For those of us who came of age as Gen Xers, the evolution of BET and MTV offered more than reality TV and sitcoms in syndication – they gave us a front-row seat to popular culture, in full color. They do that now, but in their heyday, this was a vanguard movement that elevated urban life. These platforms created a space where we could see ourselves – our voices, fashion, brilliance and questions – reflected on screen.
“Teen Summit,” a groundbreaking BET production, was one of those rare spaces. It wasn’t just a show; it was a platform for Black youth to speak truth, share struggles, and dream out loud. I watched it consistently, feeling the visibility of my generation. Ananda Lewis joined “Teen Summit” in the mid-1990s, part of a newer generation of hosts who brought poise, intellect and authenticity to the screen. She was magnetic – an example of what it looked like to hold space with confidence and care.
Watching her on BET’s “Teen Summit,” and later as a VJ on MTV’s “Total Request Live,” gave me a sense of connection to a broader Black identity that felt near and relevant. She helped build that bridge and showed many of us that representation matters.
When it comes to Black media in the era of Gen X, I personally can’t imagine that wave without Lewis. She was a piece of the vibrant fabric that shaped how we saw ourselves – smart, capable, expressive, and worthy of being heard. She wasn’t just a face on TV – she was a cultivator of Black culture. Her presence helped redefine what it looked like to be young, Black and thoughtful.
What made her stand out wasn’t just her platform – it was how she used it. Lewis brought grace and sharpness to every conversation. She elevated voices, asked pointed questions, and challenged ideas, staying grounded in community. As a teen watching from afar, I was inspired. Her work showed me that storytelling could be a tool for empowerment – and that being Black, brilliant and bold had a place in media.
Her recent passing from breast cancer is devastating. But even in that final chapter, Ananda modeled courage. Having watched her mother battle the same illness, she made deeply personal choices about her own care – choices that reflected her knowledge, values, and lived experience. And she didn’t hide. She chose to share. She used her diagnosis to educate others, to challenge assumptions, even sharing some of her regrets. This act of courage demonstrates that every person has the right to walk their own path with dignity.
That stance alone – turning her private struggle into a public offering – was one of the most powerful examples of journalism I’ve seen.
Even if her choices around care weren’t ones we all would have made, she was firm in them. She was transparent. She was powerful. That’s what it means to tell stories with integrity.
Lewis was more than a media personality. She was a cultural translator, a truth-teller, a symbol of what it meant to grow up Black in the ’90s and feel proud of it. She was an early figure who inspired me to do the work I do today: telling stories that center us, challenge us and uplift us.
In an era before Instagram, YouTube, or TikTok, Ananda showed us what being intentional and confident looked like on television as a Black woman.
Rest in power, Ananda Lewis. Thank you for being our voice, our mirror, and our reminder that storytelling – especially when it’s rooted in community – is a radical and lasting act.