa, to contemporary business leaders who redefine prosperity against the odds.
And don’t get me started on how Black artists have transformed music. Our fingerprints are on jazz, country, gospel, blues, and hip-hop.
While we’re talking about music, let’s talk Tyla. Her meteoric rise with “Water” made her a global star, gaining awards and even a spot at the Met Gala. But because her next release didn’t match that first explosion, she was quickly branded a flop. Some say she was the first casualty of the diaspora wars. Folks took issue with a few odd interviews and typed up posts calling Tyla a flop because they thought she disrespected Black America.
That’s unfair. Tyla needs time to grow and create her unique, lasting sound. Queen Rihanna herself needed a couple of years before Good Girl Gone Bad cemented her superstardom. Every artist must be given space to grow, to excavate, to find their voice.
The same is true for writers. How many of us dreaded our sophomore novels? Like sophomore albums, sophomore books are hard. Lasting careers aren’t built in one viral moment, but through many seasons of growth and resilience.
So I find it curious that social media insists the Diaspora Wars are here. That algorithms push the idea that Foundational Black Americans—descendants of U.S. chattel slavery—are beefing with people from the Caribbean and Africa.
Immigrants arrive and celebrate their success. That success shouldn’t be held against proud Americans whose families endured slavery, Jim Crow, and every broken promise to Black people in America. For the record: we have no 40 acres, no mule, and often no bootstraps.
Confession: I know I’m supposed to be off Twitter, but it’s got the international feeds and the mess. I’m addicted to both. Where else am I going to learn about the jollof wars that went down because of Essence tweets? My first question was: who made the jollof?
Nigeria? Tomato-forward, spicy, smoky rice.
Ghana? Refined, lighter, aromatic rice.
Senegal? The OGs—the originators. Rice cooked in fish stock and local spices like tamarind.
Liberia? Hearty, deeply spiced rice with a splash of coconut milk.
Trinidad and Jamaica? Our rice is “rice and peas,” made with coconut milk and Caribbean curry.
Yet none of this goodness replaces baked mac & cheese for me. I believe all the tastiest foods and best chefs need to get along.
So why do we let petty divisions cloud the truth? Whether it’s an online squabble about food—mac & cheese versus jollof rice—or disagreements about Essence Festival, publishing models, or TikTok virality, the danger is the same: distraction from unity.
This is why I return to the idea of the one-drop rule. Historically, it was a weapon—to exclude, stigmatize, and define Blackness through the gaze of white supremacy. But we can reclaim it as a tool of unity.
One drop is enough. One drop is enough to connect us, whether our roots are in Nigeria, South Carolina, Port of Spain, or Kingston.
One drop earns you a scoop of jollof or the crispy edge of baked mac & cheese. Our differences are not fault lines. They enrich, not divide. Our shared survival, our collective brilliance, and our cultural triumphs are what matter.
So let’s stop measuring each other’s authenticity over tweets, accents, or cultural quirks. One drop is enough. It makes us Black. It makes us family. And I, for one, won’t be running lab tests to decide whether I should root for you or not. If you are of the Diaspora, I’m rooting for you.
And if you’re one of my listeners—you’re fam. I’m rooting for you, too.
Books to help on our journey of unity are:
The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. Du Bois – This is a foundational text on Black identity and cultural richness.
Hidden Figures by Margot Lee Shetterly – This tells the untold story of Black women mathematicians at NASA.
The African Diaspora: A History Through Culture by Patrick Manning - Looks at inventions, art, music, and culture as threads that tie diaspora communities together.
Jollof Rice and Other Revolutions: A Novel in Interlocking Stories by Omolola Ijeoma Ogunyemi is fiction but deeply rooted in diaspora ties, foodways, and cultural exchange.
This week, I'm highlighting The Lit. Bar through their website and Bookshop.org
We are four and half months away from Fire Sword and Sea—Help me build the momentum for this historical fiction. Please spread the word and preorder this disruptive narrative about lady pirates in the 1600s. They are women, many our Black and Indigenous. All want a better way of life. Piracy is legal. It’s their answer. This saga releases January 13, 2026. The link on my website shows retailers large and small who have set up preorders for this title.
Show notes include a list of the books mentioned in this broadcast.
You can find my notes on Substack or on my website, VanessaRiley.com under the podcast link in the About tab.
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Thank you for listening. Hopefully, you’ll come again. This is Vanessa Riley.
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