PRAISE FOR TOKEN BLACK GIRL

“With wit and the sharp eye of a woman who has lived through it, Prescod’s
memoir takes the reader into the places and institutions of privilege where the
idea of the Token Black Girl thrives. Literally shrinking herself to conform to
the expectations of those around her, Prescod’s experience feels both
unsettlingly familiar and incendiary. This is an essential read to understand
how beauty standards and media industry affect Black women in America.”
—Gabrielle Union, author of You Got Anything Stronger?

“Sometimes it feels like we are just beginning to discuss the full extent of the
Black experience in America, and with a frankness and a brave ability to stare
down her own truth, Danielle Prescod has vividly detailed a portrait of Black
womanhood that feels so familiar and yet so rarely discussed. It’s time! In her
firsthand account of what it’s like to live as a Black person in the middle of
whiteness, Danielle suffers no fools and holds back no punches as she
explores the humor, WTFs, and emotional repercussions of coming of age as
she did. As a memoirist and cultural critic, she deftly keeps things from
feeling like a collection of the aha-ha moments you have in therapy, and
instead, through her experience, offers people a way out of their token Black
friend role (self-inflicted, structural, or otherwise).”
—Allison P. Davis, senior writer for the Cut

“In an honest, relatable, and enlightening fashion, Danielle eloquently speaks

about an experience many of us know too well. This pointed memoir reveals
the struggle of being a Black woman in a world that tends to praise
everything opposite of what you are. This is necessary reading for all women
navigating social constructs while simultaneously learning to love themselves
out loud.”
—Taylor Rooks, Emmy Award–nominated sports journalist and host of the
Bleacher Report
“Danielle Prescod candidly shares her experience from growing up in a
predominately white environment to then working in a white-dominant
industry and how those experiences impacted her identity formation
throughout the years. Her story made me feel seen as it is honest and relatable
and will leave you mulling over your own experience with self-discovery in a
world where we all strive for perfection and to ‘fit in.’ Token Black Girl is a
must-read for anyone who has felt like a ‘token’ in society.”
—Hannah Bronfman, entrepreneur, author, and founder of HBFIT

“With her richly introspective debut, Token Black Girl, Danielle Prescod
reveals devastating and lingering childhood traumas in evidentiating the
racist structures central to the psychological gymnastics that the Black
community must navigate in order to exist and thrive in the United States.”
—Tamu McPherson, fashion consultant and All the Pretty Birds founder
Text copyright © 2022 by Danielle Prescod
All rights reserved.

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Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542035163 (hardcover)

ISBN-10: 1542035163 (hardcover)

ISBN-13: 9781542035156 (paperback)

ISBN-10: 1542035155 (paperback)

Cover design by Leah Jacobs-Gordon

First edition
For Grandma and Grandpa Spann: you both know why.
 CONTENTS

START READING
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AFTERWORD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Who taught you to hate the texture of your hair? Who taught
you to hate the color of your skin? . . . Who taught you to hate
the shape of your nose and the shape of your lips? . . . Who
taught you to hate the race that you belong to? . . . You should
ask yourself who taught you to hate being what God made
you.

—Malcolm X, May 1962

 INTRODUCTION

In the summer of 2003, I turned fifteen years old. In July, the very same
month of my birthday, Vanity Fair released a cover that is infamous within
my generation of media obsessives. The cover teased a teen-focused special
featuring five of the wealthiest and most popular female representatives of
television and movie stardom. Amanda Bynes, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen,
Mandy Moore, and Hilary Duff posed draped around one another in varying
shades of pastel pink. An expansion of the cover, hidden behind a fold,
featured blue-eyed brunette Alexis Bledel, broody Evan Rachel Wood, Token
Black Girl Raven-Symoné, and token bad girl Lindsay Lohan. The cover line
read “It’s Totally Raining Teens!,” a cheeky nod to youth-speak and Vanity
Fair’s way of cementing an authoritarian cultural claim on who the “teens” of
the times were. Cover expansions are significantly less popular in the modern
media landscape, maybe because it’s cruel, but perhaps more practically
because people are now likelier to see cover images on a screen than in the
aisle of their local CVS. At the time, it was a subtle and not-so-subtle way to
both include and exclude people, with the message: “We need you, but
you’re not quite cover material.”
Teen Vogue, Vogue’s kid sister, would be launched that same year.
After a test issue featuring a twenty-year-old Jessica Simpson (blonde)
cuddling her then boyfriend, obviously Nick Lachey, debuted in 2000, the
magazine promised to be the anti–crush quiz fashion bible teen girls craved.
For me, an all-girls-school attendee, it was welcomed and essential reading.
But the magazine was published quarterly, and that left a void in the teen
fashion landscape for months at a time. The July 2003 issue of Vanity Fair
satiated some of that thirst. I became an absolute rabid animal in the hunt to
get my hands on this issue. I was not, at fifteen, a Vanity Fair reader, nor
should I have been, as the other cover lines of the issue previewed subjects
far outside my interest—hard journalism about the Bush administration, a
Hamptons real estate feature, and an author reporting on cold case murder
facts—but the cover had been hyped up on all my favorite entertainment
news programs, and I was intimately familiar with every single one of those
teen girls’ faces. I was gently conditioned to already believe these adolescent
women were goddesses. In fact, my younger sister and I were such dutiful
consumers of all Mary-Kate and Ashley products that, to this day, I refuse to
buy anything from The Row, their clothing line, as a twisted attempt to get
justice for the money I have already shelled out to them.
You may have noticed that all the girls, now women, featured on that
Vanity Fair cover are white, and I am not. More specifically, they are all thin,
blonde, white girls. Even Mandy Moore, who had an edgy brunette cut at the
time of the shoot, had been introduced to the world as a sugary-sweet blonde.
No matter what her colorist mixed up, that was how many people still viewed
her.
It seems like no accident that the brunette, the bad girl, the redhead, and
the lone Black girl were conspicuously absent on the actual cover, instead
relegated to the foldout. Alexis Bledel played the smart, safe, and overly
anxious Rory Gilmore on Gilmore Girls. Evan Rachel Wood starred in the
chilling 2003 film Thirteen, which was about suburban girls who rebelled by
getting tongue piercings and having threesomes. Raven-Symoné, a Cosby
Show alum, was now a Disney darling, the lead in an eponymous sitcom
where she played a high schooler with psychic abilities. And Lindsay Lohan
almost needs no introduction, but in 2003, she was not yet a Mykonos club
hostess with a troubled family past. Rather, she was the girl who played both
starring roles in The Parent Trap and was on the cusp of Mean Girls
celebrity.
Vanity Fair, like most publications at the time, was telling readers who
deserved their attention. The inside story featured a more diverse set of
“totally teens,” including Kyla Pratt, Christina Milian, and Solange Knowles,
and was largely unmemorable. The cover is what everyone recalls. A
magazine cover is a beacon, mesmerizing the reader with the image it
presents. And for many years in fashion media, an upper echelon of
publishing, we readers were shown white women and white women only. In
the early part of the millennium, critical years of my development, if a
coveted cover spot was assigned to someone, it was a blonde girl—extra
points for a bony one.
Ignoring the presence of Black women is a massive power flex that
exposes the ideologies of the decision makers who determine what celebrity
is worthy of a feature. Erasure is a useful tool of oppression, and Vanity Fair
was not alone in ensuring the erasure of Black women and girls from
positions of prominence and honor. The media’s compounded interest in
either strategically or accidentally reducing the visibility of Black women
across the board poisoned my mind for years.
Raven-Symoné must have felt incredibly lonely shooting that Vanity
Fair cover. To my knowledge, she’s never spoken about it. She has met some
controversial moments in more recent years, relating in particular to her
identity as a Black woman. In 2015, she became a trending topic after her
criticism of ethnic Black names on the morning talk show The View went
viral. Raven and her cohosts opined on whether racial bias affects hiring
probability by way of recruiters screening the names of candidates. (Spoiler:
it does.) Raven said that she would not hire a woman with the name
“Watermelondrea” when that name appeared as number twelve on a list of
“sixty of the most ghetto-sounding names.” And while hers was an ignorant
and harmful comment, I do not think it is a surprising one from a Black
woman who seems to me to have been coerced to maintain a degree of self-
hatred, one that was ingrained and then nurtured by an environment that
prioritizes whiteness in all forms.
In 2003, the public was not prepared to have a conversation about the
influences of white supremacy in the mainstream media. I certainly wasn’t. I
was too busy worrying about how to suck in my lips (true story) and shrink
my body so I could conform to my white peers. I imagine in some regard,
Raven was too. The previous fourteen years of my life had desensitized me to
seeing very few Black faces in the media I consumed. And like an orphaned
duckling, I found myself imprinting on girls like the quintet of the Vanity
Fair cover stars in a desperate attempt to tether my existence to that which
was considered desirable and beautiful.
As the Hilarys and Mandys increased in popularity and marketability, a
part of me always recognized, shamefully, that I was not the thin, blonde
archetype. That fact did not deter me from trying my best to get as close to
that archetype as possible. For years, I singed my hair follicles with chemical
relaxers to achieve a pin-straight, “nonthreatening” mane. I was acutely
aware of how sinful my excess of brown flesh was, so I starved myself,
frantic to reduce my size. I took pleasure in my exposed clavicle and hip
bones, but no matter how thin I got, I was always outrunning the possibility
that I might become “too big,” too noticeable, more noticeable than I already
was, which was an utterly terrifying potential reality. Despite understanding
that I was different—that, like Raven, I was the Token Black Girl—I still felt
I needed to fit a profile in which my skin color was my only difference, and
not one of many.
You’ve probably seen the Token Black Girl in many iterations over the
years. She’s Tootie, played by Kim Fields, on The Facts of Life. She’s Lisa
Turtle, played by Lark Voorhies, on Saved by the Bell. She’s Jessi Ramsey in
The Baby-Sitters Club book series. She’s Olympic gymnast Dominique
Dawes and then she’s Gabby Douglas. She’s Stacey Dash’s Dion in Clueless.
She’s Gabrielle Union as Katie in She’s All That and Chastity in 10 Things I
Hate About You. She’s the Spice Girls’ Scary Spice, also known as Mel B.
She’s Normani in Fifth Harmony, and she’s Jordyn Woods before getting
unceremoniously deleted from the Kardashian-Jenner family group chat.
You’ve seen her, sure, but you don’t know her because you are not meant to.
She is not “the main character,” as the kids on TikTok say.
The Token Black Girl is characterized mostly by her proximity to her
white peers and her nonthreatening and friendly nature. She is nonthreatening
because she is almost never the romantic interest, and her primary function is
to provide “attitude” and “sass,” either as humor or as an attempt to elevate
the sex appeal of the otherwise all-white entity. She is a good student because
she has to be. She actually feels like she has to be good at everything. She’s
almost always a good dancer, and even if she’s not, it doesn’t matter because
everyone will still think she’s a good dancer. She either has or can get the
requisite social signifiers of acceptance—everything except white skin, of
course. She will be well spoken, well dressed, and well groomed. She likes
all the things her friends like, including boys, but they will not like her. She
almost never acknowledges her position as the sole Black member of a group
because talking about race makes white people uncomfortable. She can never
make white people uncomfortable. Her most critical responsibility is
providing protection against the “racist” label that might otherwise be hurled
at a gaggle of white women devoid of ethnic variety.
While this relative invisibility (as in, being there but never being
central) dictated the rules of engagement for my life, covers like the July
2003 Vanity Fair helped white girls establish the notion that they were the
world’s most precious gift, an idea reinforced by movies and television,
where they saw idealized versions of themselves projected or reflected back.
They could pick and choose which elements were worth imitating. That
imitation is not necessarily healthy, but as an alternative to complete erasure,
it does seem appealing.
Examining beauty standards as a system—one that has adverse effects
on all women—is worthwhile. In recent years, the dialogue about fighting
these standards has become more emphatic, but like racism, it is a harmful
culture that evolves just as quickly as its counterculture. Social media apps
have joined magazines in upholding a completely unattainable aesthetic as
the singular criteria for beauty, and still, imagery of Black women and
subjects pertaining to them are siphoned out of mainstream publications to
“ethnic” magazines like Ebony, Jet, or Essence. But at fifteen, I was not an
Essence, Jet, or Ebony reader. My tastes were morphed and molded by
magazines like Vogue, Teen Vogue, Teen People, and YM, publications where
Black women were scarce, if present at all. And that scarcity was also totally
reflective of my own day-to-day reality.
The media could have been a lifeline to me, a window into a more
diverse reality, but that’s not how it functions. Insidiously enough, media is
often employed to protect and uphold white supremacy, and I’m not just
talking about the obvious here, like Birth of a Nation—although, yes, that’s a
big one. In the 2020 book Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You, authors
Jason Reynolds and Ibram X. Kendi reveal that entire film empires, like
Tarzan, Planet of the Apes, and Rocky, were built on the idea of specifically
preserving the mythic dominance of white masculinity. As I was growing up,
women’s fashion magazines were doing the same work on me. With their
insistence that beauty was to be defined solely through a narrow Eurocentric
lens, the magazines accomplished, for white women, what the novels and
films of the twentieth century did for white men. But guess what? It all
worked so well that I had no idea it was happening.
Primetime TV was no better. Just like Jet and Essence, there were
several Black television programs and movies released when I was young,
but none seemed to inspire a devoted fandom among my white friends. There
are people my age who now profess their love for The Fresh Prince of Bel-
Air, but in 1996, every girl I knew had a poster of Jonathan Taylor Thomas,
the Home Improvement hottie, pinned up somewhere in her room. No images
of Will Smith adorned those same walls. I faked a crush on JTT, too, because
what else was I to do? But at eight years old, I had never even seen the show
that made him a household name. My parents stringently monitored what my
sister and I watched on TV, and the shows they approved of, like The Cosby
Show, My Wife and Kids, and Family Matters, often played into respectability
politics, showing romanticized family structures and successful Black people.
But these were not the shows celebrated by my white classmates and friends.
For all I knew, they weren’t watching them at all. Preferences were so subtly
expressed and communicated that there was no need to explicitly determine
what was “good” and what was “bad.” I understood that I should not prefer
That’s So Raven to Lizzie McGuire. It was BSB, not B2K. Anything Black
that existed in my world was bizarrely countercultural and needed to be
approached with caution. Black characters on-screen, like the male leads of
Friday or South Park’s Token Black, were only ushered into conversation as
the butt of jokes, useful for impersonations to generate laughs but never the
ones to look like, be like, or love.
When I began to watch shows and movies dictated to me by the whims
of my friends, classmates, and sometimes their parents, I had to strain
repeatedly to find myself represented at all. And sure, there were some ways I
could see myself reflected in Token Black Girl roles, like Nebula, Zenon’s
Black best friend (played by Raven-Symoné), but the movie is called Zenon:
Girl of the 21st Century, not Nebula. It’s not even called Nebula and Zenon. I
gathered from the treatment of these Black characters that they were not to be
the most beloved. They were supporting structures, not the stars. Always
made to shine just a little less than whoever the real star was. They are never
the love interest or the girl who wins in the end. They help a lot, sure, but
they don’t dazzle. And so while I was not watching or reading anything with
a centralized Black narrative, I was consumed with media that procedurally
avoided Black people and continued to celebrate and center white people. As
I took in all that media during my formative years, I got the message: “Sorry,
you’re not actually lovable.” The indoctrination was subtle and absolute. I
trained myself to be smaller in the physical and metaphysical sense. I
squeezed myself into that narrow lens as much as possible, and I suffocated
there.
Mostly because of what I saw, from an early age, I was plagued by the
differences in the size, shape, and color of my body, and not just in
comparisons to girls on television or in magazines; the comparisons were live
and in color between me and my friends and classmates. You could always
easily spot me in a photo, at a party, or on a field. I was the Black one. I
oscillated between the complicated desire to be both visible (wanting to see
myself and imagine who I could be) and invisible (in that there was no real
difference between me and the people who surrounded me). I picked apart
every single aspect of my appearance. This was driven mostly by a desire to
integrate imperceptibly into the world of my white friends, and my self-
loathing was aimed at all the characteristics that made me stand out.
Obviously, my skin made the distinction between us abundantly clear, but I
became preoccupied with my other physical features as well. I was
conditioned to think that Blackness was a hurdle, something that had to be
overcome or conquered. I knew I could not change this notion of Blackness,
but I deduced that if I could, perhaps, change myself, especially in appearance
or behavior, I could change the context of what Blackness meant for me.
At the same time, I saw Black people succeeding in unprecedented
areas. I watched Tiger Woods win his first Masters. My tennis-playing little
sister and I were constantly “looking like” or “reminding” people of Venus
and Serena Williams, who began to dominate professional women’s tennis in
the ’90s. It was a tiresome comparison, and twenty-plus years later, we can
predict with stunning accuracy when someone will make a Williams-sisters
comment after seeing us on a court. But the momentous achievements of
these specially anointed Black figures opened my world to possibility. So I
focused my energy on what seemed like the “right” road to go down, never
becoming like Sheneneh, the loud, crass, misogynistic, ghettoized caricature
on Martin—whom my classmates imitated by arching their backs, rolling
their necks, and shouting “Giiiiinnnaaaa!” at any opportunity that arose. I,
instead, became overzealous about what I could accomplish. It seemed easy
enough to avoid being a punch line. I just had to act perfect. And be perfect.
I understood that I would need to excel to be accepted. My parents may
be somewhat responsible for planting this seed, as they gave me the
ubiquitous Black-parent talk: “You’ll need to work twice as hard to get half
as far.” I became obsessed with all markers of achievement: straight As,
trophies, blue ribbons, anything I could collect that would designate me as a
winner, as better than the next person, proof that I was good enough and
belonged. I gained all my confidence from performing as I thought I should,
chasing a version of myself that was projected through a white lens. I was
attempting not to appear “aggressive,” “monstrous,” “wild,” or “ugly.” Never
ugly. But, ultimately, I was playing a game that could not be won. All those
esteemed magazines existed to drive that home, especially considering that
Black women, aside from in their tokenized positions, were nowhere to be
seen.
Through youth or delusion, I remained hopeful that my social accession
and acceptance were just a makeover away. I simply had to get there. To me,
makeover magic and that seminal before and after were sorcery in its purest
form. The Swan, an addictive show that aired when I was in high school, gave
women the ultimate makeover: extensive plastic surgery, hair extensions, and
new clothes—all so they could be considered “hot.” Someone should maybe
check on those contestants now. But when I was entering puberty and going
through my first round of excruciating body developments, all I could hope
was that, one day, a producer would pluck me out of suburban obscurity and
turn me into a perfect plastic television princess. Several Anne Hathaway
films later, I had so many fantasies about how all I needed was money and a
knowledgeable enough team of experts, and voilà! I would be unstoppable.
My parents were careful enough not to raise my sister and me in a way
that prioritized being pretty. I am grateful to them for that, but their fortitude
in emphasizing talent, hard work, and inner beauty could not protect us from
a world where the best thing a girl could hope to be was both thin and
beautiful. And if you can’t be beautiful, you must be thin. And more intense
still, for a Black girl in a white world, you must be perfect. There’s really no
other way to avoid the structural mistrust and scrutiny that comes with being
Black and a girl, and frankly, even if you’re as close to perfect as you can get,
someone will still have a problem with how you look or how you are.
Constantly running up against this truth was crushing. I felt rejected by the
world. I began to notice that all the physical qualities I hated about myself
came as the result of being Black. My lips, my nose, my skin, my hair, my
ass. They all meant I could never hide.
Thanks to magazines and movies, I believed, really and truly believed
on a cellular level, that the best way to cover up my genetic curses would be
to ascend to a level of fame and beauty that was acceptable to all people. OK,
who am I kidding? To white people. This was, of course, before I was
conscious of the fact that some people don’t even like Beyoncé. These people
should be anathematized, but nonetheless, they exist. No matter how perfect
you seem to be, or how exquisite your art, or how enormous your dedication,
there will always be haters. But I had yet to understand that. So I spent the
next three decades of my life suppressing my emotions, stepping into roles I
resented, constantly auditioning to find favor with whatever audience was
before me, endlessly criticizing my own appearance, literally starving, and
drowning in my own misery—but essentially looking amazing while doing
so. I was going to succeed, no matter what. I would play the cards I was dealt
by the wicked almighty dealer and come out on the other side of life, like
Oprah—but my weight would never yo-yo. I would beat racism by becoming
beautiful. Isn’t that cute?
Becoming pretty as a pathway to social acceptance was a mysterious
maze I had to navigate to unlock the best parts of life, but beauty is
subjective. It was difficult to “win” at being beautiful, and within the
community I grew up in (read: rich, white), I wasn’t even in the running.
People could see me, yes. They could see I had qualities rooted in white
supremacy; I was “well spoken” and “articulate.” They could see I was a
good dancer and an athlete. When it came to looks, I knew I was subordinate,
but because I am nothing if not determined, I came up with a formula I could
implement to maximize my chances of acceptance.
First, I knew my body was a critical element. After careful observation
of the world’s distaste for anybody of substantial size, but particularly
women, I knew I had to remain as small as possible. My Black body needed
to be slimmed down, dramatically. I was run-of-the-mill thin, but I needed to
be exceptionally thin. Standout thin. The kind of skinny that people whisper
about. Second, my brown skin presented an inescapable complication: it was
quite visible and, therefore, limiting. I would never be able to hide, at least
not in the spaces I occupied, so I had to make sure my skin remained
unblemished, unscarred, and pristine at all times. (Even at this very moment,
my skin is slick with moisture, shiny, and smooth.) My makeup would need
to complement my features but not be loud or flamboyant. It would take
years of my life to find the right color combinations to achieve that effect.
Third, my hair would need to be disciplined out of its unruly natural state to
something straight, docile, and cooperative. And the last bit of the equation
would be controlling variables like clothing, nails, attitude, inflections in
speech, and so forth, so by the time I was in my twenties, I seemed more
robotic than human. (I watch the “hosts” on Westworld with a familiar
acknowledgment.) It all kind of worked for a while. A really long time,
actually. But eventually, the whole thing began to crumble. And then, of
course, came my major malfunction.
Eventually, I had to get to the bottom of my own deeply buried self-
hatred and attempt to claw my way out of that soil so I could, at least, not be
so sad. I fell into a deep depression when I uncovered that I was guilty of not
only believing the toxic sludge (e.g., cultural erasure, colorism, hair-type
hierarchy, diet fixation, etc.) the media insists on distributing daily but also
spitting out toxic sludge and making sure the cycle continued by lording
these same concepts over others. I was complicit. An active participant,
working in media establishments that derive profits from exploiting the
insecurities of all women, but in particular, Black women. I hope this book
encourages people to understand that there are many factors at work in our
mental and social conditioning, and we must cultivate media landscapes that
are more inclusive and that celebrate our racial, physical, and external
differences frequently and with enthusiasm.
 CHAPTER ONE

