When Did Black Women Get The Right To Vote

The fight for Black women’s right to vote is a tale of resilience that extends far beyond a single piece of legislation—and understanding it means unpacking both hard-won victories and the barriers that lingered for decades. As a Black woman born and raised in Alabama, this history isn’t just something I read about; it’s woven into my family’s story. My grandma used to pull me onto her porch and share memories of the years she couldn’t cast a ballot, a reality that shapes how I see voting today. Many assume the 1920 ratification of the 19th Amendment gave all women the right to vote, but for Black women, that promise stayed out of reach for nearly 50 more years. This gap isn’t a minor historical detail—it’s why my grandma didn’t vote until 1965, at 32, when the Voting Rights Act finally passed. It’s a sharp reminder that “equality for all” has never been automatic; it requires fighting for, because oppression hits different groups in different ways.

While the 19th Amendment ended sex-based voting bans, it ignored the racial discrimination keeping Black Americans—women included—from the polls. Across the South, states deployed cruel tactics to suppress Black voters: literacy tests designed to fail, poll taxes that locked low-income families out, and even violence or threats from groups like the Ku Klux Klan. My grandma told me about her older sister, Aunt Mabel, who tried to vote in 1938. She put on her nicest floral dress and tied a scarf around her hair—back then, a quality wig like a Burmese curly wig from the glueless wigs series was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Yet even dressed to honor the moment, she was given a literacy test with absurd questions (“How many bubbles are in a bar of soap?”) and sent home crying. Black women faced double injustice: discrimination for their gender and their race. That image of Aunt Mabel—proud, prepared, yet shut down—stays with me because it’s not just about being denied a vote; it’s about having your dignity stripped away, even when you show up ready to be heard. That was the truth for millions, including my family, and it’s an injustice we must never erase.

This unfairness dragged on for decades, with Black women leading the fight to fix it. Figures like Fannie Lou Hamer, a Mississippi sharecropper, spent years organizing voter registration drives and speaking out against suppression—even after being beaten and jailed for her work. My grandma met Hamer once, at a 1963 church rally in Birmingham. She said Hamer’s voice was quiet but powerful, like she was speaking directly to each person there. “We’re not asking for favors,” Hamer told the crowd. “We’re asking to be treated like people.” What stands out most about leaders like Hamer—and about my grandma, who volunteered to drive voters to the polls after 1965—is their refusal to back down, even when the system tried to break them. Their efforts finally paid off in 1965, when Congress passed the Voting Rights Act. This landmark law banned literacy tests, mandated federal oversight for states with a history of discrimination, and made racial voter denial illegal. For the first time, Black women like my grandma could vote without systemic barriers. I cast my first ballot in 2016, at 18. My mom bought me a Burmese curly wig for the day—to honor Aunt Mabel and Grandma—and I waited in line for an hour. When I marked that ballot, I thought of them: the women who couldn’t vote so I could. That moment wasn’t just a win for Black women; it was a win for democracy—because a democracy that excludes so many isn’t truly a democracy at all.

But the fight isn’t over. In recent years, the Voting Rights Act has been eroded, with new restrictions like strict ID laws and closed polling places popping up across the country—again, hitting Black voters hardest. Last year, my cousin in Georgia had to drive 45 minutes to vote because her local polling place closed. She works two jobs and barely made it. This ongoing struggle reminds us that voting rights aren’t a one-time victory; they need constant defense. That’s what matters most to me now: we can’t treat progress like a finish line. Every time a new barrier goes up, we have to ask: who’s being left out, and how do we stand with them? Black women fought for decades so future generations could vote, and it’s our duty to honor that fight by protecting those rights today. I now volunteer at voter registration drives, just like my grandma did. I tell young Black girls about Aunt Mabel and Fannie Lou Hamer, and let them try on my extra wigs—small acts of pride, to remind them they deserve to show up to the polls feeling confident.

From the early 1800s, when Black women like Sojourner Truth advocated for both abolition and women’s suffrage, to the 1960s sit-ins and marches, to today’s activism, Black women have been at the front of the battle for equal access to the ballot. The right to vote wasn’t handed to them—it was earned through decades of courage, and it’s a right they still defend for future generations. Their story is my story. It’s why I vote in every election, big or small. It’s why I talk to my neighbors about their voting rights. And it’s a lesson in persistence: even when the odds are against you, showing up, speaking out, and refusing to be invisible can change history. Equality isn’t something we wait for—it’s something we fight for, together, one vote, one story, one generation at a time.