Books

Book Review: Something We Said: Richard Pryor, A Notorious Word, and Me

Though sticks and stones and words are weapons, as in the new memoir, “Something We Said” by Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor, they can also hold people together.

Published

1 month ago

June 17, 2026

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By Terri Schlichenmeyer

Author: Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor, Copyright: c.2026, Publisher: Simon & Schuster, SRP: $29.00, Page Count: 304 pages

Sticks and stones may break my bones.

You know the rest of that childhood rhyme, and you know it’s not true: words have meaning, and they can cut like a knife. And yet, though sticks and stones and words are weapons, as in the new memoir, “Something We Said” by Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor, they can also hold people together.

The college lecture was supposed to have been about the 1850 Fugitive Slave Act.

It was supposed to be a lively discussion, but unintentionally it quickly veered off course. When a White student quoted a movie line featuring the “n-word,” the room went quiet, and Professor Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor panicked.

She’d grown up hearing that word, and seeing it, and she’d experienced the painful feelings attached to it. She knew who wrote that movie line. It was her father, Richard Pryor.

In her first few years, Pryor spent most of her time in a White world, hearing her mother’s tales of her larger-than-life father, and trying to grasp meaning in her father’s albums, peppered as they were with a word that was off-limits to her.

When she was six, she met her father for the first time. She began to visit him regularly.

It was fun at her Dad’s house; though he was sometimes moody, he taught her to fish and play dominoes. She became close with her siblings, fearful of her great-grandmother, and confused about a word that her father’s uncles threw around like a beach ball. It was a forbidden word at her mother’s house, but her father used it. Differently. Often.

The word hurt. She knew first-hand that it did.

“The word became a degrading slur that shackled all Black people together into a single, inescapable tribe,” she says.

So why was it okay for certain people to say it?

Knowing that, in the years since Richard Pryor’s accident and his death from multiple sclerosis, he’s become somewhat of a legend. It is a very satisfying thing, isn’t it? So is reading about him, especially from the viewpoint of one of his seven children. But his is not the only story you get inside “Something We Said.”

Wrapped around the life of Richard Pryor is the life of a word that straddles a line between danger and provocation, a word that author Elizabeth Stordeur Pryor refuses to say or even print. As she tells readers about her father and her loving-but-difficult relationship with him, she warily circles that word, as if it might bite. You may cringe, but she weighs it carefully, helping readers see it as a chameleon before always bringing us back to her father, his work, and his life before and after her and that word.

It’s a push-pull balance that holds readers fast, and keeps them there. It’s perfect for fans of this genre, or Richard Pryor, or of language – and it’s going to make you think. If you want a good memoir this week, one that may send you to your old album collection, “Something We Said” is rock-solid.

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Art

BOOK REVIEW: Never Tell a Black Girl How to Black Girl: Essays

Growing up in North Carolina, she Black Girled her hair her entire life. Her grandma made her sit for box braids when she was small, telling Brown that she was “tenderheaded.” Later, Brown had relaxed hair until she “went broke” and couldn’t afford the process anymore. That was when she got acquainted with her natural hair – although she returned to box braids at least once, and loved them all over again.

Published

18 hours ago

July 19, 2026

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Author: Amena Brown, Copyright: c.2026, Publisher: Tiny Rep Books, SRP: $30.00, Page Count: 320 pages

Some things can really make you cross.

People telling you your business, for instance. People asking questions they have no reason to know the answers to. Folks who criticize your hair or clothes or life. These things would set anyone off; they’d be the last straw for anybody. As in the new book, “Never Tell a Black Girl How to Black Girl” by Amena Brown, some folks just cross the line.

In a way, it’s a matter of grammar.

Depending on how you say it, “Black Girl is a noun and a verb,” says Brown. A Black Girl can be a Black Girl… and she can Black Girl. Brown herself has done it “in six countries.”

As the child of a strict Pentecostal mother, Brown was a “late bloomer.” She didn’t drink alcohol until she was in her twenties. She was chaste while dating and a better church girl than a party girl. After she left the church, she began experimenting with wine first, then cocktails. She learned to cook, reasoning that the path to finding love started in a kitchen, one that happened to be her grandmother’s. And yes, love did eventually come in the form of a red-headed White man who was her friend before he became her boyfriend — and before he became her mother-sanctioned, grandma-approved husband.

Overall, says Brown, there is no single right method for doing this.

“There are so many ways to Black Girl, which means the way you Black Girl is beautiful, and the way I Black Girl is beautiful too.”

Looking for a collection of addictive, can’t-read-just-one essays that’ll make you laugh but that also feel like author Amena Brown is peeking at your life? Want a book that speaks to every corner of your existence?

Yeah, then you want “Never Tell a Black Girl How to Black Girl.”

You know how it is when you spot something so profound, so right, that you just have to call your friends and read it out loud to them? That’s what you’ll find here: truth told with humor that’s also oozing with warmth. Add honesty that’s smart and bold and practically begging for a “Heck, YES!” and you’ve got your new favorite book.

The essays here are short enough to read in a few minutes, but compelling enough to make you want more, so give yourself room.

This is a book for twenty- and thirty-somethings, but also for their mothers and grandmas who can handle respectful irreverence and surefooted playfulness. Can men enjoy “Never Tell a Black Girl How to Black Girl”? Sure, but it’s more for women, cross your heart.