Like most millennials, I have intentionally crafted over many years a version
of myself that is a careful and precise edit. The thing is, when you are
assigned roles to play from an early age, whether you want them or not, you
learn to play them well. Being confident, expressive, and funny was my
assumed persona, and it was easy for me to behave that way because people
responded positively to it. For a lot of my adolescence, my peers also
responded positively to a cunning brand of cruelty that seemed to be a
necessary way to gain respect. Hiding the parts of myself that were ugly, less
developed, and socially unacceptable only served me further. And the most
hideous part of myself was a deep self-hatred and sense of unworthiness that
developed as a by-product of constant anxiety about my own inadequacy due
to being Black in a world that acknowledged and celebrated only whiteness. I
learned to cover up all my self-loathing with makeup and hair and fancy
clothes. I elevated my social and professional status by doing so. This worked
for a long time, but in reality, I was a mess. I’m about to tear all that down,
and to do that, we have to go to the beginning. Before I had ever even
encountered a magazine, before I had ruled the playground with an iron little
Machiavellian fist, and before I knew anything really, I had a very regular
life.
It feels inappropriate to start any story about me without talking about
my family. We are an oddly codependent group and the picture of
heteronormative middle-class efficiency. Both of my parents are Black
Americans, born and raised in New York City. They met at a tiny liberal arts
college less than a mile from the hospital I was born in and married in their
midtwenties. All their college friends got married within the same two weeks
in 1980. They are all still friends.
An awful lot of planning seemed to go into establishing the Prescod
unit. My parents waited eight years before having children. They got a dog
first, a yellow Labrador named Apollo. Finally, after those extended
honeymooning years, my parents had me. Then, twenty-one months later,
they had my sister, Gabrielle. We are so close in age that I cannot remember
a life before her arrival. We are constant companions, barely conscious of our
individual identities, defined by our relationship to each other. And with her
birth, our foursome was complete, perhaps fueled by my parents’ obsession
with tennis—it is not lost on me that we have a complete doubles group.
My father worked in electrical energy, and my mother, before becoming
my mom, was a kindergarten teacher. She has a degree in early childhood
education. She dedicated herself to our development and learning in a way
that allowed her to utilize her skills as a teacher and a parent. By the time my
sister and I arrived, she was a full-time stay-at-home mom. We were never
cared for by anyone outside of our family. I never had even a single
babysitter. While my cousins had nannies or live-in housekeepers for most of
their upbringing, my mom was our everything, and this is perhaps where the
codependence set in, because she still is. I feel sick, I call Mommy. I need to
know what to put down on a W-9, I call Mommy. I spilled something on the
carpet, I call Mommy. In the advent of cellular telephones, my parents got
themselves brick-like Nokia devices that my sister and I would regularly ring
if we were ever home alone, to the point where, for a good few years, we
metaphorically went wherever they went. And to this day, my mom always
picks up, no matter what. If she does not answer, rather than wait patiently
like a rational person might, I will call her repeatedly until she does.
My father was in the workforce and less accessible to us, so we didn’t
lean on him as much. Still, while he may not be the one to call in an
emergency, my father tailored his work schedule to be able to make it to
every recital, graduation ceremony, and major life event with flowers in tow.
My parents were loving but strict. They had traditional ideas about how
we should behave and what our responsibilities were as children. Their
primary focus was our education, and the expectation was that we would
“always do our best,” but the subtext was that our best would need to be the
best, period. Whatever debt we owed them for our relatively stress-free,
comfortable lifestyle, we paid in straight As, trophies, and awards. Despite
that pressure, my childhood was equal parts privileged and sheltered. I was
coddled, surrounded by love and support, and told every day that I was
special and capable. I grew up in Westchester County, roughly thirty minutes
outside New York City. We lived in an old colonial four-bedroom house with
lots of stairs, an attic, and a basement, which was converted into our
playroom. It was a white house—but very dirty because my parents never
power washed it—with a huge front porch and green trim. And while I did
not think of us as “rich” because of the extravagant wealth displayed in our
community, I never wanted for anything. I was never hungry or cold. We had
birthday parties every year. We went on family vacations. We went to
summer camp. We netted obscene amounts of gifts on Christmases and
birthdays.
My town was an epicenter for diversity and, historically, was a
wonderful place for Black people, which was why my grandparents migrated
there from Harlem in the 1960s. According to the 2020 Census, the
population breakdown is now 65 percent Black, 20 percent white, and 16
percent Latino. While these numbers suggest that I was surrounded by racial
and ethnic diversity, I was not. Growing up, I didn’t actually spend much
time in my neighborhood. I attended predominantly white private schools in
neighboring towns, and my life was the definition of overscheduled, shuttling
between various sports, hobbies, and activities. My sister and I, instructed
early on in the art of competitive extracurriculars, played tennis, soccer,
softball, and basketball; danced ballet, tap, jazz, and hip-hop; did gymnastics,
figure skating, and horseback riding; and played piano and violin,
respectively. I am exhausted even typing all that. Growing up, an
extraordinary portion of my life was spent changing outfits in the back seats
of cars. My memories of my so-called hometown are limited to trips to the
supermarket, bank, post office, or the Black-haircare stores that could not be
found anywhere else in Westchester.
Because we went to school and did activities in other towns, we didn’t
know our neighbors or the other local kids. When we got home at night, we
simply did our homework and went to bed, which is why I have difficulty
understanding the concept of “hometown”—my hometown is actually many.
In the ninth grade, I transitioned from a small coed Catholic private
school to an all-girls Catholic school in Greenwich, Connecticut, an NYC
satellite town famous for being a hedge funders’ haven. The population of
Greenwich is roughly 3 percent Black, and three lonely Black girls staked our
representation claim in my high school graduating class of fifty-two.
Otherwise, the town is 72 percent white, and the median income hovers
around half a million dollars, which is enough to give anyone a complex
about money.
 The infamous Black conservative troll Candace Owens grew up in
Stamford, Connecticut, a town about six and a half miles away from
Greenwich. I look at Candace and see a monstrous refraction of what I could
have become had I not, at some point, figured out how to embrace my
identity. I have always thought of her as a product of our shared environment,
and though it may be unpopular, I have empathy for her. As someone who
felt consistently drowned in a sea of Republican hyperbole, let’s just say, I
get it. Not everyone is able to develop the survival skills that allow them to
emerge Black and proud from a place engulfed in white supremacy. It is a
struggle that I think deserves patience and grace. As for me, I invented a
narrative that I lived in poverty because my white prep school friends had
ponies, flew to their vacations on private planes, and never once had to
question whether they deserved their place at the top of the food chain. And I,
who had plenty but none of that, struggled to find my place among them.
Nearly everyone in our orbit lived the same way. We lived in a house
around the corner from the home where my mother grew up. Our world had a
lean radius, and I just assumed that everyone’s lives were quite similar—two
parents, two kids (sometimes three), a dog, and a whole host of competitive
hobbies. My parents raised us in a way that, I believe, intentionally protected
us from trauma. Of course, this is what all parents want for their children, but
mine took it to an extreme. My family was both insulated and isolated. My
sister and I were each other’s playmates and confidants, so the need to attach
to other children was reduced by dint of our circumstances. When I started
school, Gabrielle snuck into the building so many times at drop-off that she
was enrolled in her own daycare program.
On the face of it, our social circles were diverse. My parents’ lifelong
college friends were an amalgamation of interracial couples. We understood
adoption early, as not every family we knew was established traditionally.
And yet, of all the various kids we played with, each came from two-parent
households with a mother and father who were still married and had similar
economic circumstances to my family. It was a bubble. I was in college when
I learned that American Girl dolls—a toy line that featured a classic Token
Black Girl, the Addy doll—were actually a status symbol of wealth and, for
lack of a better word, clout. Every girl I knew growing up had one, and it
never even occurred to me that this was unusual. The dolls themselves cost
upward of one hundred dollars, but I didn’t yet understand that it was an
“expensive” toy and what that might mean for a child who could not buy in.
 Because I had a very American rearing, many of my interests were
about acquiring more stuff—bigger, better, nicer stuff. At the height of the
Furby craze, one girl in my fourth-grade class received seven of them—seven
Furbys just for her! The acquisitions matured as we did, starting out,
innocently enough, with Tamagotchis and, by high school, progressing to
Louis Vuitton bags. Most of my friends got cars on their sixteenth birthdays.
While I didn’t have my own car, there were three in our household that I
could request to use at any time. And this capitalist homogeny helped me
relate to my peers. We might not have looked the same, but we had the same
things and roughly the same experiences.
My parents would often say that they raised us to be “colorblind.” They
didn’t want us to be spooked by the kinds of white people who would
inevitably become our friends and school peers. As a family, we never
discussed race, Blackness, or identity explicitly, unless the outside world
made it absolutely necessary. If something inflammatory was said at school
or something culturally relevant was said on TV, we had a talk. In the late
1990s, when I saw a Black man walking down the street and said, “There’s a
thug!” my mom seemed genuinely horrified. It was language I undoubtedly
picked up from the biased news. My mom reprimanded me, telling me never
to say that again. She did not, however, launch into any kind of historical
retelling of how the representation of Black men as dangerous and criminal
has been harmful. She simply told me that using the word thug was wrong. In
fact, what she said was, “How would you feel if someone called Daddy a
‘thug’?” And my answer, coated in naivete, was, “But Daddy looks like a
nice man. Why would anyone do that?” Years later, commuting on the train,
my father, a “nice-looking” but Black man, was thrown against the wall by
NYPD in a mistaken-identity stop and frisk.
As for any discussion of race as it directly related to me, the topic
almost always embarrassed me. The subject seemed more taboo than sex. My
family had frank discussions about bodies, boundaries, and autonomy, but for
whatever reason, I was not able to do the same about race. I sensed that it was
an uncomfortable topic for all parties.
Family members, my grandfather in particular, who were born and
raised in the Jim Crow South, crafted a narrative around Blackness that
frightened me. In his dining room, under the dozens of Ivy League diplomas
his children had earned, was a framed poster of a slave ship. And nearly
every time my sister and I visited, he would force us to look at it, describing
how people were packed on top of each other during the Middle Passage
from western Africa to the modern-day United States. I still don’t have the
language to articulate the way it made me feel, but on some level, I had a
phobia that the same fate could befall me. I realize this sounds dramatic. My
grandfather was simply an enthusiastic educator. He, like most men of his
generation, thought it was of the utmost importance to instill both knowledge
and pride into his offspring—and me, a child who was, at best, indifferent
about her identity. When I learned that my grandfather’s grandparents were
slaves, the leap from “that could never be me” to “that is me” narrowed to a
small hop, and I did not like that proximity to both suffering and such a
humble status. I wanted people—white people especially—to view me as
equal, if not superior. I avoided racial discussions entirely. I swallowed my
medicine while visiting my grandparents and shook my grandfather’s words
out of my head when it was time to go back to school. I was terrified to bring
white people around him, lest my grandfather start “educating” my friends.
He often retold stories about growing up in Savannah, Georgia,
expressing his frustration about being restricted to library usage on only the
“colored day,” Wednesday, during reduced hours. He wasn’t allowed to
borrow books, so he had to sit in the library and cram as much enjoyment as
he could into three hours. Meanwhile, in my childhood bedroom, I had my
own library, so to speak—entire book series spilling off the shelves. I could
not and did not want to imagine a world where that wouldn’t have been
possible.
My grandfather’s thirst for learning fueled much of his passion, and he
graduated from college after serving in the US Navy. We grandkids called
him the Number Giant, as in addition to his signature history lectures, he
would also randomly throw math equations at you and expect them to be
solved. His kids, my mother and her three brothers, were forced to bring
home their schoolbooks every single night and read ahead at his behest. He
tried to encourage this in the grandkids as well, but that particular brand of
doing the most didn’t catch on. My grandmother, his wife, was also a college
graduate, and they sent their children to the best schools they could, so they,
too, could graduate college, painting an American dream that was our job as
the next generation to maintain. I never had the pressure of being “the first”
in my family, but the pressure of Black Excellence was certainly ingrained. It
was expected that we would perform to a certain standard, especially
considering the many obstacles to success that had been removed from our
lives. “Your job is school,” my father would always say, and we were always
handsomely rewarded for both good grades and good behavior.
My mother kept our lives organized and our days structured. By the
time I arrived in kindergarten, I could already read. In my earliest years, I
went to public school on an accelerated path. In the third grade, I was
shuttled to the sixth grade for reading and social studies. This earned me nerd
status and marked the beginning of my being a pariah at school. I was teased
for my speech pattern and vocabulary, which I didn’t mind. I chalked it up to
an occupational hazard of being a baby genius. And anyway, I was a snobby
little show-off. It never occurred to me that I needed to confront any racial
differences between me and my classmates or friends. It was around this age
that other children’s suggestion that I thought I was white began to stick.
In fact, before my grandfather’s speeches began, I was one of those
children who assumed they were white for an embarrassingly long time, by
virtue of being in denial and because I was always looking at white people. I
also often interacted with Black people who reflected quintessential elements
of whiteness, especially in their mannerisms and dress. In my defense, I
hadn’t grasped the notion that racial differences existed, or that they could be
tied to identity. One of the benefits of having a mind like mine, so anchored
in imagination, was the ability to see the world in any way I wanted. What I
wanted was a raceless world, and that’s what I made. Except in that world,
whiteness represented neutrality, and raceless meant white. My
understanding of myself as an individual was one that was firmly anchored in
whiteness. When my mom was excited to see my kindergarten self-portrait
on her class visit, she found, instead, a life-size blonde-haired, blue-eyed
cartoon rendering with the name “Danielle P.” under it.
That portrait has become somewhat of a running joke in our family. My
mother, circa 1993, asked me how she would know how to find my portrait,
and I confidently responded, “You’ll know!” I’d been so sure of both my
artistic prowess and my accurate depiction of reality. She was shocked and
confused seeing a me who did not look anything like me. It’s a story that I
still get teased about at home. My mom, with all her early childhood
expertise, gently said, “Is this what you look like?” To which I replied, “Of
course, Mommy.” Mercifully, she did not use that moment to rock my little
world. I imagine that in the same way you don’t cruelly reveal to a six-year-
old that Santa Claus doesn’t exist (apologies if this is news to you), it is
difficult to clarify the complexities of race and identity to an otherwise naive
mind.
My parents are practical people, not emotional ones, and their decision
to disengage with my fantasy was not rooted in some psychological strategy.
They expected, and they were right, that I would simply grow out of it. So,
since no one told me differently, I went on believing that I must have looked
like the things I saw and most liked: my best friends (white), Disney
princesses (mostly white), and news anchors (don’t ask, and also white).
Even years later, when I actually did begin to recognize and acknowledge my
brown skin, I still struggled to choose what would be the most appropriate
crayon. Am I Burnt Sienna, Sepia, or Chestnut? The colors from the giant
120 Crayola pack gave me panic sweats in art class.
In a 2018 article for the Outline, writer Melinda Fakuade describes the
self-portrait tradition as it applies to children of color in school.
Understanding the concept of self is paramount to the kindergarten
educational experience, and being able to express it artistically means that a
child has developed a concept of themselves as an individual. She writes:

The kids are meant to select the colors of their choice to

create the best reflection of themselves that their baby brains
can muster. It’s an odd exercise for children of color, who
have likely already begun internalizing the idea that they look
different in a way that is rarely celebrated. Their parents,
teachers, and friends may praise them, but the surrounding
world is heavily filled with images where beauty is
communicated as a mostly white ideal. How should they
illustrate how they feel on the inside? It’s an often
undetectable, but present conflict for young kids of color:
draw yourself with ethnic features, and admit belonging to a
group of “others,” or draw yourself as with Caucasian
features, in order to more closely align with a so-called image
of beauty.

Ignorance, truly, in this case, was bliss, and the adults in my life let me
float on in the world, not bothering to interrupt my peaceful reverie about
how I looked until I was unexpectedly shoved into the deep end of race
relations. And no one had bothered to teach me how to swim.
At the start of fourth grade, I transferred to a new school, a private one a
few towns away, with roughly twenty kids in my class, all of them white,
save for one Indian boy and one other Black girl. I was an extremely shy kid,
never wanting to draw attention to myself unless I was in complete control of
the situation (I rehearsed ballet until my feet bled—that kind of control), but I
never had a problem making friends. I acclimated to my new environment
quickly and was accepted by the so-called popular girls in my class. This put
a target on my back, and some of the other girls set out to knock me down a
few pegs. I became the victim of a three-way-call attack, a phenomenon made
infamous by Mean Girls years later. I was ahead of the curve, I suppose. In
three-way-call warfare, two people talk on the phone and a third person
secretly listens in. The objective is to gather information. Among preteen
girls, secrets are valuable currency. The motivation is almost always sinister.
The conversation, as it was relayed to me, went something like this:
Girl 1: Do you like that new girl, Danielle P.?
Girl 2: I don’t like her because she’s Black.
Girl 3: (silently scheming on the phone to destroy Girl 2 with this
information later)
The gossip spread slowly through the entire class. Finally, Leslie—one
of the girls on the call—feigning concern, relayed to me that Kristen did not
like me because I was Black. I gave a lackluster response because I had no
idea how I should react. It was the first time I had been called “Black,” and I
couldn’t comprehend what it meant. I gathered that I was supposed to be
upset, angered even, but I was so numb to the truth that I had no reaction at
all. I didn’t know how I got to be Black, and I didn’t know how to not be
Black. But I gathered that Black must be negative, especially if it was a
reason not to like someone. I also understood that it must somehow be
specific to me. “Don’t like her because she’s Black.” Because and Black.
Well, by any straightforward logic, this clearly meant that I should just undo
it. At least then I could be liked, which was all I ever wanted anyway. As
soon as I figured out what Black was and how to undo it to myself, I would
be fine, back to fitting in seamlessly at school, and otherwise enjoying my
life.
Months later, wiser to the intricacies of female friendships, I discovered
the whole thing had little to do with me and everything to do with a power
struggle between Kristen and Leslie, who were enemies vying for a position
as queen bee. News of “The Call” became the scandal of the fourth grade.
Parents, teachers, and even the principal got involved, and if I didn’t care
before, I cared then. There were several calls and meetings among the
parents. All three girls involved had to apologize to me, which was
hopelessly awkward and did nothing to change the chasm of inequality that
had formed between us. They sheepishly approached me one by one, under
the guidance of our teacher. I don’t think any of us held eye contact. I kept
my eyes fixed on the floor, and so did they, as they apologized and I
whispered, “OK,” in response. I was the harmed party and, somehow, I felt
sorry. I felt shame. They were white. I was Black. They had the power to like
or not like me because I was Black. And I had been working with this new
vocabulary for only a few days.
It was humiliating to know that everyone at school had been talking
about me, and embarrassment is one of my top three least favorite emotions. I
couldn’t believe everyone had known I was Black but me, but I was
especially miffed to find myself in such an unfavorable minority. Since it
became clear to me that I had no hope of correcting being Black and
returning to the blissful, widespread popularity I had gained, I was in distress.
I had enjoyed being “the new girl.” I did not enjoy being “the Black girl.” It
tinged my social standing with negativity and drew attention to something I
could not control. As a control freak, this was a nightmare. I became insistent
on rejecting Blackness wherever I could.
I shut down pretty quickly after that three-way call sent a sonic boom
through the fourth grade. It was my first experience truly being lonely. My
parents did their best to explain what was happening, finally forced to
confront my delusions with the enormously cumbersome subject of race.
They were tentative at first, asking me mostly how I felt about the situation,
but I didn’t want to talk about it. At all. I didn’t know how to tell them how
uncomfortable and embarrassed I was. My parents wanted to use this
unfortunate event as a teaching opportunity and tried to fill our home with
more Black traditions and imagery. Over the next few months, they flew into
Black-and-proud mode, hoping to get me to claim Blackness in a positive
way. They took my sister and me to a local store in White Plains called That
Old Black Magic, where Black artwork and iconography were in abundance.
We started celebrating Kwanzaa, which I snubbed so adamantly that my
father bribed us with one hundred dollar bills to participate. I still would not.
By that time, my opinion of Blackness as something shameful had already
been nurtured and solidified. I became extremely resistant. I learned the
phrase “I’m fine” and employed it ad nauseam. I was very much not fine, but
I did not know how to say that. I didn’t know how to tell my Black parents
that the thing that made us alike, the thing they seemed to be proud of, I
didn’t want. And so my rebellion manifested in the way that it often does for
spoiled children: a bad attitude.
Whatever positive associations my parents were trying to build at home
were not being replicated at school, and this inconsistency did nothing to
improve my personal feelings on being Black. In the early and mid-1990s,
there was no such thing as Black Girl Magic, or there was, but we did not
have a way to express it. I didn’t. We did not have hashtags and digital
communities built on uplifting one another. I didn’t know where I could find
anyone who could relate to my particular issues. This is part of the isolation
of tokenism. In school, we did not make a point of studying Black heroes on
a regular basis. When popular books, shows, and movies depicted Blackness,
they did so negatively, as something to be avoided. It is difficult for Black
children to align themselves with positive associations that the outside world
is not supporting. Dr. Dena Phillips Swanson, a professor from the University
of Rochester, points out in the same Outline article, “Our curriculum in
school does not validate black children’s sense of self-worth.” As a result,
children are left with glimpses of Blackness through an already racist lens.
She continues, “Our youth are left to make inferences on their own in terms
of what it means to be black, based on other experiences and exposure they
may have.” And while schools might have the opportunity to do this at
present, they are too busy finding ways to outlaw critical race theory to make
it a real priority. For my own experience, my school completed requisite
Black History Month education and nothing beyond that. We learned about
Martin Luther King Jr. and no one else. If a boy wanted to report on a sports
figure like Jackie Robinson, for example, we would hear his interpretation of
Robinson’s life, but why would any of them bother when there was Babe
Ruth?
In 1940, Doctors Kenneth and Mamie Clark performed a study to
demonstrate the negative effects of segregation on school-age children,
commonly known as the Doll Test. The doctors presented Black children
aged three to seven with dolls that were identical in every way except for skin
color, then proceeded to ask the children questions like, “Which doll is most
like you?,” “Which doll do you prefer?,” and “What race is this doll?”
Overwhelmingly, the children preferred the lighter-skinned dolls. In a 1985
PBS interview, Dr. Kenneth Clark said, “The Dolls [sic] Test was an attempt
on the part of my wife and me to study the development of the sense of self-
esteem in children. We worked with Negro children—I’ll call black children
—to see the extent to which their color, their sense of their own race and
status influenced their judgment about themselves, self-esteem.”
This inferiority complex, uncovered in 1940 in a study that was then
repeated several times and as recently as 2010, is a time-honored
phenomenon, thanks in no small part to the influence of white supremacy and
the media itself. Most children’s worlds are small. They are home, they go to
school, and they occasionally run errands or do activities. For the most part,
they are not exposed to much outside their immediate surroundings. How is
it, then, that a child as young as four comes to determine that a white doll is
more preferable than a Black doll? They can learn this concept in direct ways,
through racist parents or grandparents, for example, or they can learn it in
roundabout ways, from how children are depicted in books and on television
to what their own dolls and community look like. From this study, it is
evident that Black children adapt to a preference for whiteness, and this
preference might dictate how they feel about themselves and others.
After the conversation from the phone call was revealed to me, I
remember that the reality of Blackness settled onto me like a terminal illness.
I desperately wondered how I could get rid of it so I could just be like
everyone else. It distressed me that I would never be “cured” of it and could
never escape it. And it would always be outwardly visible. Blackness had
painfully ostracized me, at least at school, which, at nine years old, was my
entire world. Over the next year or so, I submissively accepted my fate and
dealt with it by attempting to minimize what I saw as my own personal plight
as much as possible. I never spoke of race to my friends. It was an invisible
canyon that hung between us. I would stiffen myself every Black History
Month, the one time of year we discussed the struggles and accomplishments
of Black people at any considerable length, meaning roughly the twenty days
we were in school out of twenty-eight.
Around this age, I explored many ways of altering my appearance. I
started trying “diets”—really just refusing to eat certain foods. I took a
greater interest in my clothing choices and hairstyles. It brought me immense
comfort to be in control of the way I looked, but the one thing I could never
control or change was my skin. My skin, this thing I was newly aware I was
living in, was a sadistic tower to which I was confined for life. In contrast, I
don’t believe my white friends thought very much about their skin at all, and
as an adult, I’ve come to realize that this encompasses the thorny concept of
privilege. I saw my skin as a massive disadvantage. Even though I never felt I
was in grave danger because of it, it plagued me every day of my life as a
child, and it was something my white friends never even had to think about.
Now that I have more Black friends and people in my life, they grill me
on the delusion that I could have ever been anything but Black. In a 2019
article for the Atlantic on Black children’s attendance at predominantly white
schools, Dani McClain writes, “Not all children so gracefully develop
survival strategies that allow them to participate in predominantly white
schools while also resisting and even transforming the culture.” Aya de Leon,
an activist and parent, is one of the many mothers quoted in the same story:
“In these white environments, you’re being harmed, and you don’t even
know it because you think there is something wrong with you. [You think] if
only you could get these white people to like you, then everything would be
OK.” This was the exact methodology I was compelled to adopt. I have
considered this often over the years, and the only explanation I can muster is
this: you can believe anything you want to believe; a creative person’s most
practical talent is getting other people to see things their way, no matter what
the truth is. I found myself blessed with the gift of persuasion, and I directed
the world around me to be exactly what I wanted. Eventually, of course, the
magnitude of the truth will crush whatever silly fantasy has been nurtured,
but until that fatal point, anything is possible.
Once I had to accept reality, I did the only thing I thought I could do: I
minimized the importance of race in my life and sought to assimilate by
worshipping at the altars of the same things my white friends did. It was
fundamental to my social survival that I fit in by whatever means necessary.
Then I did the second-best thing: I diverted the attention.
In this same fourth-grade class, we had journals we were supposed to
write in every day. Our entries were intended to be about school assignments,
but I guess you could have written whatever you wanted. Each student’s
journal was kept in a stack on a shelf in our classroom. I waited for my
opportunity, and one day, at the end of class, I slipped James’s journal inside
my backpack and took it home. A thin, white, nerdy boy who was regularly
picked on, James was an easy target. In my bedroom, I let the pages of his
marble notebook spread out on my pale pink carpet. Inside was a goldmine of
his most precious secrets. One entry in particular caught my attention, about
how much he liked the tallest girl in our class—easily the most mismatched
pair that could ever be. I absorbed all the contents, all his deepest desires,
then went back to school the next day, slipped the notebook back on its shelf,
and told absolutely everyone what I’d read. I started spilling first to the girls I
considered my best friends, a quintet that usually controlled the energetic
temperature of the class. Then we told the boys. The tall girl was on the
fringes of the social circle, and in both physical stature and interests, she
stood out. We decided to clue her in by asking her if she liked James back,
giving her an opportunity to reject James while gaining some social cache in
being on the receiving end of a crush. We also informed her that she was a
topic of a class-wide discussion, the very thing I was running from. It was a
terrible thing to do, but I needed to create a target that wasn’t myself. I
needed to escape the negative attention that was coming my way as a result
of The Call. And I also wanted to feel powerful. My power had been taken,
and I wanted some back.
The fallout of this was epic. Word spread fast, and someone told James
that his crush was not returned. He cried. Sobbed, really. The teasing that
resulted was monstrous. His mom called everyone—our teacher, the
principal, my mom. I got in so much trouble. My parents were disappointed
that I would do something so cruel, and I was disappointed that I got caught. I
was not, however, sorry. My mom always favored the kind of discipline that
comes from conversation, but my father was in favor of the corporal kind. I
got spanked. The intention was to teach me a lesson—not to steal, not to
snoop, and not to share secrets. I suspect everyone might have been
forgetting that Harriet the Spy was adapted into a film starring Michelle
Trachtenberg just a year prior; I was obviously taking my cues from
somewhere. In the end, I may have been punished, but I got what I wanted.
The class moved on to a new scandalous subject and forgot all about my
Blackness. And from there, I didn’t get nicer. I just got smarter.
 CHAPTER TWO

