Aboriginal & Torres Strait Islander People are advised that this review contains the name of a deceased Indigenous Person

I am almost too overwhelmed to write this review. 

Black Girl Rising is more than a performance—it is a love letter. A love letter to every Black girl who has ever felt unseen, or too seen. A love letter to every Black person who has felt the weight of the colony bear down upon them, the weight of a white man's boot on their chest, or the weight of a white Karen’s hands around their throat. It was a love letter to my daughter, who sat beside me, eyes wide and heart full, soaking up every word. A love letter to our endurance, our survival, our resistance, and our persistence.

Linnea Tengroth did not just perform—she ascended. She raised her voice and rose up in unmitigated Black joy, Black rage, and Black knowing. She shared story, experience, and through a seamless fusion of stand-up, storytelling, and spoken word poetry, she schooled the audience on what it means to exist in a world that tries to diminish and destroy you.

This was no abstract or theoretical discussion of racism. Tengroth made it visceral. She laid bare the very real and tangible impacts of racism—how it alters us on a molecular level, how it imprints on our very souls, how it gnaws at our bones. The weight of it was in every carefully chosen word, every inflection of her voice, every moment of silence that hung heavy in the room. And yet, she did not just burden us with the pain—she lifted us with the power of Black brilliance, Black humour and Black beauty.

Everything about the performance spoke to me. It was smart, fearless, and unapologetic. Tengroth called in, called out, and educated, but she did so with a power and grace that was never pleading, never asking for permission. There was no servitude, no deference—only the raw, electrifying force of Black power, pure and unmitigated.

The use of hand-drawn animation added another layer of depth, transforming the stage into a moving canvas that mirrored the poetry of her words. The visuals pulsed with the energy of her performance, a living extension of her storytelling.

Black Girl Rising is not just a show—it is a revolution. It is a mirror, a reckoning, and an embrace. It is love, pain, laughter, and survival all bound together in an unstoppable force. And as I sat there, beside my teenage daughter, I knew we were witnessing something sacred, something true. As fellow Blak women, we rose with her. We rose as Black women, unbowed and unbroken.

{In this performance Linnea Tengroth pays tribute to the Black Lives Matter movement, and draws attention to the murder of George Floyd Jr. I would like to honour Dunghutti man, David Dungay Jnr who was killed in custody in this country, and also gasped “I can’t breathe” while being held down by officers. David Dungay Junior was killed five years earlier than George Floyd, yet his family still have not seen justice. David Dungay Jnr is one of more than 600 Aboriginal people killed in custody since the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody. There can be no justice in an unjust colony.}