To My Queens of Linked Arms

In Dedication to Ms. Lois Martin

When I began writing blogs for the Queens of Linked Arms, my daughter once said, “Mom, when people see your dashes—and all your dots… it looks like AI is writing for you.” I laughed at first, but then I paused—because this tone, these pauses, these dots and dashes… this is me. This is how I think, how I process, how I breathe on paper.

As Black women, we code-switch in so many ways just to be understood, just to be heard. And now—one more thing—I found myself needing to justify the rhythm of my own words.

I remember in college when an instructor told me that my understanding of the Bible wasn’t wrong… but that it “leans into the Liberatory side of theology.” I smiled, because that’s exactly what it is—liberatory. That’s how I was taught to read scripture, to find the God who shows up on the underside of power, to understand the dual world we inhabit as Black women in America.

And so again, I sat in a meeting… a brilliant sister spoke—educated, well-versed, fierce. She lent her intelligence to the room, smoothing the rough edges left by others’ words. Then someone asked her, “Is this AI?”

That question pierced something holy. Not because it was malicious, but because it revealed something deeper—a suspicion of brilliance when it comes from us. I quietly left that space. Not out of anger, but out of righteous protection for what is sacred.

For those of you who might not understand, let me drop a word of wisdom into this conversation.

A Word on How We Write — and Why It Matters

Throughout our history, African American writers and speakers have used punctuation—ellipses, dashes, lists—not as decoration, but as rhythm. These marks hold the breath between testimony and truth.

Ellipses (“…”) mirror our pauses, our thinking, our hesitations. As scholar Kimberly Fain noted when transcribing Beyoncé’s narration in Homecoming, those dots represent “moments of brief anecdotal pauses or silences.” They capture that sacred hush—the beat between wisdom and word.

The em dash (—) is another beloved companion. It moves like a preacher’s aside, a quick shift of tone, a heartfelt interjection. Long before there were algorithms, Maya Angelou and James Baldwin wielded dashes to create rhythm, emotion, and clarity. Geneva Smitherman called it part of our “free stylistic flow”—that improvisational beauty that lives in Black expression.

Lists—especially in threes—belong to us, too. Frederick Douglass listed the hypocrisies of freedom in his Fourth of July speech. Martin Luther King Jr. listed mountaintops so freedom could ring across every hill and valley. Our preachers list, our teachers list, our aunties list—each item a drumbeat, each rhythm a sermon.

Even online, our communities have continued this lineage. Studies of digital Black language found our people using ellipses and repeated punctuation to add tone and emphasis—our way of restoring the body to the text when the internet stripped away our voices.

These techniques are not accidents. They are evidence of intellect, creativity, and presence.

Reclaiming What Is Ours

Now in this new age of “AI panic,” some claim that ellipses, dashes, or well-structured lists are machine signs—that proper grammar and expressive punctuation are too polished to be human. How absurd! As if our ancestors didn’t master the language of both King James and kitchen table.

Let’s tell the truth—AI learned from us. From Baldwin’s essays, Morrison’s cadence, Hurston’s dialogue, and yes, from the rhythm of our own online spaces. The flow of influence goes from human to machine, not the other way around.

When we are told that our patterns of punctuation make us sound artificial, it’s another form of erasure. Another way of doubting the authenticity of Black excellence when it arrives in full sentence form.

So no—I will not abandon my dots or my dashes. They are the breath between my words. The pulse of my grandmother’s prayers. The pause before the “Amen.”

To my Queens of Linked Arms—keep writing, speaking, testifying in your authentic rhythm. Because our language, our punctuation, our pauses are not proof of robots. They are proof of resilience.

In Honor of Ms. Lois Martin — LINKED ARMS Stands in Scripted Unity —

She who taught us to show up fully—to bring our whole selves—the mind, the melody, and the marks between our sentences.

With love, courage, and the rhythm of truth—

Mary Curry (Co-President of LINKED ARMS)

Resources (MLA Style)

1. Fain, Kimberly. “Black Feminist Rhetoric in Beyoncé’s Homecoming.” Peitho, vol. 23, no. 4, 2021.

2. Armstrong, J. D. “When AI Detection Paranoia Kills Creativity.” Medium, 2025.

3. Reddit r/PetPeeves thread, “You Used an Em Dash So This Is Clearly AI!” 2025.

4. Phillips, Brian. “Stop AI-Shaming Our Precious, Kindly Em Dashes — Please.” The Ringer, Aug. 2025.

5. Brock, André. “‘Jus’ sho’in some luv’: Digital Black Language on MySpace.” In When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong, Ohio University, 2009.

6. Frazier, Laurel. “African American Rhetoric and the Art of Persuasion.” Medium, 2017.

7. Jackson, Ronald L., and Elaine B. Richardson, eds. Understanding African American Rhetoric. Routledge, 2003.

8. Horton, Randall. “Are We Witnessing the Death of the Writer? Facing the AI Crossroads…” Salon, Sept. 2023.