If it’s not clear by now, the way I grew up was substantially centered around
whiteness. Busy trying—at all costs—to avoid the unwanted pressure of
being one of two Black girls at school, you’d think I might have sought out
avenues that presented a more diverse world. But all the books I read and
movies and television programs I watched heavily featured white characters.
It felt jarring to read a book where a character was identified as Black. In the
1990s, any time “African American” characters were called out, it was with
stilted and formal language, but aside from calling out the fact of their race,
few other details about those characters were deemed significant enough to
be mentioned. I know this because I read and watched a lot. I read a lot
because reading was encouraged by my parents and teachers, and I watched a
lot of anything my parents approved of. For getting straight As, we were
taken to Blockbuster and allowed to check out any age-appropriate movies
we wanted, and everything else, I watched in secret. When I was eight, the
film adaptation of the Roald Dahl book Matilda was released. I’ve always
thought of myself as a witch, but wow, being a witchy genius seemed fab.
After witnessing Matilda’s Mensa status, I forced my mom to get me the
book Moby-Dick so I, just like Matilda before me, could read it. I slogged
through the tome for months, retaining almost nothing because it was
published in 1851 and I was in the third grade, but I was not going to be
bested by Matilda Wormwood, so I finished it. While Herman Melville is not
an easy, breezy read, I devoured books like Louisa May Alcott’s Little
Women or anything Beverly Cleary wrote. My white friends were consuming
the same media and were also using it to develop their opinions of themselves
and of the world as a whole. Many of them didn’t know any people of
another race, save for the few of us kids of color they interacted with at
school. While it wasn’t fair to place the representation of an entire group of
people on a child, no matter—movies, TV, and books were there to pick up
the slack. The inequalities my peers perceived in real life were then
hammered home by various forms of media. Each of us formed opinions of
ourselves and one another that were dictated by racism.
The group of friends I hung out with were all “horse girls,” and we
devoured an incredibly niche series called Thoroughbred about girls growing
up on horse-racing farms in Kentucky. I would spend my birthday money
acquiring between five and eight of the books at a time, whenever there were
newly issued additions to the neatly numbered set. And my group of friends
would race each other to get the most current editions because, of course,
even leisurely reading was a competition.
We were obsessed with Francine Pascal’s Sweet Valley High books as
well. Sweet Valley, the fictional town in California where the over 150 Sweet
Valley High novels take place, is an implied utopia. Anything wrong in
Sweet Valley can be solved in two hundred pages or fewer. It is a sterile,
protected world where the Wakefield sisters, Jessica and Elizabeth—twin
girls with “shoulder-length blond hair, blue-green eyes, and perfect California
tans”—are the centers of their respective universes. The language was upbeat
and romantic. I wanted to get lost in this world, over and over again. I just
never saw myself in it. The books emphasize the sisters’ Aryan physicality
and top the description off with a flourish: “Each wore a gold lavaliere
around her neck—matching presents from their parents on their sixteenth
birthday.” Their sartorial differences are emblematic of their personalities.
“Elizabeth’s style was more sophisticated and preppy, while Jessica’s was
up-to-the-minute trendy.” But the real kicker is why Jessica did not wear a
watch, while Elizabeth did: “Time was never a problem for Jessica. She
always felt that things didn’t really start until she arrived.” The sisters are
depicted as bastions of beauty, wealth, and confidence. The books telegraph
that the internal brilliance of these twins was deserved because of their
outward appearance and simultaneously fortified by it.
When I got a bit older and became more driven by curiosity, I sought
out books that featured Black characters on the covers. One day, I made the
mistake of reading Rain by V. C. Andrews, who uses soap opera–like
plotlines and scandal to drive her narratives. I picked up Rain from the library
after seeing a girl with brown skin and big, curly hair on the cover. I thought
she was beautiful.
Rain Arnold was one of the first Black protagonists I ever encountered.
She speaks of herself with a detached, almost scientific quality: “Some of the
girls resented me anyway because of my looks . . . My hair was straighter,
richer than most. I had a creamy caramel complexion, never bothered much
by acne. I also had light brown eyes, more toward almond, with long
eyelashes.” The important subtext of this description is that Rain is mixed
race. To a mature reader, the red flags of colorism are apparent. The climax
of the story comes with the revelation that Rain is biracial when she discovers
the true origin of her family. A white woman wrote that description, which
largely recalls Eurocentric beauty ideals: straight hair, light skin, almond
eyes. It whispers to the reader, just as Francine Pascal did while describing
the Wakefield twins, “Value this.” Rain’s looks ostracize her in the Black
community and even in her family, to the point that she is fearful and timid—
the opposite of what Jessica and Elizabeth experience in their white
community. Rain says, “I was afraid to wish for anything good. Nice things
had to happen to us accidentally, by surprise. If you wish for something too
hard, I thought, it was like holding a balloon too tightly. It would simply
burst, splattering your dream into pieces of nothing.”
At age ten or eleven, Rain’s general lack of confidence, her rejection of
good fortune, and her discomfort with her own appearance were a nightmare
that felt so familiar. The Wakefield twins presented themselves as the center
of the world, while Rain shrank into hers. It was too real for me, already a
shy kid. I needed to learn how to show up in the world, not how to hide from
it.
Rain’s younger sister, Beni, has darker skin, a different hair texture, and
a bigger body. Andrews goes on to describe her with subtly coded language:
“She had a bigger bust than I did and liked to keep a button or two undone or
wear tighter clothes,” and “she was wider in the hips,” a trait that made
another character identify her as a “tramp.” As for Rain, her “lips were
thinner” and her “nose was straighter and more narrow,” undoubtedly a nod
to her more elegant Caucasian heritage. Beni, we come to understand, does
not think she is pretty at all. In fact, neither girl thinks of herself as pretty,
and by the way, the darker, curvier sister is a “tramp.” Awesome. If this is
triggering in any way, I apologize. It is for me too. It is, effectively, the road
map of how I learned to hate myself.
Compared to Jessica Wakefield exploring her own reflection in the
Sweet Valley High book Secrets, the difference is startling: “Her shoulder-
length blond hair looked perfect, not a strand out of place, and her new blue
eyeliner really brought out her stunning Pacific blue eyes . . . She looked
perfect today, she knew.” The repetition of the word perfect is telling. Jessica
looked perfect and she knew it; meanwhile, Rain could barely make eye
contact with anyone. The distance between these characters was more than
geographical, and I knew exactly who I had to emulate.
In stark contrast to the sunny privilege of Sweet Valley, the connection
Andrews forged between Black characters and poverty disturbed me, though
I had no idea that it was, perhaps, a reflection of how a white author
interpreted Black life. All I knew was the Wakefield sisters made me feel
happy and hopeful. They had boyfriends and cars and their own phone lines.
The Arnold sisters made me feel sad. They had nothing. I was dealing with
my own preteen angst, and if my diary from that time is to be believed, I was
already suffering enough. It’s no wonder I dissociated from Black characters.
In my fifth-grade class, we had to read according to a monthly theme
and present a book report to our fellow students. I was already reading more
than your average kid, so this was not an issue for me. I loved bookstores.
Going to Borders or Barnes & Noble felt special, and I was always satisfied
with my purchases. My mother did not like these kinds of chores. She was
never someone who seemed to get high off the pleasures of consumerism; it
was as if she was immune to the euphoria of a successful shopping trip,
except for at the supermarket. My best friend’s mother mentioned that she
was going to Borders and could pick up a book for me to read. The stay-at-
home moms did things for each other like this: bought bulk shin guards when
it was soccer season, stocked up on poster board to share, just in case. I
overheard my mother tell this woman to make sure to buy me a book written
by someone Black. Our class had been instructed to read an autobiography,
so while most girls would probably do something like The Diary of Anne
Frank, my mother ensured that my report would be, at the very least,
culturally educational for me.
I was given the book The Diary of Latoya Hunter: My First Year of
Junior High School. I likely would have selected something different—
something centering a white person, no doubt. Gravitating toward whiteness
was already an unconscious habit of mine, but since I was denied the
opportunity to choose for myself, I became destined to read about Latoya.
The book was the first-person account of a girl living in the Bronx and her
experiences entering a new school. Since I, too, would be entering middle
school the next year, it was valid to assume that I would enjoy a preview of
what it might be like. Except I thought junior high might be like Saved by the
Bell. Granted, Scarsdale, an East Coast standard “village,” where my school
was located, was nothing like television’s sunny Californian Bayside, but the
depiction of Latoya Hunter’s Bronx school both stunned and terrified me. I
imagine it would have been easier for me to digest the Anne Frank
autobiography. If nothing else, at least so much more time had passed since
World War II. Latoya’s story was literally and figuratively too close to my
home.
The diary was written by a girl, almost the same age as I was at the
time, in a place less than twenty miles from where I read it. I had been to the
Bronx many times; my paternal grandmother lived there. I hadn’t understood
it to be a dangerous place. One day, when I was around eight, my
grandmother let my sister and me walk to the bodega on the corner alone, and
when we later proudly recounted our exercise in independence to our mother,
she flew into a rage, the likes of which I hadn’t seen before and haven’t seen
again since. My mother was furious that my grandmother would take such a
reckless risk. “But we aren’t babies!” I said, urgently pressing for my mom to
see us as mature beings, capable of running a simple errand. A few years
later, a teenage girl was kidnapped in front of that same store. She was
snatched by strangers and thrown into a car. Call it generational trauma, but
my absolute worst fear—and it still lingers in me today—is being taken.
After reading through Latoya’s experiences, I finally saw some of the
dangers my mother feared.
Latoya’s story required a lot of unpacking. Her unmarried teenage sister
got pregnant and had a baby over the course of the year she spent writing. I
wasn’t fully clued in to the mechanics of sex yet, but I definitely knew it was
a naughty thing to do, and especially salacious if you weren’t married. Latoya
went to a party in Brooklyn for “under twenty-five” youths, which sounded
intense for someone not even in high school. She stayed out until 5:00 a.m.,
whereas I could barely keep my eyes open until midnight on New Year’s. My
own diary features an entry from when I was twelve and tried to convince my
parents to let me go to the movies without adult supervision. I still can’t
recall when they amended those rules.
Latoya’s description of her house made me flinch, just like reading
about Rain’s life did. And mostly because her unhappiness is palpable. “I live
on a street where everything seems so ugly to me. The sidewalks, the houses,
even my own house. From the outside, it looks really broken down. It needs
everything done to it to improve it. The inside is really small. It has three
bedrooms, the smallest one mine. I can hardly move around in it. I would say
it’s the best the family could do right now, but I don’t believe it. I’m sure
there’s a better place for us; it’s just no one seems to be looking for it right
now.”
Latoya had a hyperbolic way of looking at the world, typical of teenage
girls, especially when writing in their diary. A clamorous chorus of me, me,
me reverberated through her writing as she detailed her frustrations and
feelings. The deepest embers of my Leo soul were fanned by that, but her
homelife was ultimately too foreign to my own experience, and I found it
deeply troubling. She spoke of intense violence with a chilling nonchalance:
“My friend Lisa wasn’t as lucky with brothers as I was. Her brother was shot
12 times just the other day.” Latoya’s own father was held at gunpoint, a
neighbor stabbed. It is unfathomable to think of a twelve-year-old processing
so much trauma, yet the diary was an account of her everyday. I was the kind
of kid who did not want to read about anything ugly—why would I when I
could just read about nice things instead? And, frankly, the possibility that
her life could be my life shook me forcefully. I turned on her, and I hated the
book. I had, by this point, begun to realize that when people thought about
the lives of Black girls, Latoya’s was what they imagined.
I understand now that this was an exercise in empathy by my mother, an
attempt to get me to relate to a Black girl the way I did to, say, Ashleigh, the
lead in the Thoroughbred books. My identity crisis was unnerving to observe,
I am sure. It distressed me, though, to be connected to this much pain and
suffering, especially with no triumphant story arc that sees Latoya sprung
from the Bronx into the big house she dreams of. I guess I was supposed to
understand that not everyone lives like the girls in Stoneybrook, Connecticut,
or Scarsdale, New York. But I did not want to understand this. I wanted to
bury it. Even more problematically, I had to report on this book to a class
composed almost entirely of white students led by a white teacher, of course,
giving them a glimpse at a Black experience that I did not know how to
reconcile, and perhaps providing them with the only example of a Black girl
that they might encounter, besides me, for a while. The cover jacket featured
a description that read, “Her story is, of course, typical of girls like her, and it
is also unique. It is affirmative, inspiring, moving, human, real.” I had no idea
that the covert messaging of the phrase “girls like her” meant girls like me.
There was no room for a layered Black experience; it was all the same: tragic
and traumatic. And in Latoya’s case, it didn’t happen in 1942; it was
happening in real time, in my time, just next door.
The effect of this literature was not simply to make me feel bad about
myself and my Blackness—it did, but that’s not the point. The point is the
literature I was exposed to established a world where white was good and
Black was bad, then used multiple channels to reinforce that over and over
again. And since these kinds of stories are produced, edited, and consumed
by white people as well as Black people, it becomes a mechanism for white
people to further prove and reinforce the idea that they are superior to
everyone else. Black characters and their stories were an alternative universe
to whiteness, and there was no crossover in the Venn diagram like my life
had. The message was clear: look at how poor, how sad, how ugly the Blacks
are. Our only value in those stories was that of a cautionary tale. And if
audiences are never provided with alternative narratives, with a
representation of the true breadth and expansiveness of the Black experience,
that is what they will continue to believe.
 CHAPTER THREE

As a kid who read a lot and came of age in the “new millennium,” I
predictably found my way to the Harry Potter universe. I first discovered the
Harry Potter books while I was stuck at home from school, recovering from a
surgery. The year was 2000, and the first three books dominated international
bestseller lists, while the Hogwarts hive waited for the forthcoming fourth
addition to arrive in the summer. I spent the next two decades extremely
invested in all things Potter, naming our family dog after Harry and even
writing many pages of this book wearing Hogwarts sweatpants.
Harry Potter was reimagined for a live-action play in 2015, and the
casting of a Black actress as a grown-up Hermione Granger sent shock waves
through the internet. The topic raged like a wildfire, with voracious fans
digging up the most obscure citations from the entire anthology to prove that
it would be literally impossible to see Hermione as anything but white. The
arguments among fans over Black Hermione bubbled up so aggressively that
author J. K. Rowling took to Twitter to attempt mediation. Twitter is a
volatile medium and can prove to be a creative’s friend or foe. For the most
part, Rowling managed to wrangle fans on her side, but in the middle of
2020, she found herself the recipient of intense backlash after she used the
platform—where she has upward of thirteen million followers—to publicly
reveal transphobic opinions, much to the dismay of her adoring and devoted
audience, myself included. My current gripe, however, is about a tweet she
sent five years prior.
Rowling has often revealed new things about characters years after
publishing the books. She has taken time to explain details that might be
hinted at but are otherwise not explicit—Dumbledore’s sexuality, for
example: he’s gay. This is something you would likely not have assumed had
Rowling not clarified. On December 21, 2015, to shut down the petty fighting
over Black Hermione once and for all, Rowling tweeted, “Canon: brown
eyes, frizzy hair, and very clever. White skin was never specified. Rowling
loves black Hermione.”
The tweet itself was revelatory, in that it forced people to consider that
perhaps they had imagined Hermione wrong all along. White fans hated this.
Rowling’s description of Hermione could have been doubly repurposed
to characterize me as a child, but growing up, I still saw her as white, and my
vision was then solidified by Emma Watson’s casting in the films. What I
found most curious about Rowling’s tweet is, while she says, “white skin is
never specified,” it rarely is when it refers to white characters. Rowling wrote
several Black characters into her book series, and they are each emphatically
described as Black. In the first book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,
she refers to the character Dean Thomas as “a black boy even taller than
Ron.” And later, readers meet Angelina Johnson, “a tall black girl who
played Chaser on the Gryffindor Quidditch team” and is teased by a Slytherin
for her hair, which readers can assume is in braids. White skin, on the other
hand, is simply the default in the books. The assumption is that a character
will always be white, and it would only be necessary to describe skin that was
not white, the skin of the other.
This is a long-winded Pottermore way of saying that if Rowling had
wanted us to know Hermione was Black, we would know. That’s not to say
she could not be Black, but establishing her race almost two decades later
seems feeble. Either way, the outcry from fans was an irrational response. For
them, changing Hermione’s race in 2015 seemed to change something
fundamental about her character. Race is never discussed in Harry Potter,
except for those brief signifiers to establish diversity, and ironically, it is clear
that we are to come away from the Harry Potter books having a deeper
understanding of how a hopeless obsession with bloodlines can destroy a
society. Still, it matters very, very much to people that Hermione is white.
Apparently, it is too difficult for people—white people—to imagine
themselves as embodied by a Black character, but Black children are forced
to do the reverse constantly. I pretended to be white characters so often as a
kid that I’ve become an expert. I am uncomfortably old for the Frozen
movies, but when I saw the animated film in my late twenties, I couldn’t help
but translate the Elsa-and-Anna dynamic to how I interacted with my own
sister. It didn’t hurt that, at the time, my sister was in a doomed relationship
with a potential psychopath, and I coldheartedly told her that their
relationship was both cursed and senseless. Would I have liked that sister pair
to have been Black? Yes, it would have been thrilling to watch, but their
whiteness did not stop me from being able to relate to the story. I had been
doing that my entire life. It is, I suppose, for whatever reason, not possible for
white people to do the same. That must be why, when news of the casting of
Halle Bailey in the new Disney live-action The Little Mermaid was released,
riots broke out online. Black Hollywood rushed to her defense, but the anger
over the suggestion that an extremely deserving and talented Black girl would
be cast as one of the Disney canon’s most beloved characters could have very
well been the spark that started a race war.
The funny thing is most people consider themselves to be “not racist”
because they would not be outraged over a Black Ariel, yet most of them will
have a harder time relating to or enjoying Ariel if she is played by a Black
girl. Ariel, Hermione, whoever—those characters must be white and remain
so. White supremacy demands an expansive dominance over everything, a
surety that whatever is not white will ultimately bow to whatever is,
producing an inveterate need to see and know characters are white—everyone
else must mold themselves around this view. It is restrictive and damaging,
placing unrealistic boundaries on what the world really looks like. With
media that is made for children, that adherence to the status quo forces
young, malleable minds to participate in the erasure of narratives and
characters that are not white, and if they themselves are not white, they are
made to erase themselves. That’s how I ended up drawing a blonde-haired,
blue-eyed self-portrait at five. I saw what I liked. I saw what the world liked.
I made myself into that.
One of my favorite movies was A Little Princess. The live-action film
came out in 1995. I was seven years old. The main character, Sara Crewe,
was a stylish but benevolent heroine, so generous that she becomes a Jesus-
like figure among her boarding school classmates—that is to say, devoutly
loved and followed. Goals. In the movie, Sara is portrayed by real-life heiress
Liesel Pritzker Simmons (stage name Liesel Matthews), who acted in two
subsequent films, then never again. That fact still haunts me. Her
performance of Sara was so compelling, I wish she hadn’t abandoned her
craft, but ultimately, she doesn’t need to work at all, so whatever.
If you’re unfamiliar with the classic story, here’s the SparkNotes
version: a young girl, Sara, is sent to a New York boarding school when her
wealthy father volunteers to fight in World War I. Sara is given the fanciest
suite at school, but she makes a concerted effort to be kind to her jealous
schoolmates. Sara’s father goes missing and cannot pay her tuition. Instead of
throwing her out on the street—since she’s a child—the wicked headmistress
allows her to stay, but she must work as a servant to pay off her debt.
All the students at the school are white. The story takes place during the
early twentieth century, so this isn’t historically inaccurate. However, in the
film version, there is one Black character: a girl named Becky who is Sara’s
age and a servant. Becky lives in the attic, dresses in rags, and scrubs the
floors after the other girls ruin it with their careless muddy footsteps. Her hair
is unkempt, and even worse, she is so abused by the other students and staff
of the school that, for most of the movie, her head and eyes remain downcast
in contrite genuflection. When Sara is demoted from student to servant, she
bunks in the attic with Becky and serves her former classmates. She does so
without complaint, and she and Becky form a friendship in their shabby attic
retreat.
In the end, Sara’s father miraculously returns, adopts Becky, and they
ride away from the school in matching white dresses with bows in their neat
hair. At this point, I found Becky to be an acceptable character—after the
makeover, of course, not before. It is not lost on me that Becky was saved
from her lowly station by only the kindness of a wealthy white benefactor,
and perhaps this plot element encouraged me to be content in my pet status as
the Token Black Girl. I was repulsed by the idea that Becky had to clean up
after girls her own age, and again, if this is the only view of Blackness you
ever see, it distorts your ability to see otherwise.
That view meant that when I showed up to my friend and neighbor’s
Upper East Side apartment wearing leggings and carrying a Whole Foods
bag, I was asked by the doorman to use the service entrance. As a child, I
thought it meant I would have to act in service to my friends. It was a
problem magnified by the fact that Addy Walker, the singular Black doll of
the American Girl doll universe, was also a slave. How would that Black doll
ever be preferable to a white one? Why would I voluntarily pick the slave if I
could choose otherwise? I always chose otherwise.
My friends and I so often acted out things from books or movies in the
games we would play that I always felt in danger of being assigned roles like
Becky, and however limited my power, I pushed so hard against this kind of
potential typecasting in how I presented myself that I could have pulled a
muscle. Still, I knew there was a limit to how much I could fight. Becky
escaped her unfortunate fate by making a useful alliance and upgrading her
appearance. That’s not too bad. Her trajectory taught me a lot, even though I
was haunted by the material reality that I could become Becky at any minute
through an unchallenged impulse of one of my peers. I drew the somewhat
reasonable conclusion that looking “presentable” would and could serve as
protection against both a lifetime of servitude and potential bullying. I never
wanted to be Becky, ever. I wanted only to be Sara.
My friends found many ways to make my skin useful. I could play the
resident Scary Spice if we were pretending to be the Spice Girls. No matter
that I more closely identified with Ginger or Baby—I was to be “Scary”
because, duh, the only Black one. I begrudgingly agreed. This same
experience was documented on the 2019 Hulu show PEN15, where Maya, the
singular person of color, is forced by her classmates to be “Scary” and also
their “servant” at the same time. At sleepovers, my friends and I would study
Spice Girls videos for choreographed dances, and my friends would tease my
hair out just to see how big it could get. If this sounds like bullying, it
shouldn’t. At least, I didn’t think of it that way. I knew this was the role I
needed to play. I made a silent agreement when I resigned myself to the
Token Black Girl role within my friend group, and it often included doing
whatever my friends wanted.
In his 1903 book, The Souls of Black Folk, W.E.B. DuBois comes to
terms with his own Black identity in his New England school. He recalls that
he and his classmates bought cheap cards to exchange with each other in a
ritual that sounds a lot like what might happen at an insurance conference:
“The exchange was merry, till one girl, a tall newcomer, refused my card,
refused it peremptorily, with a glance. Then it dawned upon me with a certain
suddenness that I was different from the others; or like, mayhap, in heart and
life and longing, but shut out from their world by a vast veil.” This veil, race,
separates him from his friends and classmates, isolating him but fueling his
desire for success. DuBois continues after this anecdote to present one of his
most famous ideas, double-consciousness: “It is a peculiar sensation . . . this
sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring
one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.
One ever feels his two-ness, an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts,
two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose
dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.” Feeling a two-ness
is a lot for a kid, and it’s much easier to delay those emotions by feeling
nothing, to simply continue playing your ascribed role. Assessing yourself
through the eyes of white people is a dangerous game, the outcome of which
only gets worse the more you play.
When it was time to switch gears from Spice Girls to The Baby-Sitters
Club, I was cast as Jessi—a junior club member—who at eleven years old,
was two years younger than the main cast of characters. I suppose I was
somewhat grateful for this sliver of representation, even though I felt that my
personality landed somewhere between Mary Anne and Kristy. But it was
better to be Jessi than to be no one at all or to be told that I couldn’t
participate since no one looked like me. The books tell the junior club
members’ stories through the different perspectives of the core group of club
members, and Jessi was given protagonist status several times over the course
of Ann M. Martin’s The Baby-Sitters Club series. I actually recognized many
of her struggles in my own, but I didn’t love the “junior member” status
emphasis. Still, I played the parts I was asked to play, resigned to what I was
“supposed to be” rather than what I wanted to be. I never said a thing. I didn’t
believe I deserved anything different. I never felt comfortable enough to
properly advocate for myself in a healthy way. Being the only Black girl
among all white girls established such a disproportionate imbalance of power
that I felt I needed to deny race altogether and accept whatever was offered to
me. I didn’t begin to find a voice for speaking about my identity until I was
well into my twenties, when years of pent-up frustration came roaring to a
head and I finally realized I was angry.
The fusion of Blackness with ugliness, poverty, and general negativity
was pervasive in all media forms, and I continued to absorb it over and over
again, further driving my desire to put distance between myself and being
Black. It meant everything to me that I was accepted among my white
classmates, that I was seen as “one of them,” even though I never really could
be. Many girls I grew up with had never had a Black friend before me and
probably don’t have any Black friends now. I know they would not seek out a
friendship with someone Black and that ours were relationships of
convenience, much like Becky and Sara in the attic, in that we occupied the
same place at the same time. And when they needed me, I was the Token
Black Girl. Their worlds do not otherwise intersect with Blackness, and they
do not need to.
Growing up, I was told many times that I was not “Black,” which,
loosely translated, means that I am visibly Black but don’t have the myriad
negative qualities associated with being Black. I was exempt from these
qualities in many people’s eyes, and this made me swell with corrupt pride.
Thank God, I would think. It’s all working. I was being rewarded for my
good behavior and my dedication to beauty with the acceptance I craved.
Even as I managed to advantageously disguise my feelings, I developed
a certain frustration in being repeatedly assigned roles that I did not ask for,
especially ones I didn’t feel personally aligned with. I was not able to be
myself, or the version of myself I saw as natural, because my skin prison
would not let me.
I have a loud laugh. I shriek if I am excited. I had to train myself out of
those habits, as doing either in an all-white environment would almost always
yield a negative reaction. Try to notice the ways white people look at a group
of young Black people in public. Through the collection of that kind of
feedback, I learned to just be quieter in general. The difficult thing was that I
felt I had no choice in the matter. If I had suggested to one of my white
friends that they be Scary Spice or Jessi, well, that would have been
laughable. Why would they put themselves in such an impossible box when I
was there to be the perfect fit? The fog of privilege made it unfeasible for
them to find themselves in any Black character when I was constantly finding
myself, no matter how implausible, in white ones.
Oddly enough, considering how hard it was for my white friends to
imagine taking on Black roles in childhood, it seems like, now, not a single
Halloween or costumed event passes by without the subject of Blackface
being raised. The argument that Blackface is not offensive when it is done in
celebration and not in mockery is prevalent among white people who darken
their skin to become Diana Ross or Michael Jordan for a night. Hideous
historical context aside, the practical application of the “Blackface is OK”
stance is at the very least faulty because it is wholly nonreciprocal. There is
no opposite. The concept of “whiteface” is not even possible. No matter how
grand my costume, makeup, or imaginative capacity, I could never have been
seen as a white character. It reinforces the presumptions of white supremacy
that someone white can try on a new race for a night out, but a Black person
can never escape their reality. Blackness is permanent. No matter what, I
would always have to explain. “I’m Baby Spice” would have sounded absurd.
There was never any question of which role I would play, and I was
pretending so constantly that it became oppressive. Since I was good at my
roles, though, my despair was imperceptible.
 CHAPTER FOUR

