Boots On The Ground, Questions In The Air: Are We Doing Right By Ms. Shirley And Our Viral Kids? [Op-Ed] - Page 3

Safety, Consent, And “Ms. Shirley”

Miss Shirley’s videos have sparked deeper discussions about where kids perform and who they’re performing for. In a separate post, Ali highlights the uncomfortable dynamics:

“…Y’all record that and just put that on the internet. Y’all have this tiny person come out here, pop her hip with her fan, be missing steps during the actual dance, and then give her that little fee she asked for, give her a hot dog, and send her on her way.”

As Ali explains through humor, for the adult-centered events where Miss Shirley performs, she’s the entertainment. She’s the draw. As Anwar put it:

“We do want to have a celebrity…but who are we kidding? Ain’t no celebrity about to actually come to our party…but you know who we can afford? Miss Shirley.”

Her virality has made her a stand-in for celebrity—a low-cost, high-return special guest who can be booked, recorded, and reposted with ease. It’s a way for people to feel like they’re brushing up against fame. When that becomes the norm, we have to ask what we’re really celebrating: her joy, or our access to it? Not because adorable little Black girls shouldn’t dance, but because context matters. Who’s watching? Who’s recording? Who’s protecting?

Free Black Girlhood in the Crossfire

As a ’90s kid, I sang lyrics to songs I had no business understanding (hey, Next’s “Too Close”), but there were boundaries. Certain dance moves were off-limits. Some songs were reserved for grown folks. My mom’s face when she found out I’d be performing a routine to Beenie Man’s “Dude” at a high school event is burned into my memory. I told her, “It’s the beat, not the words.” She ultimately let me perform it for an audience of my peers and a few parents, but honestly, she was right to question it.

The conversation around Miss Shirley isn’t about dancing alone. It’s not just about the environment or the music or the audience. It’s about what happens when all of those elements collide—when a child is performing suggestive moves, in a space meant for adults, to lyrics they might not understand, while being filmed for the internet. That combination can open the door to harm, even when no one involved intends it. Sometimes, we do have to think about the lyrics when there’s a certain audience watching. Sometimes, we do have to consider the movement in the context of the moment. No child is “fast” enough to catch an adult who preys on them, but there’s nothing wrong with reminding children—and ourselves—when something isn’t age-appropriate.

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Protecting Black Girl Joy Is the Assignment

As Black women, we know Black girls and women don’t always get the same protection and grace. We are seeing this in real-time, as people comment on various domestic violence headlines. We feel it when we wonder what happened to Relisha Rudd—more than a decade later.

When people ask questions about where Miss Shirley is performing, how often, and who’s getting paid—those aren’t hate-fueled inquiries. They’re community ones. They’re rooted in a desire to make sure we don’t fail another little Black girl by applauding her into burnout, overexposure, or danger. It’s about challenging the system that turns preschoolers into public figures before they even start kindergarten. It’s about rethinking what we post, what we promote, and what we protect.

Not everyone who pulls you to the side and says, “Hey sis, whatchu doing?” is a hater. Sometimes, we’re the last line of defense.

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