Phillis Wheatley and the Act of Defying Expectations through Writing
Phillis Wheatley wasn’t supposed to exist.
Not as a poet. Not as a published author. Not as an intellectual.
She was supposed to be property. “Phillis Wheatley” wasn’t even her name.
And yet, in 1773—before the United States even declared independence—a twenty-year-old enslaved Black woman took the identity imposed upon her and, making the most of it, published a book of poetry that would make her the first African American and the first enslaved person to publish a book in the American colonies.
This shouldn’t have been possible.
The fact that it was—the fact that she made it possible—tells us everything we need to know about what it means to write when the world says you can’t.
The Girl Who Shouldn’t Have Written
Phillis Wheatley was taken from West Africa (likely Senegal or Gambia) at around age seven and sold into slavery in Boston in 1761. She was purchased by John and Susanna Wheatley, who named her after the slave ship that brought her to America.
Within sixteen months, Susanna and her daughter Mary had taught Phillis how to read and write English. By age twelve, she was reading Greek and Latin classics. By fourteen, she published her first poem in a newspaper. As her talent and skill grew, she was composing poetry that rivaled the work of educated white men.
Her work covered topics that ranged from faith and morality to classical mythology and contemporary events. She is probably most known for corresponding with George Washington and others during events surrounding the American Revolution. Applying wisdom, strategy, diligence, and grace to the words she penned, the audience she cultivated, and the effort to get her work published, Phillis became internationally known.
All this at a time when white society refused to believe a Black woman could have written such sophisticated work.
The Trial of Authorship
When Wheatley sought to publish her first book, Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral, no American publisher would touch it. They refused to believe the author was Black.
So, accompanied by the Wheatley family’s son, she turned to London publishers. But even they required proof that she—and not some white person writing under her name—was the true author.
In 1772, Phillis Wheatley was forced to appear before a panel of eighteen prominent Boston men—including the governor, the lieutenant governor, and John Hancock—to defend her authorship.
Can you imagine? A teenage enslaved girl standing before eighteen powerful white men, having to prove she was capable of intellectual and creative work.
She answered their questions. Demonstrated her knowledge. Proved her authorship.
They certified, in writing, that she was indeed the author of her poems.
And still, when the book was published in 1773, it carried their attestation in the front matter, because, for them, her own name on the cover wasn’t proof enough.
The Double Burden: Proving Your Humanity Through Your Art
Wheatley’s poetry carried a burden that white poets never faced: It had to argue for her intellectual and creative capacity as Black person. Every line was scrutinized not just for aesthetic merit but also for any political implications. Would her work incite an uprising? Would it provide a coded way of escape to the North?
Wheatley navigated this impossible terrain by writing in the neoclassical style valued by her era. She used Greek and Roman mythology, Christian theology, heroic couplets. Her poems were technically excellent by the standards of her time.
Some modern critics have faulted her for not writing more explicitly about slavery, for not centering her African identity, for adopting white literary forms. But these critiques miss the point: Wheatley had to first prove Black people could do what white people did. Once that door was cracked open, future Black writers could kick it down.
She wrote in a time when simply being literate as a Black person was revolutionary. Simply publishing a book was defiance.
She existed where she shouldn’t have. And in doing so, she made space for every Black writer who came after.
What Phillis Wheatley Teaches Writers Today
Writers—especially writers of color, especially women, especially those who’ve been told they don’t belong can gather strength and be encouraged by the fortitude Phillis Wheatley must have had to muster during those years of trying to get her work published
Her experience teaches…
1. You must write even when people say you can’t.
There will always be people who don’t believe you have what it takes. Who think you’re too young, too old, too uneducated, too different. Who doubt your voice, your story, your ability.
Write anyway.
Wheatley didn’t have permission. She had a calling. She had a gift. And she used it.
2. Your work will carry burdens that others’ won’t.
If you’re from a marginalized community, your work will often be read as representative. One book by you will be expected to speak for everyone like you. One misstep will be evidence that people like you are incapable.
This isn’t fair, but it is reality.
You’ll be asked to prove yourself in ways others aren’t. You’ll face scrutiny others don’t. Your work will be politicized even when it’s not explicitly political.
Wheatley knew this. She wrote anyway. And you should too.
3. You don’t have to carry the weight alone.
Wheatley had the Wheatleys, who—whatever their motivations—gave her education, time to write, and eventually, freedom. She had allies in London who published her work when Americans wouldn’t.
You need people who believe in you, who amplify you, who use their access to open doors for you.
Find them. Build with them. You can’t do this alone.
4. Your existence as a writer is political.
You might not want your writing to be political. You might just want to tell stories, share ideas, create beauty.
But for some of us, our very presence in literary spaces is a political act.
Wheatley’s existence as a published Black poet was revolutionary whether she intended it or not. She proved something that needed proving in 1773: Black people are fully human, fully capable, fully worthy.
Your writing does that too—even if all you’re doing is showing up and creating. You’re proving that people like you belong in literary spaces.
5. Your excellence is resistance.
If you’re Black or of color, you know this too well. Wheatley's poems had to be excellent—not just good but flawless andundeniable.
Like Phillis, we don’t get the luxury of mediocrity. We can’t coast on nepotism or privilege. Our work must be strong enough to overcome bias, doubt, and systemic barriers.
It’s exhausting, yes. But we write anyway, knowing our excellence is resistance.
The Legacy
Phillis Wheatley died at age thirty-one, poor and still writing.
Her legacy lives on in every Black writer who has come after her. When Frederick Douglass wrote his autobiography, he stood on her shoulders. When Langston Hughes published poetry, he stood on her shoulders. When Toni Morrison won the Nobel Prize, she stood on her shoulders.
And when you sit down to write today—whoever you are—if you’ve ever been told you can’t, you shouldn’t, you don’t belong, you stand on her shoulders too.
Has anyone ever told you that you couldn’t or shouldn’t write? How did you prove them wrong? (Or how are you working to prove them wrong right now?) I’d love to hear your story in the comments.
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