My parents signed me up for my first ballet class at three. I was extremely

enthusiastic about donning my pink tights, leotard, and slippers. The class
itself was recess with musical accompaniment: children struggling to pay
attention with limited dexterity and limb control. If you’ve never witnessed a
littles ballet class, it’s chaotic, but dance teachers do their best to give it
structure and regulation. As you get older, you learn things like the positions,
proper French names for steps, differences in music, and how to coordinate
your legs to do one thing and your arms to do another. Ballet teaches
discipline, spatial and body awareness, and that practice and hard work are
critical values for success.
In ballet, one thing quickly becomes clear: there is literally no room for
dissent. A strict adherence to a certain standard in looks and performance is
essential to how ballet is taught. Similar to martial arts, the uniform you wear
for dance class can indicate your skill level, and even novice children are
expected to have the same exact tights, leotards, and shoes. For most “littles,”
this means a ballet-pink bodysuit, tights, and slippers. Ballet pink is a “nude”
tone; it’s intended to disappear on your flesh. Ballet-pink slippers are
supposed to look like an extension of your own foot. When you graduate to
pointe shoes, the same principle applies. This, of course, works only if you’re
white. If you’re Black, the color difference shows up starkly and awkwardly,
making you unintentionally stand out when the idea is to blend in.
Aside from the attire, a big part of the ballet uniformity comes down to
body and hair. George Balanchine, the late ballet genius, is largely
responsible for the underweight and bony aesthetic. But from a practical
perspective, dancers are generally small because in order to partner properly,
you must be lifted. It is much easier to lift a small girl than a large one—
that’s just physics. The other factor is that size uniformity on stage is
considered to be less distracting than having several different body types, and
castings are usually skewed to ensure that everyone is the same shape and
size. Furthermore, dancers often wear the costume of a performer who came
before them, and it’s easier to take something in than it is to let something
out. The desired body shape is long and lean, and this has been universally
accepted as the ideal ballet aesthetic. Many people extend this requisite
uniformity to race as well, which is why there are still many stories of Black
dancers who are asked to paint themselves white so they don’t break
continuity with their fellow company members.
Early on in my life, ballet established a necessity to be the same size,
shape, and color as my peers. And there was one last area of nonnegotiable
compliance: hair. Most ballet parents receive a handbook of guidelines for
how to best prepare their child for class, and this includes rules about how
dancers’ hair should be worn. Rules about hair in ballet class are as follows:
Hair must be worn in a bun—no bangs. If a dancer has bangs, they must be
clipped back or gelled away from the face. The intention is to create an
elegant line for the head and neck and to ensure invariability in dancers. Hair
accessories are not allowed.
Most dancers—or parents of dancers—will recognize this language.
These requirements present a challenge for children who have hair that is not
easily manipulated into a traditional ballet bun. Braided or natural hairstyles
are strongly discouraged and, in some cases, not acceptable at all. The New
York Academy of Ballet, in defense of their rules, notes on their website that
“Simplicity is one of the distinguishing characteristics of a truly fine dancer.”
Strength, technique, and tangible skills are taught in class, but their
importance is supported by “being simple in dress.” Dance institutions that
consider themselves competitive have requirements like these, as these
programs are marketed as preparation for dance careers. As the New York
Academy of Ballet says, “Showing respect for our art in conduct as well as
dress code helps foster the required discipline it takes to learn a classical art.”
You may think this language is exclusive, and yes, it is. Most dance
institutions are. Like schools, prestige is dictated by who you keep out just as
much as who you let in. Because of that, students understand that it is their
responsibility to follow these rules to the letter. They learn to monitor
themselves and their peers. If you are the same size and color, and if you
have the same hair texture as everyone else, your anxiety about being able to
successfully blend in is greatly reduced. But if your body and hair don’t
conform, consequences help students understand what is appropriate and
what is not. Students who fail dress code or hair inspections can and will be
asked to leave class.
Teachers were sometimes offered up as volunteer hairdressers to
demonstrate how to make a bun the right way, but that worked only if they
already knew how to style the hair in question. All my dance teachers were
white. Imagine the humiliation of being asked to leave class because your
hair is not properly secured in a bun or having an instructor who has no
background in Black hair try to fix yours to fit in. That threat hung over me,
so I learned I always needed to show up looking perfect. Further justification
of hair restrictions reveals that loose hair is a safety concern: “A proper bun
secured tightly to the head is important, especially when turning in class. Hair
that is falling out is disruptive to the learning process and is also a safety
hazard as pins can fall to the floor.” This was pulled from a 2021 iteration of
the New York Academy of Ballet website. I don’t imagine the message
would have been any softer in 1992. So for many years, every single day, my
hair was always secured, as to not be “disruptive,” in a high bun or a ponytail
that I could easily turn into a bun myself. I attended dance classes multiple
times a week, so this style became my non-dance look as well. Later, the
stress of the elastics started to erode the health of my hair, especially once I
started chemically relaxing it so it could be straight all the time.
My mother, bless her, was the one who repeatedly struggled to make me
“presentable” for dance. The ritual of haircare is a cherished bonding
experience between mothers and daughters, and is an especially tender ritual
for Black mothers and daughters. I have sat in between several pairs of knees
over my lifetime, and that is where I learned the ineffable skills of stillness,
pain tolerance, and patience. Perseverance and hard work eventually
produced a result one could be proud of. My mother did hair for my sister
and me, and I know she had her hair done for her, as did my grandmother
before her, and so on. The common thread is that it’s an affectionate
expression of self-care among women. But it’s also a form of education:
handing down knowledge about personal grooming and appearance and the
importance of both in relation to your gender. It’s also a way of
communicating that obedience and submission are cherished qualities for
women.
I have spent so much time sitting to get my hair done that the number of
hours I have logged should surely be repaid to me at some point. Not to
mention the countless hours of labor the women who were actually working
on my hair logged while I sat there distracted by television, a movie, book, or
magazine. It is remarkable to think about how much time I have dedicated to
making my hair look a certain way, often manipulating it far past its natural
state, and it’s hard to say exactly why. It also should be clear by this point
that I am somewhat unwilling to change this behavior. Over the years, I have
started to value my time more, forgoing hours-long weaves, relaxers, and
complicated braid patterns in favor of styles that are simpler and “easier,” but
no matter what I do, it all takes precious time. Time out of my morning and
nightly routines, my pre- and post-workout rituals, my weekends, and
sometimes my workdays. It can take an entire day to wash, dry, and style my
hair, and like a beast whose bite I fear, I give it whatever it wants—to a point.
And even though I feel like I have rebelled considerably against the requisite
sacrifices for my hair, I still would, and I still do, alter my behavior to protect
my hair.
My first memories of the hair ritual take place in my living room, where
my mother bribed my sister and me to sit on tiny plastic play chairs while she
wrestled our kinks into something more practical. We had swim lessons
every Saturday, and after the pool was the dreaded hair wash and blow-dry.
In the 1990s, the tools and products available for Black hair were
considerably less sophisticated, so the methods were crude. They were also
extremely painful. We fought our mother, constantly squirming, wincing, and
yelping as the smoke from the blow-dryer billowed out in a hazy cloud,
smelling of leave-in conditioner and burning follicles. We incurred burns
from combs heated directly on the fire of the gas stove. Eventually, my sister
and I developed our capacity for compliance and learned to be both still and
quiet. I learned what it felt like to have braids so tight that your scalp bubbled
from the stress of the tension. I learned what it felt like to be burned by a hot
comb. I learned what it felt like to have a tangled knot so big, it needed to be
cut out of your head. The beauty industry has mercifully made some serious
advancements in haircare, so I am not worried for my future daughters, but
they really will have no idea what they missed.
Having your hair “done,” and the idea that your hair should be
“undisruptive” for your appearance to be acceptable, is a concept that extends
far past ballet class. While watching the 1996 cult favorite The Craft—a
movie beloved by the style obsessed and those who identify as witches—I
learned that my hair was wrong and needed to be fixed. I saw the movie
when I was ten, about two years after it was released, and I was amused to
see the character Rochelle attending a school that looked very much like
mine. Rochelle, played by Rachel True, is a star on the diving team and the
only Black girl in her school. She’s a target for bullying, and the main guilty
party is Laura, a blonde who constantly tries to sabotage Rochelle’s diving
performance and mentally rattle her. Rochelle makes the grave error of
wearing her naturally curly hair to school, and predictably, it doesn’t go great
for her. In the scene that haunts my nightmares, the girls are in the bathroom
when Laura says, while picking up her hairbrush, “Oh God, look! There is a
pubic hair in my brush!” She pauses for effect before delivering a lethal
blow: “Oh no, wait . . . that’s just one of Rochelle’s little nappy hairs.”
Rochelle tries to defend herself in the moment, but Laura brushes her off,
telling her, “I don’t like negroids” before casually leaving the restroom. It
was a grounding interpretation of the potential things a white girl could think
or say in regard to natural Black hair. At the time, my hair was often just
back in a bun or ponytail, springing free only when I might need it to
transform me into Mel B. Don’t worry, though; Rochelle gets the last laugh,
casting a spell to make Laura go bald, which is the ultimate revenge fantasy.
Magical as I am, I knew the likelihood of me nailing a spell like that would
be slim, so I decided to perform the only kind of magic I knew—I changed
my hair to make sure no one at school would say it was nappy. Also, to this
day, I make sure to clean out my shower before my housekeeper comes, lest
she think any of my natural hairs are pubic ones.
I grew increasingly frustrated with how different my hair looked from
the images I loved to look at in advertisements and print editorials. Images of
flaxen, silky, straight hair always ran with copy on how to reduce “frizz” and
give your hair “hold.” The fact that an entire day at the salon could be undone
by one sweaty night’s sleep—exactly what happened to me the night before
school picture day in the fifth grade—was an unbearable injustice. My mom
did her best to replicate how my hair had looked when I left the salon, but the
shrinkage and texture at the roots bested us during a morning that was already
a time crunch. Those school portraits were never seen again, and whatever I
did with them in a fit of blackout rage remains unknown, even to me. I
thought my hair in its natural state was “not done.” That belief was reinforced
by the way every special occasion required a wash and press. The idea that
some people can just rise up from their bed and leave their home without first
removing their bonnet or sleep scarf and fixing their hair is still remarkable to
me. The “just woke up” thing doesn’t exist for Black girls; there are just too
many things that must be done to our hair between waking up and leaving our
homes.
At some point, I learned what a relaxer was—a perm, as we called it—
and began to routinely pressure my mom into letting me get one. How I even
discovered the concept is still mysterious. I had no other Black friends to
speak of, and I can’t remember any snappy television commercial advertising
silky-smooth hair as the result of lye either. I must have, at some point,
overheard the concept in an adult conversation, and I immediately became a
zealot. Sure, I had no idea about the intricacies of the process or the potential
side effects, but who cared? I was ten years old and ready to cannonball
straight into a pool of mystery chemicals if they gave me what I wanted. All I
knew was that a relaxer had the ability to transform my hair from poofy and
rough to smooth and straight (so long as it remained dry), and it seemed like
the answer to my prayers. I even loved the way the girls looked on the boxes:
grinning, with their hair neatly divided into several ponytails fixed with
bobbles—a typical Black-girl hairstyle that I banned my mother from giving
me, as I was the only one of my friends who would be wearing it. The
differentiation was intolerable. One ponytail was fine.
A perm was it. A perm would solve everything. Even more than a Giga
Pet, Skechers, and a VTech walkie-talkie shaped like a cell phone, this thing I
absolutely had to have. My mother was resistant at first. She encouraged me
to be satisfied with the washes and presses I was already getting, but since I
was constantly in danger of upending the results of a wash and press in a
routine gym class, I was desperate for a more permanent solution. I think
eventually the promised ease of the perm was the factor that wore my mom
down. She had started working part-time, and getting two girls ready for
school in the morning could not have been simple. I eventually got what I
wanted. My mother agreed to let ten-year-old me and my eight-year-old little
sister perm our hair. For years, that age discrepancy plagued me. I had a
militant sense of justice. Why wouldn’t my sister be required to wait the two
additional years that I had to? It seemed that once I crossed a milestone, she
immediately was able to do the same.
So we both got our perms on the same day. And for the next ten years,
roughly every eight weeks, we would repeat the experience. The first perm
was truly like watching magic unfurl. We got our hair done at a friend’s
cousin’s home, about twenty minutes away from where we lived. Eventually,
that hairdresser’s drug problem became progressively more clear, and we
moved on, finding someone else through word of mouth. I always forget
what life was like before Google and Yelp. Without a system of stars and
reviews, you ended up having your perm done in a living room, where the
occasional roach scurried by. I used to ask my mom why I couldn’t go to a
“nice salon,” like a lot of my friends who started getting bangs and layer cuts
when we were tweens. My friends and I would sometimes go out for pizza or
ice cream near where they got their hair done, and they would point out these
places to me, leaving me burning with jealousy. Logic told me those salons
were far superior. Unlike where we went to have our hair relaxed, these
places had storefronts and receptionists, a setup that actually seemed like you
should pay to get your hair done there. I didn’t know anyone else who
huddled in a tiny plastic chair while Maury Povich blared from the TV screen
and a young grandmother chain-smoked in the next room. It felt shameful. I
would have been humiliated if I’d ever been found out. I have thoroughly
repressed the memory of how I ever even answered the question “Where do
you get your hair done?”
For that first perm, though, it didn’t matter to me where it happened. I
was finally doing it. I was getting a perm—the critical key to unlocking an
introductory level of beauty, one that I was wolfishly hungry for. There’s
really nothing like the first time, and since there was no YouTube yet, I had
no idea what to expect. Watching the perm potion come together, it was
unclear to me whether I was supposed to eat it or spread it on like lotion.
Anything was possible! In the end, petroleum jelly was generously applied to
my scalp, followed by copious amounts of a thick white substance. The
minutes ticked by as I waited to transform before my very own eyes. “The
longer you sit with this, the straighter your hair will be. And make sure to tell
me when your scalp starts tingling,” the hairdresser said. I focused on the
words longer and straighter. I would sit there as long as it took. Turns out, it
doesn’t take that long. Fifteen minutes and two segments of Maury later, my
time was up. I was led over to the kitchen sink, where I had to stand on a
booster stool to be able to bend my shoulders and head under the faucet. This
was where the transformation would be revealed. Cool water rinsed out the
thick white cream and simultaneously erased all my tight, spry, stubborn
coils, and in their place fell long, thin strands of perfectly straight hair. I
could have peed myself from excitement. It was like a baptism but better.
Filled with the holy spirit, I wanted to shout, “I BELIEVE!” If I’d had a more
mature mind, I would have understood why people fuss over being reborn. In
my limited reality, a new hair texture was life changing. I was led to the
makeshift dryer back in the living room and stationed there for an hour. I
fantasized about the new life I would have with my straight hair.
I tried to will myself not to sweat under the dryer, knowing that any
perspiration could turn this insubstantial dream back into a nightmare. When
the dryer dinged off, the hairdresser retrieved me and led me to another chair
in the kitchen, where, this time, a hot comb and curling iron were heating on
a stove top. My hair singed as it was flattened into submission even further.
The stylist gave me a prissy undercurl that took my straight hair and made it
incredibly babyish, but I was just ten—an actual baby. But in that moment, I
was ecstatic. I had finally achieved a seemingly impossible task: forcing my
hair to be perfectly straight. I could not wait for school on Monday. I was
finally free to become pretty, and I was thrilled.
 CHAPTER FIVE

I vibrated with excitement in my bed that Sunday night. I woke up and

prepped for school, gingerly touching my newly straight hair to make sure it
was still straight. I was amazed that it actually remained so. I imagined the
reaction I would garner when I stepped onto campus. I rehearsed feigning
humility and nonchalance. I was sure everyone would be wowed by my new
look and impressed with the fact that I had convinced my mom to agree to me
getting a perm. A perm!
When I arrived at school with my new straight hair, there was
absolutely zero fanfare. It was infuriating. After all that stress and effort, not
a single person bothered to notice my accomplishment, which was only
achieved by the impressive depth of my perseverance and will. White people
can be so hard to please. Perhaps they didn’t notice, or they just assumed I’d
done what I was supposed to do and trained my hair. I was undeterred. I
knew the perm was the right decision, and I committed myself forevermore to
keeping my hair as straight as possible. This also meant that I developed a
distaste for rain, for water of any kind, including but not limited to being
splashed, being sprayed, jumping or diving into pools, and water balloons.
Whenever we were going on a family vacation anywhere near a body of
water, I got my hair braided and felt a sense of freedom in being able to do
anything I wanted. With those braids, my activities were not limited by
whether they would get my hair wet. My perm allowed me freedom in a
specific and limited sense, but I was ill equipped to anticipate the ways in
which it would also imprison me.
The upkeep, for one, was intense. The perm needed to be redone every
two months, religiously. I could push the edges of this limit if I had no other
choice, but it was not recommended because obstinate new growth would
sprout at my roots, threatening to expose the whole straight-hair thing as a
facade. Over the years, through extensive trial and error, I learned to
manipulate my hair to strategically hide new growth if necessary.
Additionally, my hair needed to be washed weekly, and every time I washed
it, the roots got a little less straight. The exact limitations of a perm’s
permanence were disappointing. It wasn’t going to last forever, and it wasn’t
ever going to be easy, but for me, nothing in beauty was. Besides, knowing I
had to work hard for what I wanted had become a cornerstone of my belief
system, so I was happy to put in effort where required if it meant I would get
results.
I could tell it confused my friends at sleepovers when I would arrive
with a shower cap to cover my hair when I bathed. They constantly
questioned it. “So you, like, never wash your hair?” As if daily-washed hair
were a new badge I needed to get in Girl Scouts. I tried to explain to them
that I washed it once a week, but they thought hair needed to be washed
every day. I had unwittingly revealed something unsavory about my hygiene.
This gave me a brand-new insecurity, but I wouldn’t ruin the perm for
anything, so I accepted my new fate: now I was dirty. I just tried my best to
make my hair look as good as it possibly could.
My utter determination wasn’t always enough to overcome the material
reality of having Black hair. “The Rachel,” a haircut popularized by a 1995
episode of Friends, was a look that would plague my orbit for years. In 1997,
before my first perm, it felt like I was living in the apex of Rachel-mania,
named for Jennifer Aniston’s character. Even though I didn’t watch the show,
by sheer osmosis, I knew what the haircut looked like. Rachel was the
pinnacle of 1990s beauty, and that haircut was the only thing anyone could
talk about for several years. It was as if the hallways were incessantly
whispering, “The Rachel.”
Girls my age started experimenting with “highlights” and “layers” to
give them an edge of maturity. When I was still reeling from the emotion of
having my hair straightened, The Rachel added a level of pressure to do even
more, and it sent me into a virtual tailspin. I knew I could never have The
Rachel, so I turned on it, enraged by the mere existence of the thing. The idea
of blunt, choppy layers is just not something that translates to a 4C curl
pattern without chemical treatment and even more grueling daily
management, or extensions. In essence, it would require such extensive
manipulation of natural Black hair to achieve it that it could cause long-term
hair damage or hair loss.
Who knows what effects The Rachel had on the Monicas and Phoebes
of the world. Perhaps it’s best that we not celebrate any one woman’s beauty
over another, but that is not a realistic expectation. As we have developed
more awareness and language around the structures and systems that
encourage this singular beauty behavior, the culture around comparing and
criticizing women’s appearances has somewhat improved. But the instinct to
compare will never disappear from our culture completely. It is buried so
deep in me that I worry it might be embedded in my genetic code. That
compulsion to routinely compare threatens to undermine my own feminist
sensibilities. And since I was relentlessly served Jennifer Aniston as the
ultimate beauty icon, knowing it would be impossible for me to emulate her, I
began to hate her. Through no fault of her own and from thousands of miles
and several tax brackets removed, she became my enemy. I had no weapons
(yet) with which to fight her and what I felt she represented, but that didn’t
mean I wouldn’t go down swinging. I still had to show up as close to perfect
as I could. I would breathe several sighs of relief when, in 1999, Aaliyah
Haughton debuted in Romeo Must Die and sang on the corresponding
soundtrack, and I found a beauty archetype I could follow. I cut myself a
dramatic side bang.
For most of elementary school, I dictated what I wanted my hair to look
like to my mother. A lot of the style choices were limited because of the
activities I participated in—like ballet—but my chemically relaxed hair made
doing my own hair a lot easier and more practical. After I became a person
with a perm, I was able to fully take over that aspect of my morning routine. I
also developed an addiction to getting my hair as straight as possible. If I
waited too long between relaxers, the new growth would come in, betraying
my natural hair texture. After a few years of regular perming, my hair began
to thin and “break off,” meaning my hair growth was slowed and my hair was
not healthy. My hair was, essentially, falling out, but could I revert back to
my natural texture? At thirteen? Are you nuts? I determinedly surged ahead
with my perm routine, ignoring the searing pain in my scalp as the chemicals
literally burned me.
You’re not supposed to scratch your head when you have a perm. When
Beyoncé sings, “Pat your weave, ladies,” in “Get Me Bodied,” she’s referring
to the fact that those of us with a perm shouldn’t scratch our heads but,
instead, should pat our hair if it becomes itchy. I didn’t know that in 1998, so
I scratched my head freely, as any normal person might as soon as their head
itches. It was especially itchy after physical activity or at night. I found out
why you don’t scratch the hard way. “Have you been itching?” became a
procedural question asked at the beginning of every perm I got. I deduced
from the tone of the question that my answer should be no, so that’s what I
said. Scratching the scalp drastically reduces its natural protections against
perm chemicals, and that delightful tingle I felt the first time I had those
chemicals on my hair soon became an excruciating burn. It burns twice as
much when the hairdresser washes it out and your bleeding scalp comes
under the water. The relief I was hoping for never came. Then patches of my
scalp started to scab over, and the scabs fell out along with my hair. It took
me years to change my answer to the “Have you been itching?” question
from “No” to “A little,” which meant the hairdresser would slightly vary the
degree of intensity of the perm, but tremendous damage had already been
done, and I kept scratching for a decade longer.
On eighth-grade graduation day, when I had two weave tracks braided
and sewn into the back of my head, I felt I had achieved another step on my
beauty-ascension ladder. I was giving a speech as the salutatorian. Everyone
was so proud. I was very specific about the hairstyle I wanted for that day:
the front twisted up into neat lines, arranged in a crown at the top of my head,
and the back of my hair down. It’s shameful to admit, but I was inspired by a
style I had seen in the Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen vacation movie Holiday
in the Sun—and it was not on any Black actress. The gag is, of course, that it
was a copy of a Black hairstyle, but Black people were just totally erased
from the movie narrative, even though it took place on a Caribbean island
and “borrowed” style inspiration from the same people it pretended didn’t
exist.
My hairstylist had some leftover tracks from a weave she had done and
she asked me if I wanted to “add some length.” I’d witnessed the weave
being placed in another client’s hair in the living room beauty shop. From my
viewing angle, I had no way of knowing that the tracks were being sewn into
braids. I was horrified as I watched this curved needle being threaded
repeatedly in and out of her scalp while this woman did not flinch at all. I
held my breath, watching the hairdresser move the needle with methodic
exactitude while the woman and our mutual hairstylist casually gossiped.
Forty minutes later, I was asked if I wanted her leftover extension scraps and
to be subjected to a similar form of torture myself. I practically sweat out my
fresh perm in anticipation of the pain alone.
Sitting there, when it was finally my turn, I decided that whatever was
in store for me was a compulsory step to becoming beautiful, and if I wanted
to improve the look of my hair, this new torture was what I needed to do. I
gulped as the hairstylist applied pressure to the back of my head, forcing my
chin down and tipping it to the side. Then she started braiding. I don’t know
what ingredient I was short-changed during my creation process, but as a kid,
I found it impossible to ask questions of adults, authority figures, and
essentially anyone I deemed superior to me, even if it pertained directly to my
own body and well-being. So I sat there silently, having no earthly clue what
was about to happen. She finished braiding two neat horizontal braids across
the back of my head, then began to thread a curved thick needle. Still, I did
not utter a word, and I fully expected that she was about to use it to pierce my
skin directly. The cocktail of emotions that coursed through my little body
when she spiked the needle through the braid and not my already
significantly abused scalp gave over to intense relief. And despite not being
sewn together like a little brown Frankenstein doll, I think I held my breath
for the entire process. When it was all over, my new length fell just a bit past
my shoulders, and the added thickness of the new hair instantly made me feel
more mature. While I still have a difficult time saying beautiful when it
comes to my own appearance, I at least felt closer to beauty than I had when I
arrived.
When I left the hairdresser’s that day, I had started a new part of a
mysterious journey. That feeling, as if I were inching closer to beauty, fueled
an addiction so strong and pervasive that I’m still not sure I’ll ever fully
recover. My perm, the extensions, and my new attitude opened a gateway of
possibilities. I loved the confidence boost my new hair afforded me. And, like
any addiction, the dosage needed to be upped every so often for the desired
high. The ecstasy of my perm two years earlier was wearing as thin as my
natural hair, so extensions were a welcomed improvement. The added
excitement of having them for a special occasion introduced an obsession
with events and outings. I would insist that each event was just as important
as the last, until something as benign as a suburban birthday party could
produce the same level of stress and anxiety as, say, the Met Gala. Years
later, I actually did go to the Met Gala and nearly fainted from starvation, but
I looked good, so who cares, right?
The amount of attention and financial backing—new dress, new shoes,
new hair—that my middle school graduation ceremony got from my parents
solidified a worrisome pattern of behavior.
 Over the years, as I permed more, my need for extensions increased and
I started requiring them for every single perm appointment. I would not and
could not imagine reverting back to my natural hair, especially since its
health was diminishing slowly but surely. The tracks allowed me to cover up
my hair loss while continuing to perm my hair. It seemed like an ideal
solution, so long as no one found out and no one ever touched my hair, which
is tough when you spend a lot of time among other girls. By the time I was in
high school, I had a plug-in hot comb I would use to straighten my hair every
single day. Most people wake up to the scent of coffee beans; for me, it was
the scent of burning hair. I was using as many as five to six tracks to add
length to my hair and was pugnacious about no one ever touching it and
never getting it wet.
The tracks increased the price of my hair appointments, and of course,
since I was doing it, my sister began to get them too. I can’t imagine what an
enormous expense it was for my parents to raise my sister and me, but my
commitment to being beautiful at any cost certainly did not help the equation.
As we transitioned to our new high school in Greenwich, Connecticut, and
settled into a more exclusive shiny, white bubble, the hair conversation
became even more complicated. In this new environment, it was increasingly
essential that our hair be straight, long, and pretty. You might assume that an
all-girls community would alleviate the compulsion to look a certain way, but
for me, it felt like a microscope and another arena in which to compete. As
the constant underdog, the literal Black sheep, I felt an unbearable pressure to
always rise to the occasion. I think I wore makeup every single day from the
age of fourteen to the age of thirty.
You couldn’t convince me that hair and makeup were not necessities.
Carefully reinforced by all the media I regularly consumed—television,
magazines, blogs—I deduced that beauty was an essential part of being
female, inextricably linked to your biological composition, like having a
period is to having ovaries. It just came with the territory.
 CHAPTER SIX

