Some people pray with their hands clasped. Others pray when the beat drops.
For Black folks, music has always been more than a backdrop to our joy or a soundtrack to our struggle. It is (and has always been) a spiritual practice. As we round out Black Music Month, we remember that Black music is often the way we name ourselves, affirm ourselves, protect ourselves, and free ourselves.
Gospel may be the most obvious genre when we talk about music as ministry, but it’s far from the only one. Spiritual truth lives in every genre we touch. You can hear it in the raspy growl of the blues, in the righteous anger of hip-hop, in the sweet balm of soul, in the rhythmic rebellion of go-go and bounce, and yes—even in the whispers of neo-soul and the giggles in a jazz scatting solo. Every space where Black music lives, so too does spirit.
Among all the genres, one stands out for its intention alone: spoken word. It is the only genre where the word—not the beat, not the harmony—is the driving force. When the word becomes the offering, the poem becomes the prayer.
When Poetry Becomes Practice
I Love Us had the exclusive opportunity to speak with two of the most celebrated artists working in this intentional space today: Grammy winners J. Ivy and Tarriona “Tank” Ball. Ivy, the inaugural winner of the Best Spoken Word Poetry Album Grammy in 2023—and again in 2024—is a Chicago-bred poet whose voice lands like scripture. Ball, frontwoman of Tank and the Bangas, became the first woman to win in the category in 2025. Together, their work reminds us that while the genre may be new to the Recording Academy, it is ancient in spirit.
“Poetry is my spiritual practice. It’s the practice of prayer. It’s meditation. It’s reflecting. It’s soul searching. It’s listening. When I pick up the pen, I’m not just writing words—I’m channeling. I’m tapping into something much deeper than myself, something sacred, something ancient,” J. Ivy told I Love Us. “My job as a Poet is to listen to the spirit moving through me and document as much as possible. My process starts with stillness. It’s listening for the whispers between the noise. That’s where the truth lives. That’s where the healing begins.”
He continued, “Naturally I write for me, but I’m always thinking about those that I’ll eventually share my work with. It’s beyond humbling to know that the work resonates in such an intimate and healing way. I think about the ancestors, about the lineage of griots who used the word as medicine for the soul. I do my best to honor that tradition. So when I perform or step in the booth, I treat it like a ceremony, like church. I want the vibration of my voice, the intention behind the words, to wrap around people like the warmest hug. I want them to feel something—something real, something that helps them come home to themselves.”
Tank approaches her practice with a similar reverence. “Definitely!” she said when asked whether she thinks about how her words might land in someone’s healing space. “When I write, I really let the spirit guide my hand. I love when there is a moment when the lyrics align perfectly and I know that somebody is about to feel seen through my words. Those moments make me very happy for the person that’s about to receive it.” She added, “I try my best to speak on what I’m learning at the time I’m writing.”
“I think they resonate because there is such a kid-like journey in the music, a joy that reminds them they can still play and that it’s okay,” she added. “I play and bend sound to my liking and I think lots of people are interested in that fun. We’ve also found a way to speak about serious topics while putting a sarcastic tone in it that keeps them listening and curious.”
Reflecting on the role her lyrics play in people’s healing routines, she said, “It definitely surprises me because I only started to write songs for myself. I began to share with the world later, so it’s still surreal to see people sing every word. A lot of the music is poetry so I understand why they feel connected beyond melody.”
Tank reflected on what it means to know that her lyrics are part of someone else’s affirmation practice: “Wow. All I could say is thank you and continue to shine and grow.”
Music That Ministers in Every Genre
Black music has always preached to us. Not just from the pulpit of the church, but from headphones, radios, front porches, barber shops, and block parties. It speaks to every version of us: the hopeful, the heartbroken, the hustling, the healing.
While spoken word is perhaps the most intentional in its lyricism, that intentionality is not confined to one sound. We see it in the affirmational lyrics of artists across genres: Durand Bernarr’s boundary-setting banger “Boundaries.” Londrelle‘s meditative verses. Geminelle and Toni Jones making self-love a sonic ritual. DRAM‘s ode to self-motivation on “Get It Myself.” PJ Morton’s reassurance on “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright.” Solange’s euphoric solitude on “Binz.” Chloe x Halle reminding us that we’re already surrounded by abundance on “Everywhere.”
Even in children’s music, affirmation is baked in. As we’ve shared this week, atists (like Fyütch and Aura V, and Pierce Freelon) are planting these seeds early with songs that teach children to speak power, love, and joy over themselves.
Then there’s the work that reminds us to shine. Victoria Monét‘s “The Glow.” Dear Silas declaring, “I Ain’t Stressin Today.” Janelle Monáe‘s defiant confidence in “I Got the Juice.” Masego and Devin Morrison‘s buttery self-worth on “Yamz.” We can’t forget Alton Kiing’s melodic love letter to melanin in “Pretty Brown Skin.”
These are our modern-day psalms—balm in lyric form for everything that ails us, celebrations in syncopation, mirrors to remind us of ourselves, and windows to understand others. These are our declarations of victory. They are anthems to keep us dauntless in the face of adversity.
A Lineage of Liberation
The tradition runs deep. Spirituals sung by enslaved Africans were coded maps guiding people toward freedom, signaling danger, routes, and timing in songs like “Follow the Drinking Gourd,” “Wade in the Water,” and “Steal Away.” These hidden messages helped escapees and conductors navigate the Underground Railroad . Gospel music, too, has always intertwined praise with protest. Civil Rights–era hymns—“We Shall Overcome,” “How I Got Over,” and “We Shall Not Be Moved”—served as rallying cries, uniting communities and reinforcing spiritual resolve during marches, sit-ins and beyond.
When J. Ivy says, “Poetry is one of our oldest forms of expression and freedom,” he is naming a truth we know in our bones. “It’s where our truth lives untouched. Spiritually, especially when it’s expressed through poetry, is a weapon formed against erasure. It affirms our worth and our existence. It protects our thoughts and our ideas. It validates our dreams and shreds our fears. It documents our joy, our pain, our brilliance. It gives voice to the voiceless and breathes life into our collective memory. In every stanza, we remind the world—and ourselves—that we are divine. That we are unbreakable. That we are here on purpose.”
He continued, “So yeah… poetry is revolution. It’s prayer. It’s protest. Its liberation wrapped in sweet words and a righteous rhythm.”
This is why when spoken word artists step into their flow, much like Sammy did in the famed juke joint scene of Sinners, it’s magical. The echo of griots, preachers, mothers, teachers, and freedom fighters pulses in every line. With every poem or verse, our lineage lives on.
Black music teaches us how to hold both joy and grief. How to keep going. How to come home to ourselves.
If You Can’t Affirm Yourself…
For some, affirmation doesn’t come easily in the mirror—but it comes freely through a melody. Someone who can’t bring themselves to say, “I’m doing the best I can,” might lip-sync to Beyoncé’s “Church Girl” on the way to work. Another might hum the Clark Sisters’ “Victory” to remind themselves that the battle is already won. A night shift worker might half-jokingly chant “Don’t stop, get it, get it” from Uncle Luke’s “I Wanna Rock” just to keep going. That moment of repetition becomes a mantra, and the mantra becomes movement.
Music becomes the prayer, the grounding, the call to rise. For many, it’s the clearest path to their power, purpose, and peace. Their playlists reflect a truth: affirmations already exist in the music. The words are already there, already doing their work.
If you happen to fall into this category, Tank leaves this: “Keep reading and writing new affirmations that resonate with you.”
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