If you can believe it, there was a point in my life where I directly and
purposely exposed myself to the sun. I was adamantly against wearing
sunscreen as a child, peeved at the way that applying it subtracted from my
precious minutes in the water. My mother was an SPF devotee decades
before it was trendy, but I truly didn’t see the purpose of sunscreen. It seemed
to me to be a really poorly functioning lotion, but instead of moisturizing
skin, it produced a creepy gray cast, like I was permanently ashy. Why?
Because sunscreen was not formulated for people with melanin. For years, I
would pretend to put on sunscreen and straight up lie when I was asked about
it, or drop the pretense and forgo it altogether. I loved the sun. I could tell it
loved me back. I watched it singe the skin of my friends, turning them into
little raw, red tomatoes before my eyes. They would wince, nurse their
blisters with aloe vera, then peel like a snake in the next few days. I found it
fascinating. I didn’t get a sunburn until I was in my twenties, and that was
only because retinol creams left me vulnerable to the rays of my longtime
ally. After that, I could agree: that shit hurts. But as a child, me and the sun
were entirely copacetic.
The summer before I turned thirteen, I sat in my tankini at the pool club
—an extension of one of the local golf clubs but much more casual. (It
sounds fancier than it was, I think.) My friends and I had just finished a
raucous game of Marco Polo and some underwater handstands when Kristen,
my three-way-call tormentor from the fourth grade, in her bikini—string
bikini, actually—did some more emotional damage to me. By this point, we
had become frenemies, tolerating each other’s presence, but we were never
really close. Our class was only twelve kids, so there was only so much
bickering you could do before you ended up having to work as science
partners. For utility’s sake, we had to at least maintain a cordial relationship,
but this did not keep us from our tenuous competition for leverage and
influence over our social circle. She was an only child raised by the only
single mother in the group, so she was both extremely spoiled and extremely
invested in performing maturity. That day, she lathered herself in baby oil
and announced that she was in rabid pursuit of the tannest summer of her life.
I’m sure you know where this is going. She held her arm next to mine and
said, “I will be darker than you by August. Watch.” I didn’t know what to say
to this, except that I knew it was impossible. I said nothing and sat in dazed
silence. I replay scenes like this from my youth often, and I worry that I was
weak, that I should have done more to stand up for myself and should have
been able to identify microaggressions like this. Even if I didn’t know what a
microaggression was at the time, I knew it made me feel weird. But I was
alone. I was the only one. I didn’t have the vocabulary or knowledge to craft
the response I would use now. And the risk of further isolating myself, of
alerting the group to my otherness and possibly forever altering our fragile
dynamic, filled me with an unspeakable anxiety. So instead I tucked my
feelings away. And there her comment sat, burrowing deep and far into the
recesses of my mind, another thing I threw into my grave of emotion because
I couldn’t access the confidence, the logic, or the passion to push back.
What I needed was a book or a show to demonstrate what I should do. I
had a playbook for peer pressure and being offered “dope.” I knew bullet-
point responses for dealing with a boy who got too handsy or a friend who
wanted to cheat on a test. But there was nothing to tell me how to deal with a
friend who, years before, had claimed to not like me for being Black and now
claimed she wanted to be darker than me. Instinctually, I knew some code
was being spoken. I just didn’t yet have the key to decipher it. Being dark
was OK for her since she was so clearly white with straight, long hair and
thin lips she would later inject with fillers. Me, though . . . I was born in my
skin, a birthright that, in her eyes, made me inferior. I was also visibly Black
beyond just my skin tone, with my hair in braids, my flat nose, and the curves
I was trying to hide in my modest swimwear threatening to expose
themselves. We were not the same. And I wouldn’t be able to turn around in
the winter and say, “Soon, I will be as pale as you.” I feel disappointed that I
couldn’t come up with a snappy comeback, but I also knew she was
delivering a barb to me that I could never challenge. In the end, of course, the
sun got her good, burning her like an overcooked Hot Pocket. My evil side
smirked while she nursed her wounds. She complained for days about the
discomfort. Eventually, to my great disappointment, it did turn to a tan, but it
was a bitch getting there. Maybe there was an element of achievement in that
for her, earning her tan from that pain. Unfortunately, I knew what that was
like. I still know. There is a depraved honor in celebrating agony for beauty,
like emphasizing that coal becomes a diamond only under intense pressure.
Kristen would later pay weekly visits to a tanning salon and brag about
the deepness of her “base” to anyone of fairer complexion. Some of my other
friends would too. Slowly, all around me, I noticed white people doggedly
chasing darker skin. It became a fixation and a prerequisite for being hot.
“Ugh, I can’t wear shorts, my legs are so pale,” “Pre-prom tan,” and “I’m
doing fourteen minutes” all became sanctioned refrains when talking about
must-do beauty rituals. Yet another practice that I could not engage in—at
least not actively. “Do you want to lay out?” was added to this chorus, and
though it was not something originally in my vernacular, I quickly discovered
that it meant my friends would gather to do absolutely nothing but lie in the
sun. Natural sun, of course, was better than artificial, which should be used
only if one was not able to take quarterly vacations to tropical destinations.
Living in the temperate Northeast presents a certain set of challenges to
getting optimal sunlight, especially if your main objective in life is to remain
tan. My friends and I would read magazines or gossip, but mostly the point
was just that, laying out. I participated since intense FOMO served as an
incentive for doing such things, as wack as it was. While it erased the
unpleasant paleness of my friends, I can’t say it was that useful for me. I
browned quickly and deeply, always. Moving my bathing suit straps aside
revealed a much richer brown than whatever brown I had begun the day with,
prompting my friends to ooh and aah in awe over the speed with which I
could soak up the sun.
But this ceremony took a turn for me: while my friends got darker and
therefore became more attractive, as I got darker, I became less attractive. I
began to hear messaging that being darker was a bad thing. Older family
members would call my sister and me “tar babies,” which was to say that we
were so dark, we resembled tar. That same message was extremely apparent
in the media. Light-skinned Black women were routinely cast as the love
interests, securing modeling campaigns and just generally winning at life. My
parents are the same complexion as my sister and I, but all three of my
mother’s brothers, high-earning Ivy League grads, are married to light-
skinned Black women, which was also revelatory: the preference for lighter
skin existed even within the Black community.
 In 1932, Zora Neale Hurston wrote in her autobiography, “If it was so
honorable and glorious to be Black, why was it the yellow-skinned people
among us had so much prestige? The light-skinned children were always the
angels, fairies, and queens of school plays.” Hurston writes of what she
observed from her school life, and though she was raised in a strictly Black
community, the principles of colorism invaded even here and, in some ways,
may have been more hurtful than the outright and more expected forms of
racism. The mystifying spite that exists for darker-skinned people within the
Black community presents another layer of our limitations for loving
ourselves.
Eighty-five years after Hurston’s observations, ex–professional
basketball player and amateur internet troll Gilbert Arenas commented on an
Instagram photo, a designed graphic featuring the phrase “You don’t have to
be mixed to be beautiful,” writing, “Not to be funny, can you name a
beautiful black woman on the outside . . . not brown skin . . . like Tyrese
black.” The inspirational quote was an obvious response to patterns of
colorism that are quite prevalent on social media. Arenas then followed up by
saying, “As for Lupita she ain’t cute to me sorry . . . just like I’m not cute to
95% of you.” Arenas was referencing famous Kenyan actress and Academy
Award winner Lupita Nyong’o who, in 2019, released a children’s book
called Sulwe, an autobiographical account of her own self-hatred for her dark
skin. Of all the women that came forward about being harassed by Harvey
Weinstein, Lupita Nyong’o was the only one whose account he felt
compelled to directly and publicly deny. She speaks readily and often about
the discrimination she has faced because of her skin and hair—racism from
the outside and colorism from all sides.
There was an unmistakable “before” and “after” to my life—as if I had
eaten from the tree of knowledge—when I learned I was Black. Once I
became aware of my skin, its color, and what it meant, it began to taint my
otherwise innocent viewpoints. Racism, and its stringent hierarchy, became
so normalized for me that I began to develop a deference and reverence for
whiteness. I learned to accept that my skin could not be changed, but that
didn’t mean I wasn’t resentful or that I didn’t wish it could be different. Still,
I knew what I was supposed to do to have the life I wanted. I understood the
constraints of my complexion and behaved accordingly. I adopted a new way
of being, doing anything and everything necessary to find even tiny morsels
of acceptance. I think a lot about who I have become and how different it
seems from the girl I was, but I know that the choice I made early on was one
born of a desire to both survive and achieve what I so desperately craved:
perfection.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

My middle name is Aisha. It’s one of those “about me” facts that almost no
one knows, not even people close to me, because I was told it was “so weird”
so many times in middle school that I just stopped using it altogether. In fact,
it appears only on my passport, an official document that my parents gave to
me when I was too young to have an actual say in the matter. Aisha is
otherwise absent from all other official identifications; it’s not on my driver’s
license, or my apartment lease, or even the cover of this book. All my
monograms say DP, not DAP. I am not ashamed of the name now, but I spent
so long reflexively hiding it because I didn’t want to have to explain or
defend it; it just became easier to erase it completely. Assimilation to white
dominance at its finest: the renaming of yourself to make things easier for
white people and, by extension, for yourself. Making things easier for white
people is a preeminent responsibility of a Token Black Girl, and one that I
learned to take extremely seriously.
One of the crucial ways the Token Black Girl makes things easier for
white people is the “you’re not racist” cosign, a critical function of Blackness
in white spaces. I have been featured in the brochure or on the website of
every school I have ever attended. I had assumed, for most of my life, that
this was because I am extremely photogenic. Turns out that is only partially
true. While I do take a nice picture, the other part of the truth is that I made a
very nice Token Black Girl, a perfect addition to any campus or organization,
because I looked right, and I was quiet. My comfort level was almost never
taken into consideration. I was not asked nor did I ask to be in that kind of
spotlight, but it became another piece of evidence for Black people to
determine that I was a sellout or, worse, a coon performing all my essential
duties for the white man. Really, I was just trying my best.
By now, you’re probably trying to figure out why I didn’t have any
Black friends. The reason is simple and twofold: the few Black kids I knew
through family friends did not attend school with me, so our interactions were
limited to summertime or weekend socializing; and if and when I got the
opportunity to meet other Black kids, they usually made it clear that they did
not like me. Because I am not interested in painting myself as an ideal victim
in this narrative, I am conscious of the ways that my behaviors and attitudes
could have been interpreted as, well, stuck up. And, because I was so partial
to whiteness, I adopted behavior, language, and mannerisms that
operationally supported white supremacy, even in situations where no white
person was present. White supremacy has an omnipresence, and my devotion
to staging, functioning, and behaving always for the white gaze likely made
my presence both threatening and unwelcome to other Black kids. In other
words, I was an Op. They weren’t wrong. Sometimes, Black people have an
uncannily intuitive sense that alerts them to who among them may or may not
be self-hating. In more recent years, Twitter has made it easier to identify
people with these tendencies, but in the time before Twitter, you just had to
go on gut instinct. The O. J. Simpson attitude of “I’m not Black, I’m O. J.”
can manifest in a variety of ways, and each one of them is harmful to the idea
that Blackness can be nuanced and still be Black.
As a child, all I knew was that the Black children I met in passing at
parks for playtime, or the Black kids at summer camp, teased me for the way
I did, well, everything, but especially the way I spoke. They were convinced
that I thought I was white. But based on what happened to me in the fourth
grade, I knew for sure I was not. It made me extraordinarily self-conscious
and fueled an intense anxiety. What was wrong with me? Why did I “talk
white”? Admittedly, I have a vocal fry and a habit of up-speak that intensifies
when I’m nervous. The characteristics and mannerisms I had been
conditioned to perform, as prescribed by my role as the Token Black Girl,
were obviously off-putting to the young members of my own community.
As for interacting with Black children who were more like me—prep
school students hypnotized by white culture—I was encouraged to attend
Jack and Jill events. Jack and Jill, a national, members-only club, was
founded in the early twentieth century by Black mothers who wanted to
further educational opportunities for Black children. Over the years, it
morphed into kind of a social club, a who’s who of affluent Black
communities, where kids were encouraged to network. Though the members
were other prep school kids like me, none of the Jack and Jill kids went to my
school, and the events happened so infrequently that every interaction
required an awkward and painful warming-up period. It didn’t feel natural,
and those relationships didn’t last.
I was constantly on edge when I knew I had to interact with other Black
kids. I feared their ridicule and judgment. There was often a massive lack of
understanding between us, and I felt rejected by Black children. I was already
shy, and I developed a deeper shyness as a means of protection.
I’ve researched the reception of Token Black Girls by the Black
community. All you need to do is turn to Twitter comments to see all kinds of
statements that gatekeep Black identity and invalidate an individual’s
Blackness based on their perceived relationship to whiteness. I searched Nia
Sioux Frazier, the only Black cast member of the reality show Dance Moms,
and discovered commentary like, “You are not talented and are basically a fat
black girl wanting to be white” and “that girl Nia on dance mom is a white
girl trapped in a black girl body!!!” In 2014, after Kerry Washington made
history starring in Shonda Rhimes’s Scandal, Twitter users commented,
“Kerry Washington could do voiceover work as a white sorority girl” and
“Kerry Washington is such a white girl. Love her tho!” Willow Smith, Will
and Jada Pinkett Smith’s daughter, is similarly called out: “Willow Smith
sounds like a white girl,” “Willow Smith is a white girl trapped in a black
body,” and last, “Willow Smith irks me; her voice is like a fourteen-year-old
white girl from the valley. Jada is from BMore, why the kids ain’t hood??!”
Each of those comments feels uncomfortably familiar to me. Having a certain
hobby or speech pattern does not automatically make someone an agent in
service to whiteness, especially at an age where, developmentally, it is not
necessarily a conscious choice. The estimation that Black girls who grow up
in environments like Nia Frazier in “Trump Country,” Pennsylvania, Kerry
Washington at The Spence School in New York City, or Willow Smith in
Calabasas are somehow less Black is harmful to their ability to access their
full selves. Every person is a product of their environment. They know they
are not white, and it is fruitless to suggest that they are not Black because of
circumstances outside their control.
White supremacy exerts a stranglehold over every culture that is not
exclusively white and flattens Blackness, producing a mythic monolith of
Black culture, one that commands there is a singular way to be Black. And, in
response, Blackness seeks to protect itself from the supremacist suggestion
that the dominant image of Black is a bad way to be. It becomes necessary, in
that way, to ensure the survival of the culture by fortifying it against
interlopers, even those from within.
The rejection I felt from other Black children was swift and bitter. We
were the same but not, and even more distressing, I would never be on equal
footing with my white friends either. I was conditionally accepted at school
based on my ability to assimilate, and those same qualities made me
conditionally rejected by children of my own race. Even Whitney Houston
was traumatized by the Black community rejecting her at the beginning of her
career. The documentary Whitney delves into the aftermath of Houston being
booed by the Black audience at the 1989 Soul Train Music Awards. She was
already a Grammy winner and had the bestselling debut album of any single
female artist in history, but some Black radio stations refused to play her
songs, and she was frozen out by her own people. Whitney Houston, born
and raised in New Jersey, was strictly middle class. She was thin, smiling,
exceptionally talented, yet humble. An iconic Leo. Whitney’s career
blossomed when artists were being manufactured by record label A&R
divisions to an aggressive degree. Aside from Houston’s divine musical
talent, she was also extremely beautiful, a working model before she made it
big as a singer. Her ability to conform within the white beauty standard
almost certainly contributed to the way she was marketed by Arista Records
and then CEO Clive Davis at nineteen years old. The result was massive
commercial success and limited acceptance from Black people. Prominent
Black leader Reverend Al Sharpton is even on the record harshly referring to
her as “Whitey” Houston. She seemed genuinely haunted by her rejection at
the hands of the wider Black community, and her difficulty in managing the
Token Black Girl role in American popular music, a role she never asked for,
breaks my heart. I empathize with that pressure on the tiniest fraction of that
scale.
I needed to unofficially referee between white and Black communities,
and it was a taxing assignment. For white people, I was a representative of
Blackness who they could quiz on slang terminology. For Black people, I
was the sad lost sheep who needed to eject the Backstreet Boys from my
boom box and come home. I had to hide my likes and dislikes and constantly
mediate my personality to fit whatever group I was with. This required a
splintering of myself so drastic that I still feel uncomfortable admitting that I
cannot jump double Dutch, that I didn’t listen to rap music until I was sixteen
years old, and that I detest collard greens. I knew how other Black kids
wanted me to act, and to me, that always felt unnatural. This Black self that
they wanted, or the Black self that I learned was expected, took studying and
work, and who had the time? One could flip channels back and forth between
TRL and 106 and Park, but not in real life.
My Blackness also gave me a cool pass that I certainly didn’t earn. As
an adult, when I meet new people, I find myself overemphasizing that I am
not cool, just in case they see me and assume otherwise. I might have cool
clothes, the right hairstyle, cool friends, and so on, but at my core, I am nerdy
and uncool. My anxiety won’t let me be anything else. I overthink
everything. I try to anticipate behavior so I can respond in a way that will
elicit the most favorable reactions.
At some point, I began to notice that, around my white friends, my
Blackness made me an authority. I was shocked. In high school, a girl said
“fo’ shizzle, my nizzle” when I was in earshot and, later, came to apologize
to me. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she said with her head lowered in
contrition. I shrugged and said, “OK!” Not because I was excited to give her
a racism pass—like I was so used to doing—but because I didn’t realize that
nizzle was Snoop Dogg speak for nigga. Literally, I had no clue. But she
assumed, because I was Black, that I not only would have known but also
would have been offended by her use of the word. It couldn’t have been more
confusing to me. By extension of my Blackness, in addition to decoding
slang, I was asked to instruct my friends on popular dance moves and—this is
my favorite because I know absolutely nothing about music—explain song
lyrics. None of it made much sense or played to my personal strengths, but I
was excited to have the social cache, however it came.
Being around other Black kids threatened to upend this charade. They
knew! They knew I wasn’t cool, for sure. This added to my hesitation to
really and sincerely engage with them. They could expose me, and that was
dangerous. I couldn’t let that happen. What if they started actually speaking
in slang terms I didn’t know! I felt that my social position was so fragile, I
developed an aversion to other Black kids. I was convinced they were
competition, and my survival banked on the fact that I was the Token Black
Girl. I had to keep away from them at all costs. On top of that, the more time
I spent with Black kids, the less I might be accepted by my white friends. For
them, one Black girl was OK—ideal even. Five Black girls? That was a gang.
I saw how my white friends and their families evaluated groups of Black
people. There were certain places—school dances or other spots where kids
gathered—places disproportionately inhabited by Black and brown people,
where we simply were not allowed to go. We called them “sketchy” or
“ghetto”—language, unlike the word thug, that was more inconspicuously
coded and took decades longer to stamp out of my vocabulary. I remained in
denial that I would be categorized as “sketchy” had I been in one of these
places surrounded by other Black girls. I couldn’t imagine being seen as one
of them and not one of us, an “us” I was only conditionally accepted into
based on nothing but random chance, the happy coincidence that my parents
chose to place me in a certain school at a certain time.
It was an impossible situation. My identity was called into question
daily, and there weren’t any guidelines for what to do about it. I adopted a
passive persona simply because I had no rubric of dos and don’ts for dealing
with issues surrounding race.
In the fall of 2002, my best friend called me up after a dance she had
attended without me to report on the number of boys she had danced with.
She wanted to tell me the “craziest” story. A Black boy had grabbed her and
pulled her toward him. This was a very pre-#MeToo mating ritual. In my
youth, consent, in the modern sense, was mythical. We were not so much
asked to dance as pounced upon. She told him she didn’t want to dance with
him and pushed him away. As male egos go, this was a huge blow. He got
upset. He said she was racist and that she didn’t want to dance with him
because he was Black. She was telling me, of course, because I was her best
friend in the world. Her response to him was classic: “That is definitely not
true. My best friend is Black.” Ugh, I know. I know! Guys, I know. But you
know what I did, right? I agreed with her and I defended her, knowing our
friendship was the realest, confirming that she was most definitely not racist.
We are still friendly to this day, and I am pretty sure I am still her only Black
friend. Does this mean she is racist? Not quite. It’s not as simple as that, but
her behavior made me feel something I didn’t know how to articulate. In that
moment, I stepped into a new role, one I had played before, even if I didn’t
realize it yet: a protective buffer against the label “racist.”
I could do this only because of the inherently racist ideologies that
anointed me as the acceptable Black girl. I was polite and well spoken, had
enough money, had straight hair, and most importantly, I was there.
Adjacency and convenience, both total happenstance, were the factors that
my social position hinged upon. If I embodied a single negative stereotype,
would I have the friends I had? Would I have the life I had? My acceptance
was contingent upon me looking and acting a certain way, that much I knew
from television shows and movies, even if they didn’t give me any help in
handling this specific situation. The mannerisms and language I had adopted
were those of the oppressor. I was forged in the fires of white supremacy,
then sent out to further its mission by evangelizing to other Black people. I
was, indeed, hyperaware of the way I spoke, but I was not aware that it was a
weapon. I did not realize that my very adjacency to whiteness, my
compliance within the framework of white supremacy, was helping uphold
negative stereotypes about Blackness. I carefully played the role I was
supposed to play, and in that moment, my role was to reassure my friend that
she was categorically not racist and that I, Token Black Girl, could vouch for
that.
Of course, I can see now what this looks like: it looks like I did my duty
as the good little negro and bolstered my white friend, as opposed to saying,
“Actually, that whole story is racist.” I was just trying to be a good friend. I
wanted to maintain our relationship more than I wanted to confront the fact
that she probably did reject that boy because he was Black. I was straddling
the need to please two groups of people who had radically different
expectations. Black kids thought my code-switching switch had
malfunctioned. They were confused and perhaps betrayed by the way I
operated in service of whiteness. And as positive reinforcement, white kids
constantly said I wasn’t “really Black,” a racist assessment. I existed outside
my friends’ narrow view of what it meant to be Black. I had done all the
things literally required of me in handbooks and dress codes to effectively
stamp out the characteristics of my Blackness, but I was still visibly Black.
And that visibility was an asset to white people as long as I was willing to
appear on their terms.
 CHAPTER EIGHT

Last year, I sent a group photo to my mom—a picture of her and her friends
at a recent college reunion—which she then shared with the rest of the ladies
in the photograph via text. “God, I look so fat,” Lisa responded right away,
an echo of something I had listened to her say my entire life. She had never
once, at least not that I’d heard, said anything positive about her body.
Occasionally other women would join in, but Lisa was always the harshest,
comparing herself to hippos or elephants. I feel the pathological need to
emphasize that she was probably a solid size two for most of my life and, as
she’s approached sixty, has edged up maybe two sizes. I wondered how much
this intense body criticism was a generational condition, like perhaps we have
been so brainwashed by the influx of media putting skinny and beautiful on
an impossible-to-reach pedestal that this desire to be thin never goes away.
I wasn’t sure how Lisa could ever see herself as fat, but as I got older, I
became sucked into the same distorted fun house mirror. I looked at myself
once, decided I was fat, and could never see anything different. The amount
of brain space that was occupied by thinking about my body, thinking about
changing or improving my body, thinking about how others think of my
body, and thinking about how my body has let me down would be alarming
to any person who has more normal thought patterns. I remember reading
some statistic about how the human brain thinks about sex six times a minute,
and I thought it was so strange because my brain was constantly in overdrive
thinking about how wrong my body was. There was no time to ever think
about sex.
Mean Girls, starring none other than the aforementioned Lindsay
Lohan, covers this ritual of self-criticism flawlessly. I was a high school
sophomore when it came out. In one particular scene that’s a bit too on the
nose, Karen looks in the mirror and says, “God, my hips are huge.”
“Oh please, I hate my calves,” Gretchen adds before joining her at the
mirror.
And last, the queen bee herself, Regina, brings it home with, “At least
you guys can wear halters. I’ve got man shoulders.”
The girls continue berating their reflections, covering everything from
hairlines to pore size. In unison, their heads snap toward Cady, the white
African newcomer who hasn’t yet offered up her most intimate insecurities.
Awkwardly, she confesses, “I have really bad breath in the morning,” to
which they all respond, “Ew.”
Strangely enough, when I got Black friends in adulthood, I discovered
this was not a universal practice. I have since wondered if perhaps this brand
of self-examination was a particular white-girl ritual that doesn’t cross over
to Black women, who are already perpetually judged by the world. They
might not have any need to voice these criticisms aloud themselves. I began
thinking about it this way only after encountering observations Black writers
made about white culture. I was so entrenched in white culture that I didn’t
notice it. I learned those behaviors early and participated in them often. I
watched Cady’s plight in Mean Girls with unrelenting criticism. I did not
understand why she couldn’t just get it, why she couldn’t learn how to
assimilate faster, especially when the stakes were so high. I readily offered up
everything I thought was wrong with me and laid it at the altar of my tribe.
By the time middle school came around, it became easier to express my
displeasure with my body, as I noticed other girls in my environment were
similarly dissatisfied with their appearance. We would hate-bond with each
other, picking ourselves apart and laying our contempt before the group as a
peace offering that seemed to say, “I, too, am one of you.” Some friends were
more accepting of self-criticism, and I began to identify subtle differences in
these relationships over the years. I had my friends who would tolerate
extensive discussions of calories and fitness tips and those who would not.
The extra level of intimacy that self-loathing requires became quite critical to
a lot of my female friendships. We tended to our own cesspool, dumping on
ourselves for the good of the group, then targeting other people so we were
constantly in a state of observance. The element of self-hatred was the
lynchpin in guaranteeing the success of the system. And that self-hatred made
it all the more natural to internalize criticism from friends as well.
In the fifth grade, I begged my mom to buy me a Spice Girls T-shirt. It
would be the final frontier of my Spice fandom. I had the Chupa Chups
lollipops. I had worn my parents down to buy me platform Skechers. I could
recite Spice World: The Movie from memory, and I was in possession of two
Spice Girls CDs. And duh, I had done my due diligence as “Scary.” But I had
to complete my pyramid of worship, which included merch. I needed to
publicly display my devotion. Then one day, I spotted a Spice Girls T-shirt
on sale and knew it had to be mine. Much to my delight, my mother
acquiesced, and I planned when I could debut the shirt for the maximum
desired effect.
I debuted it at my best friend’s birthday sleepover, where, just the year
before, I was pinned down while my hair was brushed out into a gigantic afro
so we could perform “Wannabe” approximately seventeen million times for a
camcorder. I packed my T-shirt for my next-day outfit, planning to
nonchalantly debut it before everyone’s moms pulled through to pick them
up. I had nailed the pajamas look, wearing a favorite frilly seafoam-green set.
The next morning, finally, it was time for me to change into my marquee
outfit.
I paired the Spice Girls tee with biker shorts, ankle socks, and Keds
sneakers. It was, by my own personal metrics, a winning look, until Kristen
decided otherwise. Three-way-call, Tanning-gate Kristen scoffed as soon as I
entered the room. It appeared that I had worn the wrong thing. “Ew, do you
still like them?” she said and motioned to my T-shirt with the Spice Girls
positioned front and center, just like on their “Wannabe” single cover. “We
are so over them,” she followed up while I scrambled for a response. Kristen
was too mature for ten. Her mom was loose with rules, and Kristen was
always the first to do or have anything. She and I often battled for the coveted
right-hand position to the leader of our group, and our relationship often
flamed up.
I set my jaw determinedly and said as flippantly as possible, “Oh, well,
this is an old shirt,” hating myself for the lie but also hating myself for not
having known that the Spice Girls had become uncool.
In that moment, I made a vow to myself that I would become the person
who makes the call on what’s in or out, what clothing is acceptable, and
would never again be caught in the inglorious crosshairs of being out of touch
with what’s popular. To combat this feeling, I hardened. You know how the
Vibranium suit in Black Panther physically absorbs the shocks of hits and
then uses them as ammunition for enemies? I did that with all my hurt
feelings and powerlessness. I hardened so much that I became manipulative,
calculating, and mean. I was desperate to gain some modicum of control, and
to do that, I constantly doled out criticisms, gossiped, and stirred up petty
drama. I developed a haughty affect that I employed for both passing
judgment and my own protection. And I relied on this manufactured persona
until adulthood, where I used it for the same reasons.
I don’t think there is enough scholarship or discourse around the trope
of the Black mean girl. The mammy archetype and Black Venus have been
analyzed to death, but it seems to me there’s a need for a new investigation
into the making of a mean girl—one who is Black. In my case, it was a
survival mechanism. At least it started out that way. And then it became an
addiction. The 2019 film Selah and the Spades spends a little time examining
this. The plot follows the eponymous character, Selah, a Black girl, as she
acquires and maintains social dominance while navigating her life as a
boarding-school bully. These days, we’re in the habit of collectively
criticizing girls who bully—mean girls—but many people forget that’s what
a lot of us were encouraged to be. In some cases, these personalities formed
as a direct reaction to an environment that was already hostile and unsafe.
I’ve never gotten into a physical altercation in my life, but I’ve still had to
fight. I just did so with psychological and emotional warfare. As Black girls
are slut-shamed, belittled, and discredited, we have to consider, what if the
resulting response is not one of cowering submission but one of premeditated
rage? Personally, I picked the latter.
The 2021 YA novel Ace of Spades (I guess everyone creating on this
topic got a card deck memo) also dissects a power-hungry, popularity-
obsessed Black girl. The story centers around Chiamaka, one of two Black
students at an all-white prep school. Chiamaka is ruthless in her social and
academic pursuits, to the point where the word intense sounds a bit lazy. She
keeps people at arm’s length while using and abusing them to increase her
public capital—a means of outlasting, outshining, and invalidating her white
classmates. She is extreme, of course, but there is an underlying desperation
to her actions, one that suggests she has learned to strike first, before she is
struck. It’s not the kind of character we’re used to seeing. If you google
“Iconic Mean Girls,” you will be served with results that are exclusively
white. The mean white girl, the Blair Waldorfs, the Heathers, the Kathryn
Merteuils—we are trained to understand her, and to some degree, her attitude
is admirable. We know she feels neglected by her parents or has some
underlying daddy issue that makes her lash out in a brutal and unrelenting
fashion. But we do not yet have a framework for understanding the Black girl
who adopts meanness as an armor. The bitchy-Black-woman stereotype has
been done to death—not the mean Black girl. But only Black women have to
negotiate the liability of their Blackness and, therefore, must labor against
any indications that they have even the most minor of character flaws. And
there is a point—in adolescence, I think—where you can make a choice. A
choice to stop feeling so apologetic, to stop feeling so bad all the time. That
choice was to go on the offense and be the deciding voice in who and what
curries favor. I picked that choice. It’s a skill set that is useful for becoming a
fashion editor.
While I can vividly recall the agony of being singled out by Kristen and
mocked for wearing something so unacceptable, I spent the next decade or so
doing the same thing to other people. I did things like make PowerPoint
presentations on “rules” of appearance to coach the girls around me on how
they should look, reenacting the ways television and magazines instructed
me. I sought out social control through manipulation and coercion. I was in
dogged pursuit of an imagined sense power, and was very mean in doing so.
And I strengthened the muscle of my meanness so I could eventually flex it
with little effort. But I wonder now if I was always meanest to myself.
 CHAPTER NINE

I have wanted a different body since I learned what a body was and that mine
was mine. I cannot say it was any one thing in particular that caused me to
consider the shell that I lived in to be wrong. In truth, I had an average body,
probably more on the skinny side. But I always, always, always wanted to be
as small as possible. Perhaps I wanted to disappear, to become so
insignificant that I was not noticeable at all. This instinct worked in direct
opposition to my desire to be celebrated as exceptional, so it was a hard line
to toe. My sister, only twenty-one months my junior, is extremely skinny.
She had what I assumed was the “right” body, while I had the wrong one. As
children, we were constantly compared. In elementary school, our Italian
school principal would playfully marvel at how thin our little legs were.
“Your legs are like spaghetti,” he would say to me. I knew what spaghetti
was. I liked spaghetti. “But your legs,” he would say to my sister, “are like
vermicelli. Do you know what that is?” We didn’t because why would we?
He would then proceed to explain that vermicelli is “the thinnest pasta
noodle! So thin that it just disappears! You can’t even see it.” He would
amuse himself like this over and over, multiple times a week. The verdict is
still out on the creep factor here, but the propriety of the commentary is not
the point. The point is conditioning girls to accept their bodies being
compared to each other and scrutinized so closely. This kind of comparison
becomes second nature for women, and even if it’s projected in the most
harmless way, it can still have disastrous consequences. Eventually, it
revealed to me that my legs were big and my sister’s legs were small, and
visibly so.
In 2015, writer Kelsey Miller published an article for Refinery29 about
dieting in young children. She wrote, “Last week, a new study from Common
Sense Media made headlines by reporting that 80% of 10-year-old girls have
been on a diet. Furthermore, this ‘horrifying new research’ found that more
than half of girls and one-third of boys ages six to eight want thinner bodies.”
Miller goes on to describe that as early as the 1970s, studies have revealed
body dissatisfaction in young children, mostly girls, and that it eventually
results in an indoctrination into diet culture.
For me, this repeated interaction with my principal set up a world where
bigger in any sense was bad. My legs were spaghetti—bad. I needed for them
to become vermicelli. But for the most part, as a child, I was somewhat
unconscious of my desire to be thinner. It was present, but it had not yet
completely taken over my thought patterns. Over time, I began to understand
that “fat” was a monster to be outrun by any means necessary, and it
represented the absolute most undesirable and shameful characteristic that
could be bestowed upon a Black woman: laziness. In a moment of
desperation, I wrote to Santa Claus to ask him that I be put on Weight
Watchers and gifted a NordicTrack for Christmas.
Fatphobia and anti-Blackness are fused concepts. Fatness is associated
with laziness, ineptitude, and ugliness, which are all colleagues of anti-Black
ideas. I assumed by avoiding fatness, I would be able to avoid the other
negative affiliations of anti-Blackness. It was fine for me to be the Black one,
but being the fat one or the fat and Black one would be a fate too hopeless
and forlorn to overcome.
The fusion of the concept of thin and beautiful with whiteness can be
historically traced as an element of the white-supremacist beauty standard.
Yet, as with feminism, white women have become the face and voice of
“body acceptance,” which began as a radical concept for Black women, a
means of compensating for generations of exclusion and ridicule at the hands
of white supremacy. In 2020, singer Lizzo called out the app TikTok for
removing her videos and claiming that her body in a bikini abused the
community guidelines. As TikTok relies on videos generating likes, you can
be assured that there is no shortage of bodies in bikinis on the app. One body
was a problem, though.
The idea that valuing “skinny” is a white concept is thorny. It could be
argued that prizing thinness is an ideology adopted by people of color, or
Black people, merely as a tool to navigate white supremacy. Many Black
members of the modeling and fashion industry say that, growing up, their
slim figures were derided in their communities of Caribbean or African
descent, declaring that female bodies with pronounced butts and breasts were
always preferred. In my family, this was never the case. My paternal
grandmother was militant about food consumption, serving us only what she
thought we could eat and then, if we asked for more, forcing us to finish the
entire dish, no matter what. Eating a meal with her felt like playing blackjack.
My father was the product of her homegrown fatphobia, constantly
commenting on the bodies of people on television, encouraging his children
to stay fit by doing crunches, and making his displeasure for overweight
people—women specifically—widely known. He is a seventy-year-old
retiree who still rises at 5:00 a.m. to do his exercises before he starts the day,
a forever athlete undoubtedly convinced that the opposite of laziness is a
visibly fit body. While we were never put on diets, it was not uncommon for
him to say things like “You have to watch your figure” or simply express so
much disdain for an alternative body type that we absorbed the message:
never become that. It was an implied urging rather than a direct one, aided
and abetted by the media and sustained at home.
My mom joined Weight Watchers and did Jane Fonda tapes in our
living room. By the time the Tae Bo craze came around, my sister and I were
participating in her fitness routine. As someone who has been diagnosed with
a disorder, I don’t think my mom had one, but she did seem to be perpetually
on a diet, swayed by diet culture, Weight Watchers, and SlimFast. She rarely
allowed fast food, rebranding McDonald’s as her homemade healthy
alternative, “Mommy Burgers.” Her friends were always discussing weight
loss and diets. I would catch snippets of these conversations at playdates.
Growing up, women, including my mother, would tell me that dieting
was not something I needed to be concerned with. Then someone would add
a “yet,” and all the women would laugh, knowing that eventually calorie
counting was in my future. It was in all our futures.
By the time I was twelve, I was consciously and obsessively monitoring
my food intake. I focused an incredible amount of energy on never becoming
fat. I think this is the literal definition of fatphobia. And so much of my own
behavior and the content I have produced has been colored by that ideal. I
regret the role I’ve played in giving buoyancy and life to this cultural
sickness, one that I believe needs to be eradicated, but I also recognize that it
has grown deep roots within my own thinking. I’ve been in therapy for years,
and in treatment and recovery from my eating disorder for two years, but that
doesn’t mean I am cured. I just have to try my best to catch regressive
thinking patterns when they pop up and make sure I do not disseminate and
spread that poison further to people who listen to and watch what I do. I’m
hesitant to describe the methodology and mechanics behind my dieting
tactics because they could become prescriptive for anyone who is not yet
healed, but I cannot overemphasize the amount of brain space I have
dedicated over the years to thinking about how to become skinnier or how my
body is fundamentally wrong and must be improved or fixed. I have tried
any- and everything as a way of losing weight. To paint a clearer picture, I
will say that I have never considered myself to be particularly proficient at
math. I frequently use my phone calculator to help me do simple percentages
for tipping at restaurants. However, if you asked me to calculate how long I
would need to be on a treadmill to burn enough calories to be able to eat a
cupcake, I could give you an accurate answer down to the second. If you
asked me when train A was going to crash into train B, I would have no idea.
These thoughts started in childhood and then became second nature—such a
force of habit that I no longer had to work to conjure them. At a certain point,
those demons were just always there.
A surreptitious source of these demons was the mall. I grew up in
suburbia, and online shopping hadn’t really caught on, so there weren’t many
places to get underwear. The department stores were fine, but they skewed
mature (read: old lady). Victoria’s Secret became a sort of mecca, offering a
preview of what it might be like to be an adult woman, a grown-up. The
Angels were everything, stunning beacons guiding us willing disciples to true
womanhood. Their larger-than-life images were plastered all over the stores.
My friends and I obsessed over them, needing to know their names, ages, and
countries of origin. Klum “The Body,” 30, Germany. Banks, 30, USA.
Ambrosio, 22, Brazil. We tuned in to the annual Victoria’s Secret Fashion
Show with the rapt attention of eager protégés.
Victoria’s Secret capitalized on its expert messaging with cheap body
sprays and pajamas printed with phrases like “I’m with the Angels.” The
brand determined what sexy was for an entire generation of girls and boys.
Men were not immune to this messaging either. They might not have been
programmed to be preoccupied with body minutiae, like collarbones and “pit
tit,” but they were effectively trained to see women as attractive or not based
on the standards set by the lovely minds in marketing and advertising. If
you’re coming of age watching your crush lust after a Victoria’s Secret
model, chances are good that you’ll try to emulate that Victoria’s Secret
model.
When I was thirteen, girls became obsessed with wearing thongs
seemingly overnight. Panty lines were an abominable offense and had to be
avoided at all costs. Acquiring a thong was tricky. For one thing, I was a
child, and therefore wearing a thong shouldn’t have been a concern of mine.
And for another, I lived with my parents (see point one), and my mom did my
laundry, so there was no way I could hide wearing a thong from her. My
solution was to wear one and then throw it away. A thong felt secretive and
naughty.
Victoria’s Secret underwear is pretty cheap, so a thirteen-year-old with
access to money would have no problem cleaning up there, especially during
the semiannual sale, which, despite the name, seemed to happen at least once
a month. I memorized their sale schedule because I always wanted to make
sure I could go to the counter with dozens of new panties and bras, satisfied
with my single-use spoils.
Before puberty, I had always been the same size as my friends, and it
was common for us to share clothing. We would often swap items from
Limited Too and the juniors section of Nordstrom. But puberty hit me hard,
and my body began to change—in my opinion, for the worse. There was a
day in eighth grade when I could no longer fit into my best friend’s pants.
They wouldn’t go past my thighs. Size twelve was too small. For some
reason, I had an insane superstition that your clothing size needed to
coordinate perfectly with your age. The realization that there was no size
thirteen was crushing. What now? I felt let down by my body. I assumed that
I had done something wrong to grow past that juniors sizing. I didn’t know
how I could correct my mistake, but I did know, more importantly, that I had
to hide that shameful truth from everyone. I became obsessed with making
sure that my weight stayed under one hundred pounds. The number was
arbitrary, but I was sure that crossing over into triple digits would mean
certain death. I just knew it. I became seriously curious about how to diet. I
figured that by restricting my food intake, I could stop my body from
betraying me.
I started throwing away food when no one was looking. I busied myself
with other things while food was being served or claimed I had homework so
I could “eat” alone. It was an obsession that continued to fester over the
years, intensified by the fact that it had to be kept secret. I knew that not
eating wasn’t acceptable behavior and that it would disappoint many people,
people I needed to have positive opinions of me. A page from my middle
school diary dated December 29, 2000, reads, “It’s later. Almost dinner.
Actually, I’m not hungry. Well I am, but sometimes I feel fat. Like I should
be skinnier. My parents are like ‘Oh, you should exercise’ and all, but maybe
not eating is the answer. My parents will always make me eat. I haven’t told
them how I feel, but they wouldn’t go for it. I was even doing sit-ups so I
won’t look like a fool at Kristen’s bday party.” (Yes, I hated Kristen, but she
always had a fancy birthday party at a hotel, and I would not be missing that.)
In December 2000, I was twelve years old, and I’d already been recording
these types of furtive thoughts for years. I continued on like that, privately
documenting my self-loathing and monitoring my calories.
The resolute devotion to making sure I was the same size as my friends
made shopping at Victoria’s Secret a personal hell. My friends were all tiny.
They wore size extra small because we were children and because they were
actually small. Plus, as they were all white, they didn’t get the butt I did when
the freight train of puberty screeched into town. They would buy thongs in
their sizes, and I, too embarrassed to admit that a thong that size felt like a
torture device, bought the same size. Let the record show that I wear a large
in underwear, a medium sometimes. But I squeezed myself into size extra
small thongs. I assumed, for years, that like my perm or eyebrow threading or
dieting or any other thing meant to outwardly define femininity, thongs were
supposed to hurt. I dreaded any occasion that would require me to wear a
thong, knowing just how palpably miserable I would be. I also dreaded being
exposed for not wearing a thong. How anyone might find out about my
underwear at thirteen never occurred to me, but still, just in case, I made sure
to do my duty because being caught wearing or doing the wrong thing was
potentially way worse than wearing too-small underwear.
In seventh grade, the first boy I ever kissed finally drew the decisive
bridge between being loved and being thin. It happened during a rowdy game
of truth or dare. My coed class of twelve had eight girls and four boys, all of
whom wanted a chance to sample what it might be like to kiss our classmates,
so the boys invented a spin-the-bottle-like game. It was dressed up like truth
or dare, except dare was the only option, and the dare was always to kiss
someone. The rotation was at the discretion of the onlookers, an attempt to
make sure the kissing playing field was equalized. It was pretty unromantic,
but I didn’t have much interaction with boys, so I took what I could get.
When it was my turn, I assumed that the boy selected for me was at the very
least approving of my physical appearance because he did not refuse the kiss.
I had seen some other people get painfully rejected during the game, and
since that had not happened to me, it must have meant that I looked OK. We
kissed. Everyone cheered and clapped appropriately, and we seemed to move
on with our lives. I had no feelings about him either way, but he told his
friend (who told my friend over Nextel bleep) that—and this is a direct quote,
seared into my memory so deep that it will probably be etched into my
tombstone—“Danielle’s butt is so big, it always looks like she’s wearing a
diaper.”
Well, there it was. This will be hard for younger people to imagine, but
there was once a cultural landscape where not everyone was praising
derrieres as peaches, where having a “big butt” was a punch line, not a prize.
I had certainly noticed my ballooning bottom, but I was hoping that no one
else had. I’d begun to resent being in leotards in dance class because I could
see that the sway of my back was exaggerated and that my butt stuck out in a
way that none of the other little dancers’ did. I wore a sweatshirt tied around
my waist, which I marketed as a stylistic choice, but the reality was that it
was purely functional. I constantly tucked my pelvis forward, clenching my
glutes, hoping this might help reduce their size. Obviously, none of this
worked, but I hoped the stupid thing people said about concerning yourself
with things no one else sees was actually true. It’s not. People see. And
people saw my butt. But not just any people. I thought that boy had kissed me
because he favored how I looked. What a fatal miscalculation that proved to
be.
That pivotal moment was the beginning of the end. Once I heard the
comment, I knew I had no choice but to reduce my butt or suffer a fate of
loneliness and social isolation for the rest of my life. I did not want to be the
girl who “always looks like she’s wearing a diaper!” I was wearing agonizing
thongs, and I wanted the credit for it.
By the time I got to high school, the butt, my butt, was beginning to
incur an uncomfortable amount of notoriety. People noticed no matter what I
did. We all started listening to hip-hop and rap, and any song that mentioned
a butt made me physically ill. “Oh my God, it’s for you!” my friends would
squeal as Sir Mix-a-Lot’s infamous “Baby Got Back” would play at school
dances. Hands would find the small of my back and shove me toward the
center of a circle, where I would unenthusiastically shake my hips since
sprinting away wasn’t really an option. The lyrics of that song haunted me.
Before Sir-Mix-a-Lot begins rapping, a hyperbolic conversation
between two white women plays. They say, quite famously, “Oh my God,
Becky, look at her butt! It’s so big.” This has become somewhat of a quirky
quip, in part thanks to Nicki Minaj remixing it in her 2014 hit “Anaconda.”
However, the rest of the conversation is not easily called to memory: “She
looks like one of those rap guys’ girlfriends. But, ya know, who understands
those rap guys? They only talk to her because she looks like a total prostitute,
k? I mean her butt is just so big. I can’t believe it’s so round. It’s like out
there. I mean, gross, look. She’s just so . . . black.” This is clearly meant to be
a satirical conversation, but I have heard girls talk like this. I myself
participated in conversations like this, identifying women as tacky or slutty if
they showed off certain body parts. I, of course, had nothing to say in the race
department, but I’m sure it must have come up among people I knew. Many
of these conversations happened in front of me, so who knows what went on
behind my enormous butt?
At fourteen, about a year into my experimentation with what I will call
“extreme dieting,” my parents came to pick me up from school when I passed
out and fell down the steps. My high school’s original building was in an old
mansion, so let’s just say, it was a lot of steps to tumble down. I lay sprawled
out at the bottom, thankful I always wore shorts under my uniform skirt, but
unconscious nonetheless. The ambulance came and escorted me to
Greenwich Hospital, where I regained consciousness.
I was in shock. Everyone started asking “What happened?” and I had to
confess that I hadn’t eaten all day, probably for the past few days. I left the
hospital with a slight concussion and an inexplicable stutter that lasted for
months. Well, that did it. I’d scared myself. I made sure to eat close to
regularly for at least a year. But eventually, after I regained my speech and
got back to a more normal routine, the old fears about gaining weight
returned. Once I was healthy again, I could freely concern myself with the
width of my still-developing hips.
The hierarchy of human needs is a tricky beast. All my immediate needs
were taken care of, leaving space and time for superficial anxieties to make
their way to the surface. This is the common reasoning behind the pervasive
idea that eating disorders affect only white women. There is a statistical basis
for eating disorders being more prevalent in the white community—but only
because eating disorders are typically only studied in white women. It’s
dangerous to assume that food issues can be explained away as a symptom of
being white and rich. And racial bias in medicine often prevents discovery
and exploration of conditions that specifically affect Black people. In recent
years, data has exposed the fact that Black women suffer from bulimia at a
higher rate than previously recorded. Black women have also become more
vocal about suffering from eating disorders. We might have a different point
of origin driving us toward disordered eating, but the resulting pathology is
the same.
In 2019, female rapper CupcakKe went viral after showing off the
results of her monthlong water fast. Most people were alarmed by the results
of what someone might look like after ingesting only water for one month
straight. And yet, almost no one suggested she seek treatment for an eating
disorder. Many commenters, too many, were mesmerized by CupcakKe’s
transformation and wanted to try it themselves. I had similar inquiries when I
documented my frequent “fasting” on social media and, even before, when
diet tips were passed by word of mouth. Disguising eating disorders as
“cleanses” or “detoxes” is how these behaviors slip by mostly unnoticed.
After my fall, I was assaulted by a series of anxiety-inducing questions
that I had no answers to, like “Why didn’t you eat?” and “Why would you do
that?” It was devastating that people knew I had fallen because I wasn’t
eating. I began to make my eating a performance, deliberately making a show
of my meals, always ensuring there was an audience. Being someone who
“never ate” indicated a weakness in character. It was usually associated with
girls who were excessively interested in clothes—think Emily in The Devil
Wears Prada. (And by the way, after seeing that movie, I started eating a
little nibble of cheese instead of a full meal every time I got hungry.) Even
though I was a girl interested in clothes, I didn’t want to appear shallow. For
the time being, it was essential that whatever I had going on with food, it had
to be kept completely secret.
 CHAPTER TEN

For a lot of people, “Baby Got Back” served as affirmation of the existence
of women with butts and men who, well, liked them. Finally, they got an
anthem that acknowledged what they knew to be true: men like big butts and
they cannot lie. In fact, between the years of 1810 and 1815, Saartjie
Baartman, a woman who came to be known as the “Hottentot Venus,” was
kidnapped from modern-day South Africa by a European doctor and literally
put on display for up to ten hours per day in cities like London and Paris
because white people were so mesmerized by what they considered to be her
exaggerated backside and genitalia. Her body was viewed as grotesque. And
yet, in 1870, almost sixty years after Baartman was violated for white
people’s entertainment, the first Victorian bustle appeared. For those not well
versed in fashion history, a bustle is essentially an undergarment worn
beneath skirts in order to give a woman a backside that looks uncannily like
Saartjie Baartman’s body. In recent years, scholars have drawn a connection
between Baartman’s involuntary popularity and the advent of the bustle in
white high society. The look that became a cornerstone and defining
characteristic of nineteenth-century fashion was—like so many things—
stolen from a Black woman who was shamed, ostracized, and fetishized
because of her body. It’s the blueprint for appropriation, and it is still in
practice today. Currently, we call these Brazilian butt lifts, a surgical bustle.
But back to Sir Mix-a-Lot. For butts to be considered sexually desirable,
and for them to be celebrated so brazenly out in the open, was a major
problem for me. It left me vulnerable to girls who had previously assumed
that my Blackness took me out of competition for boys’ attention—white
boys’ attention, specifically. The DUFF—also known as the Designated Ugly
Fat Friend—and the Token Black Girl were one and the same: totally
unthreatening in terms of romantic competition. Why would some guy, let’s
call him Chad, go for me when he could have a white girl like Becky? This
song opened the floodgates for the possibility that Chad might consider me
and my big butt sexually preferable to Becky. Listen, I did not want that
smoke.
I knew if I expressed any pride in my anatomy, the other girls would
destroy it with one sentence or less. I never learned how to twerk or properly
utilize what many saw as a natural gift because it brought me so much shame
and embarrassment. When you’re the only Black girl in a sea of white ones,
your best hope is to try to fit in. It will make everything infinitely easier. In
2011, at the royal wedding of Prince William and (now Duchess) Kate
Middleton, Middleton’s younger sister stole the spotlight on an international
scale, and every single headline was about . . . her butt. If you look at this
image now, ten years later, you might ask yourself, as I did at the time,
“What butt?” Pippa Middleton’s dress was neither tight nor indecent, but the
fervor created by the press over her tiny, tiny booty was sickening. Imagine
what it is like for someone with an actual butt to watch this go down. My
adolescence, trying to make my escape whenever “Bootylicious” or “Baby
Got Back” blared out of a sound system, came flying back to me.
Plus, however exaggerated the conversation around Pippa’s rear end, or
the one mimicked in the Sir Mix-a-Lot song, that is still pretty much the way
women talk about themselves and each other. “Slut shaming,” now a widely
criticized practice, was so common, it was instinctual. If you had boobs or a
butt, you knew not to draw extra attention to it, or you’d risk the wrath and
judgment of your female peers. I still second-guess myself often when getting
dressed. The residual shame of a Catholic education constantly reminds me
that I am potentially being a desperate slut.
In 2020, Vogue published a Met Gala retrospective where former Vogue
creative director Sally Singer reminisced, “One year, Jessica Simpson was
there with John Mayer. She was wearing Michael Kors and her breasts maybe
fell out of her dress, and then at dinner it was suddenly like, whoa, Jessica
Simpson’s breasts are across from me at the dinner table and they are on a
platter and I am looking at them.” This was printed in cancel-happy 2020, not
the “anything goes” media era of 2002. And it’s a derogatory statement about
a very rich white woman, albeit one who fashion was always kind of
reluctant to accept. Nonetheless, it’s the way fashion people speak about
women’s bodies then and now. It’s problematic that these are the voices
behind what teenage girls are reading. It warps their thoughts, painting any
body that is not rail-thin and prepubescent as skanky.
 “She’s spilling out,” “She’s asking for it,” and “She’s doing too much”
are all phrases we are trained to think and say, knowing exactly how to
supervise ourselves and others. I spent years trying to talk myself into
wearing shorts, knowing the combination of my butt and thighs would garner
so much negative attention and judgment that I instead just opted to sweat.
I preferred jeans that flattened out my butt. And if you thought my
thong-shopping experience was bad, trust me when I say jeans shopping was
way worse. In the early 2000s, the only butt in town was JLo’s, and even she
was not exempt from the denim limitations of the era. Brands like Apple
Bottoms, House of Deréon, and Baby Phat catered to a curvier, more urban
audience, but donning those brands in Greenwich, Connecticut, would have
been the social equivalent of wearing a bikini to play ice hockey. It just
wasn’t done. So I suffered, stuffing myself into jeans that pushed my ass
flesh out the top, spending countless hours hiking up my pants. The bigger
my butt got, the bigger my jean size had to be, and to my dismay, despite a
moderate number of calories and an excessive amount of exercise, I still
grew, and so did it. I was wearing up to a denim size twenty-nine and thirty
when I was sixteen, just to be able to accommodate my hips and butt. Stretch
denim was simply not a thing back then. All my friends wore size twenty-five
and twenty-six, so the messaging that I was fat became even louder. I felt like
it was being shouted at me all the time. I was constantly bombarded with
reminders that my body was wrong. I felt enormous compared to everyone
else, and I couldn’t see a world where my body would ever be acceptable.
I was so terrified of becoming fat that I went into hyperdrive, always
running from something. I carefully recorded the ways girls would speak
about other girls whose bodies they found unacceptable. I listened even more
intently to the way boys coded girls’ bodies. No matter what, “fat” was an
insult, an absolutely unacceptable thing that I could never become. But since
I already saw myself as fat, the best I could hope for was to disguise it, just as
I had thought I was doing with my butt before it busted free and double-
crossed me. My commitment to dieting increased substantially.
While over the last decade it seems that everyone is interested in having
an ass, dangerously so if the BBL data reports are to be believed, obscure
physical features like “back dimples,” little dents of bone that showed just
above the waistband of low-rise jeans, were everything in the early part of the
millennium. I did not have these. Along with the back dimples I didn’t have, I
was also introduced to the concept of a “thigh gap.” We didn’t have a name
for it back in 2004, but we knew, all the same, that thighs were never to
touch. Friends would coach me on how to stand in photos to appear as if I
had a thigh gap even when I didn’t. We were constantly thinking and talking
about what to do to avoid our thighs rubbing together, as if that would be the
absolute worst thing in the world. I felt sorry for girls whose thighs touched,
and it’s still something I notice, even when I don’t want to. As depressing as
it is to admit, it is still my personal barometer for whether I have gained too
much weight. Do I understand what a colossal waste of time and energy it is
to be concerned with the minuscule distance in between your thighs?
Absolutely. But once an idea like that is planted and establishes roots, a girl
needs a whole lot of herbicide if she’s ever going to eradicate it.
Unfortunately for me, I had only fertilizer for these kinds of toxic ideas, so
they blossomed inside me like a twisted garden, killing whatever semblance
of self-esteem I had and making sure I was aware they were in control, not
me.
In dark corners of the internet during my teenage years, I’d visit sites
that existed solely to promote recklessly thin bodies. They were sometimes
called pro-ana or pro-mia sites, aptly named for the diseases they nursed and
endorsed. These sites featured images of girls who showed off their bones—
shoulders, ribs, hips—making the skeleton an emblem of victory. I used to
visit these sites to get “diet tips,” which were little more than bizarre,
disordered habits we passed to one another. I admired the diligence and
discipline that I knew were required to have that kind of body. I never posted
on the sites because, even when I found myself under 20 percent body fat, I
was still too ashamed of my softness to participate. I always looked just a bit
too healthy.
When I was fourteen, I got invited to a casual hang in Chappaqua, the
town the Clintons run, so to speak, in upper Westchester. The gathering was a
typical parents-upstairs, kids-downstairs kind of thing at the house of one of
my closest friends. My friend was white, of course. Another friend was in
attendance—a petite but overweight girl who floated by on her affable
personality—and as the evening was ending, her brother came to pick her up.
He ended up sitting next to me on a couch and we started talking. From my
recollection, it was an innocent conversation. I wasn’t comfortable enough at
fourteen to flirt with anyone, but that didn’t matter. When my friend saw me
talking to her brother, she yanked him up by the arm. “Stop talking to her,”
she told him. I was completely taken aback. While I was still seated, she put
her face in front of mine and said, “I don’t want you talking to my brother
because you are a slut.” My cheeks and neck burned. Even though she was
talking to only me, I was sure other people could hear.
I was immediately confused. For one, I never considered myself
attractive, but I did do my best to present myself in a way that was
conventionally acceptable. It was a weekend, so I was most likely in a
combination of a denim miniskirt and a T-shirt or tank top with sneakers, an
exact replica of everyone else’s outfits. But still, I was labeled a slut. I had
somehow unknowingly released sexy pheromones that were a threat to my
friend and a danger to me. No part of me wanted this girl’s brother, and no
part of me wanted to be labeled a slut, either, but I accidentally got both. I
knew it had something to do with both how I was dressed and how I was
seen, so from that moment on, I tried not to overtly communicate sex. I wore
ballet flats to many dances because I, one, was taller than a lot of the boys;
two, did not want to seem like I was doing “too much;” and three, recognized
that high heels were inherently sexy and therefore probably should not be
worn. I became more and more devoted to fashion and took on what I will
generously label as a more avant-garde aesthetic because boys hated that kind
of thing.
The next year, I met a white boy at a dance. He was moderately
attractive but kind of geeky and greasy in the way that underdeveloped
teenage boys often are. It was not easy to meet boys when you went to an all-
girls school, so interactions with them became monumental events. He was
an enthusiastic “grinder,” a mating ritual only millennials will understand,
and expressed his feelings for me by rubbing his crotch against my backside.
My best friend, a Latina girl, was engaged in a similar flirtation with one of
his friends. To cement our newfound status, we tried to find excuses to hang
out with these guys on the weekends, in addition to connecting with them
regularly over stress-inducing texts and AIM.
Somehow, one of us managed to coordinate everyone’s schedules so we
would get hours of time with this group of boys on a Saturday afternoon and
evening. It took so much clever manipulation and pure serendipity, but we’d
managed to pair everyone up with a potential partner that would result in a
“hookup.” To our group in 2005, that meant sloppy kissing and light petting.
I had successfully orchestrated a match with that same thin white boy from
the dance, who was taller than me (truly the only metric that mattered since I
was insecure about my height). Due to my limited interaction with the
opposite sex, every exchange was extremely high stakes, and I had more or
less convinced myself that I loved him. That afternoon, we made out in a
bathroom, and I was sure that the subtle physical touches and hints
throughout the night were meant to communicate that he liked me.
A few days later, my best friend and his were officially in a confirmed
“relationship,” whatever that meant for two kids who didn’t live anywhere
near each other and couldn’t even drive. I had heard nothing from the boy I’d
kissed, aside from a “Sup” message that came through to my pink Razr on the
following Sunday night. I was conscious that I was still in the audition phase,
that nothing had been solidified between us, but I figured we had a healthy
enough foundation to build upon. Plus, our friends were “dating,” so that
should make it easier for him to ask me to be his girlfriend. I agonized over it
for days. I thought of nothing but committing our every word and touch to
memory. I wanted to make sure I could analyze all potential clues so I could
guess what he was thinking about me.
As it turns out, I really couldn’t. One night, my best friend called my
landline (you used to get charged for minutes, so it was best for long
conversations to happen the old-fashioned way) to tell me that she had an
update to deliver about my crush. She was clearly nervous, talking fast and
trying to explain a lot. “Don’t be mad,” she said. Blood rushed through my
ears; my intuition told me what was coming.
“I’m not,” I said, the requisite response.
“OK, well, [my crush] told [her boyfriend] that he can’t date you
because . . .” She hesitated and let the sentence hover for a moment, but my
hammering heartbeat told me I already knew the rest.
“Because I’m Black,” I finished for her with an assist.
“Yes.” She exhaled, clearly relieved that she didn’t have to be the one to
say it.
I cannot explain how I knew this was the reason; I just knew. Four years
later, in 2010, John Mayer, another Fairfield County–born-and-raised white
man, would give a notorious interview to Playboy where he said he had a
“nigger pass” and then likened his sexual preferences to David Duke, former
grand wizard of the KKK. Based on his popularity within the Black
community, Mayer was asked by the interviewer if “Black women were
throwing themselves” at him, to which he replied, “I don’t think I open
myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton
heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I’m going to start dating separately
from my dick.” He then went on to list the Black women he found attractive:
Holly Robinson Peete, Hilary Banks (played by Karyn Parsons Rockwell),
and Kerry Washington, the latter of whom he referred to as “white girl
crazy.”
In a Newsweek opinion piece in response to his interview, Allison
Samuels wrote, “My guess is Mayer will suffer little for his comments. And
the reason is very simple. He clearly said out loud what a large majority of
mainstream men in power feel in private. I’m referring to those invisible men
in the corner offices with the influence and power to put women in movies,
on magazine covers, and on television shows. The ones who decide what
beauty looks like, how much it weighs, and what age it should be. The ones
who, just like John Mayer, have deemed black women as just not good
enough.” Samuels went on to say, “He and his peers’ lack of interest in
African-American women doesn’t just impact us on date night, it impacts
important decisions about how we are viewed all over the world. And it
determines whether those sightings are balanced and diverse.” And this is the
reason why Black people care about likability in the eyes of white people in
the first place.
White men are largely in control of who gets hired and fired and what
art gets made and seen. It’s gross, but overcoming this color barrier can be a
means of increasing your access to opportunities.
I think it is worth noting that Mayer’s upbringing in the liberal North
and the fact that his childhood best friend was Black professional tennis
player James Blake did absolutely nothing to squash out the dormant racism
of American white men. It was an extremely damaging interview, but
nonetheless, John Mayer persists, doesn’t he? And he is representative of a
lot of white men, giving them a voice and legitimacy. Tell me there were
different conversations happening at frats. I dare you.
Mayer was also, in some measure, a local hero. In fact, many of my
friends wanted to see him on tour years after the interview ran. I guess not
everyone had the same memory for that kind of thing that I did. Yet I held on
to that quote the same way I held the memory of being rejected by another
Fairfield County–raised bigot because I was Black. You may be thinking I
should have sought out Black love interests, and I would have had that been a
real, plausible option for me, but I simply did not have access to a pool of
Black boys. When I met Black boys later on, they expressed their displeasure
for my personality, not looks, by and large telling me that I was a spoiled
princess. Go figure!
On some level, I felt comforted with the knowledge. At least now I
knew. I wouldn’t have to dream up excuses for the way he was icing me out.
It became something of a pastime of mine: finding and falling in love with
white boys who were clearly uninterested in me. I couldn’t help but re-create
this traumatic rejection over and over again into adulthood. I sought out ways
to prove to myself that I was both wanted and unwanted by seeking out these
types of partners and collecting data from our romantic interactions. That
particular guy moved to New York City, too, and our circles of friends
remained tangentially related. After high school, he went to Cornell. He,
unsurprisingly, works in finance and has a very white, very blonde, and very
skinny girlfriend. They might be engaged.
I never really considered the effect those comments and incidents had
on my self-worth until other Black women with similar experiences began to
discuss those experiences more publicly. In the summer of 2020, actress
Thandiwe Newton gave an interview to Vulture in which she details how her
invisibility as the only Black girl affected her ability to have healthy adult
romantic relationships: “We didn’t talk about it at the time, but the damage
was so done. It just made me super-vulnerable to predators. That’s the truth.
Because there’s so much about not having a sense of my value. I suffered
quite badly for a couple of years from anorexia, and it all feeds into this. Just
wanting to disappear. What happened for me was I had a very complicated
relationship with [sexual relationships] I never chose. I let other people do the
choosing for me. That saddens me. It was like I had to give something back
for being noticed. You get predators and sexual abusers, they can smell it a
mile off.”
The “damage” Thandiwe refers to is her desperate desire to be both
recognized and accepted. She never won awards at school and was never
given solos in her dance class, and that pattern eventually festered into a
work ethic that had both positive and negative consequences on her. I relate
to the anorexia part, surely, but also the vulnerability that being ignored
creates. I was convinced that I had to work for and earn affection. In romantic
relationships, affection wasn’t something that would be readily offered, so I
knew that just like with grades or sports or dance, I would have to put in the
time and effort to be loved. I assumed that nearly all that necessary effort had
to do with how I looked. I sought out relationships with men who displayed
indifference or even disdain for me. I would contort myself for their attention,
changing little and big things about how I looked, dressed, or behaved. Even
now, I find it difficult to trust anyone who admits to being attracted to me. A
sizable “why?” hovers in the air. I cannot wrap my head around simply being
liked for who I am, and a large part of that stems back to that moment of
being told I wasn’t datable simply because I am Black.
There wasn’t much I could do about that guy, but I’d be damned if I let
the same thing happen to me again. I vowed to embody the apex of physical
perfection—to the best of my ability, anyway. And thus, I doubled down on
my quest to transcend my race by becoming as attractive and successful as
possible.
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

Buried in the commitment to being beautiful is an understanding that certain

necessary sacrifices must be made. When a person starts wearing skirts or
heels, for example, they do so with the understanding that those items may
limit their free movement. Activities where a person might become sweaty or
otherwise undone are no longer suitable; they will tarnish the carefully
crafted veneer of a pristine exterior. As the ideal of beauty and the subsequent
maintenance of beauty increases in importance, so, too, does avoiding
anything that could impede this new, weighty occupation.
My high school had a pool in a basement under the auditorium. Yes,
indeed, The Craft flashbacks. It was where our swim team practiced, but it
was also used for PE classes during the winter. Physical education,
colloquially known as “gym class,” is not an elective. It is, in fact, a state-
required element of a comprehensive education. Because I played a varsity
sport, I was excused from gym, but only during the spring and fall trimesters.
During winter, I was expected to attend. I knew the class affected not only
my grade point average—a numerical value with influence over my life that
was surpassed by only my weight—but also my ability to progress to the next
grade, or even graduate. Passing gym was nonnegotiable. Unfortunately for
me, so was never ever getting into that pool. I knew my precious perm would
come undone the second I submerged myself underwater, and I also knew I
could not possibly reveal my natural hair texture at school. The time it would
take for me to shower and set my hair properly after a swim would be akin to
a whole afternoon. It’s called “wash day,” not “wash thirty minutes”—I
would miss the remainder of the day’s classes. My white classmates were
able to shower in the locker room and return to class with damp hair,
comfortable that it would dry in a way that was still acceptable, if not ideal. I
was sure that if I ever got in that pool, my life would be over.
Of course, this feels absurd almost twenty years later, and it pains me
that other young girls might still be grappling with these same kinds of
feelings, that one day my own daughter might sacrifice her academic standing
by opting out of swimming in gym class. But I also remember fruitlessly
begging my mother to send us to sleepaway camp. Later, upon finding out
that my mother had attended sleepaway camp as a girl, I demanded an
explanation as to why we had been denied the same pleasure. She said with a
shudder, “There was no one there that could do my hair. That was the worst
summer of my life.” Her answer was sufficient enough to stop my line of
questioning. I couldn’t imagine any experience, no matter how great, would
make me want to abandon haircare completely.
So I spent four years of my life conjuring excuses to get out of
swimming. I had my period a few times, and when that excuse was
implausible—as gym was every week for three months—I had injuries. I was
ill. I was anything I needed to be as long as I wasn’t in that pool.
Miraculously, it worked. My gym teacher, of course, grew tired of me. One
winter, she snapped at me during the last class, “We wear tampons, you
know,” alluding to her knowledge that a period should not actually keep
someone out of a pool. I flinched like I’d been hit. It killed me to displease
anyone. The issue itself was not swimming, which I would have gladly
explained to her. In fact, I am an excellent swimmer. But “I have to protect
my straight hair, no matter what” was not something I could say to my gym
teacher, who seemed exempt from the curses of vanity. So I endured the
consequences of skipping out on the swim requirement. It doesn’t have any
effect on my life now, similar to how the SATs were everything and then
they were nothing after all was said and done. But what does still haunt me is
the fact that I would continue to make exceptions to my schedule, my goals,
and my comfort because I needed to look a certain way, all in order to fit into
a context that wasn’t meant for me. Really, my commitment to beauty was
never just about beauty.
I didn’t have the agency to defend myself against my teacher’s
judgment. There was a gulf of understanding between us that I didn’t have
the tools or language to cross, a distance that existed not just between me and
my teachers, but also between me and my peers. Though it would be a long
time before I learned how to name them, microaggressions from friends and
classmates happened regularly, each one chipping away a little more of my
sense of who I was.
Penny was a great tennis player—shrewd and competitive. She was also
an imaginative storyteller—some might even say a liar—reckless, and a bit
mean, but at the same time, she was really fun. She was a year older than me
after repeating a grade, so she got her driver’s license earlier than everyone
else in our class. Because we were tennis partners and the only two freshmen
on the team, we spent a lot of time together. She was obsessed with history
and status, and she often bragged about being a “daughter of the revolution.”
She said she had ancestors who came to America on the Mayflower. This, of
course, could have been true, but it was questionable because it was widely
known that Penny had been adopted.
Penny would often badger people about their family’s origins until she
got an answer she was satisfied with. One day, after we had sped down the
dirt and gravel path from the main school building to the tennis courts for
practice, a trail of dust lingering behind her Jeep, she asked me where my
family was from. I dreaded hearing this question because the truth was I
didn’t really know. I also didn’t want to ask my parents because I loathed
discussing historical topics with them, knowing it would lead to an
unpleasant lecture about adversity and hardship. I still hate this question, but
for different reasons. It is a shameless way to attempt to assess people’s
value. What I wanted to say was, “My family crawled themselves from the
blood-drenched soil of the South and resolutely worked and worked and
worked for half of the pay and even less of the glory of your family so we
could both end up in the very same place.” That’s not what I said, though.
I knew Penny would never let the question drop. I had watched her
badger too many people with it but had always managed to successfully elude
the question myself. On that day, we were not alone in Penny’s car; her best
friend, Noelle, also Black, accompanied us to practice. I felt a special kinship
with Noelle, even though many of our white classmates refused to tell us
apart and frequently interchanged our names despite our looking nothing
alike. Noelle’s father was natively Jamaican. He had a strong accent, and
though she was raised in New York, she could clearly pinpoint “where she
came from,” unlike me. In a sadistic way, I think Penny understood this when
she finally cornered me that day.
“As you know, my family came over on the Mayflower . . .” Penny
began. I selectively tuned out the rest. I had heard this overly rehearsed play
so many times that I could silently mouth her lines. “Where’s your family
from?” she asked when she was satisfied with the retelling of her family
history. She spun around to look at me in the back seat.
 To this day, I can’t say what possessed me to answer the way I did. I
can only hypothesize that years of acrimonious silences and prolonged
bitterness made me snap like a branch holding too much snow. “Your family
probably owned my family,” I replied, with no inflection in my voice. I had
never been more honest. I had never suggested out loud that I was a
descendant of slaves. I also understood that in this exchange, I was meant to
be denied any pride in being Black. The point of it all was to shame me.
Of course, there was no way to know whether her family owned slaves,
but statistically speaking, if a white family had come on the Mayflower and
settled somewhere in the original thirteen colonies, it was highly probable
that, over several generations, somebody owned slaves. I didn’t know enough
about my family history to say either way, but I wanted to shock her and
diminish her invalid pride in an ancestry that didn’t even belong to her.
Penny was unmoved. She shrugged and said, “Yeah, but I am sure they
were, like, the nice kind. Like probably your great-great-great-grandmother
and mine were friends.” Noelle said nothing, and neither did I. There was
nothing to say. White people’s belief that slavery was an unfortunate thing
that happened a long time ago and has nothing to do with them is cardinal to
maintaining the mythos around whiteness. I was a child and had yet to really
begin to understand the cruelty and brutality of slavery and its punishing,
long-lasting trauma.
In 2019, I took a DNA test and discovered atrocities still lingering in
my bloodstream to the tune of 20 percent European DNA. It must have been
that “friends” thing Penny was talking about.
Penny finally knew where to place me in her lineage hierarchy. In some
way, I knew where to place myself too. And it was critical that I maintain the
performance of my role at all times, an imagined necessity that extended to
any and all areas of my life.
By that time in my life, eating had become a performative act. It is
obviously necessary for survival, and the unfavorable view of those with
visible eating disorders was enough for me to know that I needed to keep this
shit locked up tight in the closet. So I carefully planned how I would display
to the world that I was a girl who ate. When I began to live on my own, my
freedom expanded exponentially. As a college student, I was no longer
confined to the strict timetables that school and family dinner provided, and I
was able to disguise my eating disorder by busying myself in work, saying I
was too busy to eat. Token Black Girl representative Kerry Washington, an
alum of the prestigious Spence School, describes her relationship to eating
and her body the same way. While promoting the 2004 film Ray, Washington
told O, The Oprah Magazine, “In college, I began over-exercising and under-
eating, convinced that a perfect figure would ensure my success as an actor.
In a profession where rejection happened daily and my fate was always in the
hands of others, my body became the one thing that I could control.”
Environments where women feel as if many things are out of their
control can produce a psychology that is linked to eating disorders. And any
environment that rewards either hard work or perfection is a breeding ground.
Washington continues, “I always became a prettier, smarter, taller, and
thinner Kerry. My disease of perfectionism began early, and the myth of ‘I’m
not enough’ only flourished with time.” By the time Washington was
enrolled in college at George Washington University, she was sneaking away
from her friends to binge and purge.
Finding convincing excuses is essential for maintaining an eating
disorder. In my case, having a study commitment was seamless since being a
“driven woman” is a positive quality. I adapted this same excuse later in life
when I entered the working world. When I could no longer stand the hunger
and I needed to “crack” and eat something, I would binge-drink on top of
eating and then throw up, using the alcohol as a cover for bulimia. When
you’ve been drinking as a college student, you can easily throw up in public,
and no one will think anything of it. I found it incredibly humiliating to throw
up after eating, but being drunk eliminated my inhibitions.
Being an alcoholic was totally acceptable. Fun, even. Being a bulimic
was not. I stopped drinking about six years ago and stopped puking maybe
three years after that. People question me about why I don’t drink all the
time, asking if I will ever “be fun again.” I don’t know what to say. I know
drinking will almost certainly make me want to start throwing up my food.
Partying and purging are too closely related for me. One almost always
followed the other. It was just too easy. Escaping to the bathroom during
dinner is a telltale sign of something being amiss. Escaping to the bathroom
during a party is a telltale sign of a good evening. I became the poster girl for
booting and rallying, and no one had any idea I was booting because I was
actually sick with something else.
The basic idea that being hungry means you should feed yourself and
give your body what it wants is a difficult concept for me. I spent so much
energy ignoring basic cues that are useful for survival. Self-discipline became
my superpower. I can override nearly any itch, desire, or even necessity. All-
nighters for studying? No problem. No time to stop and go to the bathroom?
Easy for me. Impossibly high heels for ten hours a day? Me! All these toxic
behaviors flawlessly executed with no chemical enhancements, just
adrenaline and sheer self-hate.
More than anything, I craved that sense of control. I not only wanted to
carefully orchestrate how others saw me but also wanted to fundamentally
control what went in and out of my body because only I could. Just as I made
many quality-of-life sacrifices for my hair, I began to make decisions based
on how they might affect my weight. I would never smoke weed because I
heard it could make you hungry. I didn’t go on birth control until I got an
IUD in my late twenties because I was terrified that it might make me gain
weight. For the same reason, I resisted antidepressants I was prescribed. I
exercised obsessively. I was at the gym every day, no matter what. I ran
because it was free and convenient and felt like terrible punishment.
It was hugely important for me to be social, so I found a way to attend
group dinners and order only a soup and salad. It would be preferable for
people to think I was cheap than to think I was pathetically obsessed with my
weight. But I was doubly encouraged by both the fashion industry that I
wanted to be a part of and the internet to continue on this path. In a 2009
interview with WWD, supermodel Kate Moss was asked if she had any
personal mantras. “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” she said. I
snatched up this nugget and ran with it, reciting it like a prayer, posting it to
Facebook, and keeping it with me at all times as confirmation that starvation
was a precious virtue.
 CHAPTER TWELVE

In the wake of my rapidly changing body, I felt immense comfort in the fact
that my school uniform meant I could still live in a simulation of sameness. I
wore a uniform for most of my life, and though it made me want to push the
boundaries of self-expression, it also delineated me as the same as my peers,
a status that I obviously coveted. These days, when I am stumped for an
outfit, I almost always reach for a miniskirt and a sweater, an iteration of
what I wore to school every day for twelve or so years. In the spring, it was a
light-blue skirt with three pleats or a traditional kilt. In the fall and winter, it
was heavy navy and forest-green plaid in the same silhouettes. I am an
advocate of uniforms, but there is an artful component of white supremacy
woven into their history that must be confronted. A dress code, like in ballet,
encourages uniformity. It is supposed to eliminate feelings of competition,
but I often felt that it also encouraged an atmosphere of shame.
I tried to hunt down my old student handbook, but I guess after fifteen
years, my family figured we didn’t need it anymore. So I took a look at a
similar school’s website to see what they said about their dress code. “The
uniform symbolizes respect for tradition, order, equality, and authority.
Wearing the uniform proudly and properly is one of the central ways in
which we communicate commitment to our Catholic values. Parents, please
ensure that your children adhere to our uniform policy and our overall dress
code. Students, please wear your uniform in a manner that reflects pride in
yourself and in our school. Sacred Heart School expects students to be in full
uniform every day. Uniforms must fit appropriately and be in good condition.
If a student is not in full uniform, a note of explanation must come from a
parent, and a uniform exception permit will be issued for the school day.”
In other words, adhering to the dress code was a conditional
requirement for attending school. The dress code also outlines what is
acceptable for “civvies days,” days when uniforms were not required. Here’s
a short list of things that were not allowed: shirts with logos or phrases, short
or tight skirts, shorts that are too short, jeans that are too tight, shirts that are
too cropped or too low cut, hats, high heels, pants with sayings on the butt
(which, at the height of the Juicy Couture craze, was extremely problematic),
and, my favorite, hoop earrings. It was through this framework that I was
able to develop my own understanding of what was acceptable. As you may
have noticed, anything that puts the body on display or expresses allegiance
to a team or idea is a no go.
One’s presentation at school is a preparation for the concept of
professionalism, an idea steeped in white supremacy, that seeks to force
conformity from people of color, reducing their own cultural influences,
mannerisms, or dress in favor of a white standard. Most people are not
exposed to this idea until adulthood. I can’t say if that’s an advantage or a
disadvantage. Some companies—financial and medical institutions, for
example—have dress codes like these. Military and ballet dress codes include
stipulations about hair. Legislation has been passed to combat this and
reframe the idea that natural or braided hair is unprofessional. On an
unofficial level, some artistic and professional institutions have amended
their definition and requirements for “nude shoes” or “nude tights.”
By high school, I was already practiced in the art of it all, having been
scolded for my uniform violations and made to feel ashamed about my
clothing choices. I learned, though, and I used this knowledge to judge
others, wielding my opinion as a weapon and cutting others down for not
knowing better. I shamed them as I had been shamed. I knew what was
expected of me, so I arranged myself accordingly. I was not to be a
“distraction” in any way. I have no tattoos and the only thing pierced on my
body is my ears. Granted, I have seventeen ear piercings, all acquired in
adulthood, so that real estate is a bit crowded, but when I had around ten or
so, my mother asked me when I would “stop mutilating my body.” Which is
to say, these standards were enforced at home as well as at school.
Prohibiting hoop earrings—which are often seen as a danger since something
can get caught and pulled in the hoop—is another quiet way of establishing a
dress code of white supremacy. Hoop earrings are worn proudly in Black and
brown communities. I wear hoops every day of my life now, but for years, I
was aligned with the warped thinking that they were tacky. They were
something I might get in trouble for wearing. In fact, as an adult horseback
rider, my teacher repeatedly told me I was not allowed to wear my hoop
earrings. And before you ask, yes, she was white. With so many influences in
my life dictating what is appropriate, breaking out of that kind of thinking
took a lot of personal work.
Contemporary fashion associated with Black culture is often deemed
“inelegant” or “inappropriate.” Many schools and offices have policies
against hoodie sweatshirts, baseball caps, Timberland boots, and certain
kinds of sneakers. This means many people need to code-switch in their
dress: khakis and polo for school or the office, a tracksuit for your off time.
These wardrobe markers can also be misused to identify someone as
dangerous. For example, Black men who sag their pants have been
demonized and characterized as “ghetto” or “disrespectful.” Affluent and
middle-class Black people hate sagging pants. Growing up, I heard many
tirades on the subject from my grandfather. (He also hated my distressed
jeans and couldn’t believe I purposely paid for pants with holes and stains.)
Sagging pants were how I identified a random stranger as a “thug” as a child,
in contrast with my father, who favors a slim-fit jean.
The origins of sagging pants are murky at best. The style is loosely tied
to gang membership and prison culture. At some point, it made its way to the
mainstream, and this, like hoop earrings, became a threatening movement
that needed to be policed into abolition. Sagging pants were such a
widespread menace in the eyes of local governments that legislation was
introduced to force men to pull up their pants, or else. The or else translated
to fines or prison time, which is an extraordinary overreaction, but there are
no limits to the determination of respectability politics. When asked about the
phenomenon during an interview with MTV’s Sway in 2008, then
presidential candidate Barack Obama (yes, it had been such a big deal for
decades that it seemed appropriate to ask a Black man running for president
what he thought about it) said, “Brothers should pull up their pants. That
doesn’t mean you have to pass a law . . . but that doesn’t mean folks can’t
have some sense and some respect for other people. And, you know, some
people might not want to see your underwear—I’m one of them.” This is
something that I also might have said in 2008. It was certainly something I
had heard my entire life. I was conditioned to believe that men who sagged
their pants were untrustworthy, perhaps rude, and certainly not going to the
right school or getting a good job because, if they were, their pants would be
pulled up. If you asked me now, I would say I don’t care what people do with
their pants. What someone is wearing does not dictate the amount of respect
they are owed. People need to be respected regardless. Dress codes are often
designed to enforce white supremacy, and while I do believe they can have
positive effects in schools, letting them spill over into private adult life is
bizarre and unnecessary.
Uniforms can also put anyone who does not “fit” on uncomfortable
display. If a body is somehow not a perfect shape for the uniform, like in
ballet, it will be immediately apparent. For me, again, the problem was my
butt. My butt created an exaggerated curve from my back to my legs, and it
always—still to this day—makes skirts appear shorter in the back than in the
front. This was true of both my school and tennis uniforms. In horseback
riding, before breeches had the significant Lycra component that they do
now, I kept sizing up to get them on, making me feel like I was fat, and still,
the pants never fit since there was a huge gap between my back and the
waistline, the same gap that denim companies like Fashion Nova and Good
American have dedicated themselves to eliminating as more women get
Brazilian butt lifts and are faced with the same problem I was. But back in
2003, no one was addressing the gap. You either fit or you didn’t. And it was
incredibly isolating if you didn’t fit, so I just did my absolute best to make
sure I did.
When we were permitted to be out of uniform at school, it was my time
to shine. I put a substantial amount of planning into what I would wear on my
“civvies” days. I was a little girl who loved to play dress-up, and I grew into
a big girl who loved to play dress-up as well. I might have had a natural
disposition for style and aesthetics, but as I devoted more and more time to
learning about designers, styling, and the industry in general, my confidence
swelled. I suppressed the knowledge that my life was all a giant costume
party because, after all, fashion is a serious business. It may seem frivolous,
but it’s a complicated industry to navigate, and one that is especially
predicated on looking the part.
Clothing has power. It helped me feel superior to others in an arena
where I might not otherwise have been able to compete. Even if my skin tone
was wrong, my hair texture was wrong, and my body was wrong, my outfit
would always be right. I began to train my style muscles early, carefully
laying out the night before what I would wear to school. I would map out
which days I would not have to wear my uniform and hold my breath all year
in anticipation for the opportunity to show off my sartorial prowess. Though I
wanted my style to stand out, it was also, paradoxically, the one area in which
I could exhibit a sameness with my white friends. If I could have the same
clothes, we were the same. I knew I could not fail in that area because failure
meant social suicide. Wear the wrong thing, and risk the harsh and swift
judgment of your peers.
Clothing is an excellent tactic for unifying the version of yourself that
you imagine with who you really are. Those who work in the fashion industry
describe their organic love of clothing, often claiming they got into the
business because they have always been “drawn to color” and “radical self-
expression,” that they have loved “art” forever and are fans of “extreme
creativity.” (It’s that or their mother was a seamstress, which has become less
common as the profession becomes an antiquated rarity.) This is probably all
true-ish, but it is also a nice, gentle, PR-friendly version of my truth. I love
clothing for all those tidy and acceptable reasons and also for the ways it
allowed me to construct an idealized version of myself and my life, one that I
actually wanted to be, instead of one that was assigned to me. I could build
myself into a new person with each outfit. I could cover up my self-loathing
in sequins or Chanel. I could creep closer to the top of the beauty ladder with
each and every compliment I received. Being better dressed than, well,
everyone helped me establish my worthiness. This is an ugly thing to admit,
so no one does. It is much easier to say that we love the way cashmere feels
on our skin, that certain colors can lift or dampen a mood, or that the texture
of a garment can extract a distant memory—and there’s power in all these
things. There’s some truth there, sure, but it’s not the whole truth.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In order to take total control of my image, I had to become a necessary

authority on clothing. I read, watched, and consumed anything and
everything that might sharpen my expertise. Fashion was the gladiator arena
in which I chose to compete, and there were so many fine nuances that
required such fanatic attention, I barely had time to think about anything else.
By the time I entered adolescence, celebrity culture in America was
reaching a fever pitch. We were moving away from dial-up to full-on
unbroken internet connection. Headlines like “It Girls” and “It Bags”
dominated publications like Us Weekly and People, informing rapt audiences
where famous women were shopping and what they were wearing. I cycled
through aesthetics quickly. First I experimented with the trashy and overtly
sexy style favored by Britney Spears circa 2003 because it was the standard
look of “Hollywood” and what I thought it meant to be an adult. I spent a lot
of money at stores like Guess and Abercrombie & Fitch. I was partial to
“ultra-low-rise jeans,” which were absolutely miserable to wear as my hips
started developing, and if there’s one thing to notice about starlets of the
early millennium, let’s just say they were demonstrably lacking in curves. For
a good six or so years, my ass crack was always exposed.
When that aesthetic was poorly received, I quickly pivoted. My prep
school classmates were heavy into Ralph Lauren polo shirts, pearl necklaces
and earrings, and J.Crew everything. The style staple of my school was a
hideous shoe that still haunts me to this day: the Jack Rogers Jacks Flat
Sandal.
For the uninitiated to the nuances of WASP taste, the Jack Rogers brand
was founded in 1960 in Palm Beach, Florida, creatively sparked by the late
great Jackie Kennedy Onassis, with whom I share a birthday. (Leos are
always responsible for trends.) Palm Beach was the location of several of my
Connecticut classmates’ second homes, and I spent a lot of winter and spring
breaks in Palm Beach, feeling awkwardly on display. Token status is
conspicuous in a place like Palm Beach. The vibe there is aggressively
exuberant, favoring another ubiquitous designer of the vacation locale, Lily
Pulitzer, whose vivid depictions of shellfish always disturbed me. Everything
matches in Palm Beach, and most girls coordinate their Lily Pulitzer dresses,
skirts, or skorts with a Jack Rogers sandal, predictably called “Jacks” for
short. These sandals are flat, with a wide strap across the bridge of the foot,
and a thong portion for the toe where a round disc replaces what would be a
more common “flip-flop” shape, giving the shoe its signature element. They
are made of leather, and the wide stitching, often in contrasting colors,
complements whatever loud prompt the Lily Pulitzer is usually providing up
top. I have never understood the appeal of these shoes, and after years in the
fashion industry, I can only conclude that their sole charm is that they are a
physical embodiment of a hive mentality. Everyone at school, and I mean
everyone, had a pair of these shoes. In college, a particular sort of sorority
girl also wore them. As an adult, I see them on grown women at bridal and
baby showers or springtime events, and it is a marker of one’s rearing for
sure. They are chillingly omnipresent. For all my desire to fit in, I never
wanted a pair of these shoes.
I did, however, cave on some preppy status markers. I verbally bashed
J.Crew as a defense mechanism because their clothes never fit me, but I still
had pearl earrings and necklaces. I wore a ribbon in my hair every day of my
sophomore year of high school. I had an assortment of colorful headbands
and Tiffany’s sterling silver jewelry. There was still a part of me that was
drawn to the loud, bad taste embodied by brands like Von Dutch and True
Religion, but when getting dressed, it’s important to know your audience.
And in Greenwich, Connecticut, there was no market for trucker hats. All this
helped me fit in with my friends.
Each micro-community has its own signifiers of status and success and
its own interpretation of beauty standards. In Westchester, this can vary from
town to town or school to school. When I separated from my middle school
friends, they were dispersed among other private schools, but none of them
attended prep schools. That meant they wore uniforms and had decent
educational advantages, but the school sport of choice was likely not field
hockey—a distinctly ruthless sport played among affluent white girls—but
something more accessible, like soccer or softball. Those friends of mine got
french-tip acrylic nails and wore diamond studs in their ears, things that
would have garnered whispers and eye rolls in the hallowed halls of my
school. It was important for me to be stylish, yes, but the right kind of stylish.
It would not have served me to embrace another kind of aesthetic, one that
pushed too much upon the unspoken parameters of the class and privilege
that surrounded me. I began to develop a phobia of wearing the wrong thing.
Being underdressed is, frankly, such a nightmare for me that I developed a
superior sense of taste to combat it. Since my skin already marked me as an
outsider, I needed to make sure my clothing, mannerisms, and anything else
in my control were reflective of the population to which I needed to belong.
My very rich friends always had huge birthday celebrations, like the
kind broadcast on MTV’s My Super Sweet 16. For one such occasion, a girl’s
dad purchased a massive block of tickets to Z100’s Zootopia, a multi-artist
pop concert, and had a chauffeured limo take a group of girls into New York
City. I’m telling you, life in Greenwich is not real life. We traveled in our
limo, behaving obnoxiously, as teenagers do without adult supervision,
blasting music, and sticking our heads out the sunroof. All of us wore
variations of the same outfit: a denim miniskirt and a semi-risqué top. It was
a summer Friday afternoon on the West Side highway, and traffic was
impossible. To ease our boredom as the limo creeped along, we tried to get
the attention of our fellow motorists. We had mostly positive responses, as
one would expect a car full of young girls would get. As we pulled up
alongside a car near the Fifty-Ninth Street light, I rolled down my window to
start a chat with our new comrades. There was a brown man in the driver’s
seat, accompanied by three friends of varying nonwhite ethnic origins. He
glared into the car. “White bitches,” he spat at us, but upon seeing my
shocked face looking back at his own, neither of us knew what to do. I rolled
up the window. My entire group was tickled with giggles over his anger, but I
knew something was wrong. I just didn’t know how to express what it was.
My ability to look, talk, and act like my friends helped me blend in with
them in a way I felt was necessary, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be lumped in
with “white bitches.” I both did and I didn’t. Those guys had no real schema
for understanding my presence in that car. The man said it with malice, and
yet, the reaction from inside the car was one of amused nonchalance. I don’t
think the girls I was with thought about that incident ever again. The same
year, in 2004, the Wayans brothers released the satirical comedy White
Chicks, loosely based on the popularity of the white-heiress archetype made
infamous by Paris and Nicky Hilton. In the film, both Wayans brothers play
federal agents going undercover as “white chicks” to thwart a kidnapping.
They have to adopt behaviors like toting around small dogs, singing along to
Vanessa Carlton songs, and dancing poorly—all things that, for better or
worse, could have described my friends at the time. Vanessa Carlton’s song
“White Houses” became something of an anthem at my school, and whether
it was clear that the song lyrics were about losing your virginity was of no
consequence. We scream-sang that song every day of our lives for a year
without irony, as White Chicks grossed over $100 million at the box office.
Meanwhile, I didn’t know that I was allowed to like being Black. The
people around me did a very good job at convincing me that identity was
something to be ashamed of or something to overcome. No one would even
say the word Black at full volume. It was always a whisper or a pause before
deciding to go with “African American.” Wanting to be Black or enjoying
being Black was a concept supported by zero available evidence. Wanting to
be white, however? Yes, how could you not? To be engrossed in this culture
was to love even the elements people were poking fun at because, at the end
of the day, it was abundantly clear that being a “white chick” was a good
thing. Whiteness was something so precious and coveted that it is considered
a compliment even when it is obviously meant to be an insult. It was, to these
girls, literally laughable that being called “white bitches” could be meant to
hurt their feelings. This made being proud to be Black particularly
challenging. White was something you should want to be and express in your
clothing, music, and canine choices. I couldn’t be white, of course, but I
could definitely dress the part.
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Pledging allegiance to a clique is a dangerous game to play in an all-girls

school, and my loyalties shifted frequently and often, depending on the
payoff. As a fragile girl with an autoimmune disease and a visible disability,
Isabelle garnered a lot of sympathy; she had one fully developed arm and one
that, though functional, was essentially absent of muscles. And this is not to
discredit anyone with an illness, but I do need to say that this girl often
overemphasized her limitations, even saying at one point that she might not
apply to college because she wasn’t sure if she was going to live that long.
She did indeed make it to college, and as far as I know, she is now a mother
living on the West Coast. But an altercation with her was the first time I saw
a girl weaponize her whiteness, and I was on the receiving end of the
bazooka.
For a number of years, there had been increasing friction between me
and Isabelle. In a way, we were intensely competing for the affections of the
third member of our friend trio, an unsuspecting girl caught in the middle of
our cold war. I don’t remember what Isabelle did that finally pissed me off so
much, but apparently, it was something unforgivable to a high school student.
In any case, I made the grave error of taking my grievances to AIM, where I
said to someone else, “Isabelle is so annoying I could kill her. I wish she was
dead.” It was, inarguably, a horrible thing to say about anyone, and an
especially heinous thing to say about someone who is sick. But as I was a
highly emotional teenager, prone, as I am even now, to exaggeration for
effect, I am not that shocked at my radical statement. My friend told Isabelle.
The response was swift and severe. The next morning, I was
straightening my hair, as I did every day, when my mom answered a call on
our landline and was promptly informed that, pending an investigation, I
could not return to school. At first, I didn’t even remember the conversation
about Isabelle, but the next day, as my parents and I drove up to the school
building to have a meeting with the headmistress, I knew how serious it had
become. We walked through the double doors, and the place no longer felt
like mine. The meeting was at a long, dark table with the school
administration on one side and me and my parents on the other. The
atmosphere was charged and cold. All the evidence had been mounted
against me. The girls had printed out weeks of AIM conversations, making
me look like a relentless nutcase with a vendetta against Isabelle and she, of
course, just a helpless, virginal kitten. Even worse, the school hacked my
emails and found links to a photo-sharing website called Webshots. (Before
social media, kids posted albums of their lives on private sites on the
internet.) My Webshots included an incriminating array of snapshots
featuring underage drinking at a basement party with boys from neighboring
schools. In actuality, I had gotten drunk only a handful of times, but the
pictures made it look like I was on a bender every weekend. To make matters
worse, it was 2005, a time when “hard partying” socialites were making
headlines all over the country, and I was being raised in a way that strictly
opposed that type of lifestyle. I’d been caught red-handed. There was nothing
I could say or do to deny what the evidence so clearly showed. Never mind
that all the kids at school had Webshots profiles, which were deleted as news
of my debacle spread. Never mind the rampant bad behavior of untouchably
privileged white girls. I was the one caught holding the bag for everyone, and
—this was the best part—it was because Isabelle was “scared of me.”
There it was. The fatal blow. Isabelle probably was scared of me, but
not scared that I was going to kill her. My mother was the type who banned
my sister and me from watching Power Rangers because she did not want us
to “play fight,” ever. I had never so much as slapped anyone. I did not have a
violent bone in my body. I sat out the boxing fitness craze because I don’t
like throwing punches, and I am lousy at it. None of this mattered. Isabelle’s
father, a notable oncologist, had treated the headmistress’s best friend, and he
said his daughter was scared, so something had to be done. I was suspended. I
couldn’t attend school for weeks, which, after my freshman-year concussion,
was the longest I had been out of school. No matter that I was a straight-A
student, polite, a well-mannered rule follower, or that I was a junior taking
the SATs and considering my college options. This incident nearly derailed
my future, and my intense drive for success was partially birthed out of the
ensuing struggle. All the administration saw was an alcohol-drinking, fast
Black girl threatening an innocent white one. None of the rest mattered.
Beyond the humiliation of being out of school and everyone knowing why
was the injustice of it all. I knew I was not a danger to her. I knew I was not a
skanky teenage alcoholic. Worst of all, I knew I had been bested and set up.
It took a long time for me to see the racism in this situation. I now see it
as more of a systemic problem than a personal one. I still donate regularly to
my high school and show up at alumnae events. I consider my visibility as a
graduate important, especially to those who label Black girls “scary.” And I
do also firmly believe that my education and experiences there had a huge
impact on who I became in more positive ways than negative ones.
Ostensibly, the people in charge saw me as a threat. It was not just
about what I had said—it was the package it was delivered in. I was asked if I
had a weapon, if I had access to a gun. I don’t believe a white student would
have been asked these questions. And as for me, even now, at thirty-two, I
have never held a gun in my life. Never even touched one. I don’t skeet-
shoot. I’ve never been paintballing. I am even lousy at laser tag. I don’t target
practice, and I certainly don’t glamorize gun usage, but I have white friends
who tote guns and flaunt their marking abilities, posing with rifles in Barbour
jackets. This was not me, ever.
Later that year, one of my good friends took up shoplifting from
Neiman Marcus, I think for no other reason but sheer boredom. When my
parents found out, they told me that I immediately needed to cease my
relationship with this girl, knowing that if I got into real-world trouble, they
might not be able to save me.
What I came to understand is that Black emotions, particularly anger,
must always be monitored and tempered in white spaces. The ability to
express things like sadness, anger, or even passion is a gift that is granted
only to white people. It is a privilege. What Black girls get, in addition to the
crushing weight of perfectionism, is stoicism. That reflexive survival skill is
where the “strong Black woman” stereotype emerges from. And this is not
because all Black women have a superhuman control over their emotions. It
is because they know that their emotions will be evaluated on a different
scale. It is not that I am strong or that I never feel anything; it is that I have
been shown repeatedly that my emotions will be invalidated or
misinterpreted, that they will have dangerous consequences. I am encouraged
to hide them for protection instead. Sadness? Dismissed. Anger? Feared and
reprimanded. Passion? Quieted. Nearly all the Black people I know who grew
up the way I did have a habit of being very quiet in public spaces, knowing
that crossing a certain decibel level will draw unwanted attention. White
supremacy works deliberately hard at convincing Black people that feelings
are off limits to anyone not white.
Historically, the image of Black people as angry or aggressive has been
used as a defense for overpolicing and censorship. During the final match of
the 2018 US Open, we watched Serena Williams exchange heated words with
a referee, who ended up penalizing her for an entire game, eventually costing
her the match and, later, fining her $17,000. What did she do? She slammed
her racket down, something that was frowned upon as unsportsmanlike but is
not an uncommon action in professional tennis, from either women or men.
Then she told the referee he owed her an apology for suggesting that she was
receiving coaching in between points, something that is forbidden. The
incident happened so quickly as I watched from my phone in the back of a
car between shows during September fashion week. Immediately, my instinct
was to silently will Serena to “get back under control,” to just do what was
wanted of her, because I so badly wanted her to win. Even though her
opponent was another Black woman, too much of this scene was stacked
against her. All across professional sports, fines are administered as
disciplinary measures, but the fines Serena Williams has faced have been
extreme. In addition to this $17,000, in 2009, she was fined $82,500 for an
angry outburst. Comparatively, in 2017, Denis Shapovalov, a seventeen-year-
old, white, up-and-coming tennis player hit a ball out of anger, and it
ricocheted, striking the chair umpire and breaking his eye socket. The umpire
required surgery. Shapovalov was fined $7,000, which is $5,000 under the
maximum fine, and might I add, the next day, there was no racist cartoon
mocking him in the Herald Sun. The consequences of the expression of Black
anger or frustration have always been severe and punitive.
My parents hired a lawyer to advise them on the incident that landed me
in trouble at school. He told them to fight the suspension. I imagine he also
pointed out the curious and overdrawn sentence I had received in relation to
my white peers, that a suspension at this juncture of my education could
jeopardize my college admission prospects, that I was never actually going to
harm this girl. The school relented, and I was made to write an apology letter
to Isabelle, and then another after the first was deemed not sincere enough.
And after two months, I was back in school. The suspension was scrubbed
from my record, and I was able to apply to and enter college without a
questionable incident on file.
 But before I could re-enroll in school, I had to meet with the school’s
psychologist, a white man whose evaluation, after one meeting, was that I
was not a danger to anyone. I still had to receive regular counseling after this
with a Black woman psychologist my parents hired. Her assessment: I was
breaking under the pressure. The pressure to be perfect, and popular, and
pretty, and good at everything. And I was clinging to the idea that it all had to
look effortless.
What I said about my classmate when I was sixteen was horrible and
wrong. It might even have been worse than I remember. Punishment was
warranted, but the way I was vilified was extreme, and I have no doubt it was
tied to racism. I watched my white peers flagrantly break rules and avoid
punishment for years. And in that way, we were never peers, never equals.
Don’t worry—I am not a snitch; I didn’t offer anyone else up as collateral.
But I did experience a deep depression brought on by my frustration at the
way all the systems seemed to be working against me while I was encouraged
to believe they were not. I didn’t know how to articulate the injustice of it or
the complicated emotions all this brought up. Instead, I learned to invalidate
my emotions, constantly question what I was feeling, and most importantly,
never express anger—especially not in writing. This lesson would come with
some complicated lingering side effects.
I haven’t spoken to Isabelle since we graduated high school almost
fifteen years ago. I would be surprised if anyone else but the two of us and
the others tangentially involved even remember this incident. If anything, I
am actually grateful to the girls from high school. They prepped me for a
world where Karen culture would be the expectation, not the exception,
where ascending above a certain station puts a target on your back. I am both
smarter and better for having learned this at sixteen. I was never caught up in
a messy situation like that again, and I know I won’t be in the future. My
initial instinct was to implode, but instead, I took this lesson and used it. It
was my villain origin story; I was built by this moment. This is not to say
people need to use trauma as a building block for their personalities. I wish
none of it ever had to happen to me or anyone else. I wish Black girls were
free to make the kinds of mistakes that don’t result in life-altering
consequences and that they were able to process emotions in a way that
validates them and considers elemental factors like their age, experience, and
pressures. But I am, in a lot of ways, proud of the fact that it didn’t break me.
I used it to show them just how high I could ascend and ensure that I would,
going forward, always understand just how precarious my positioning was in
white spaces—an outlook some would argue is perfect for a career in fashion
magazines.
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

My entire educational experience was a fast-track train headed one way:

college. From the time I was in preschool, I knew I would be going to
college, and people would ask me, when I was as young as ten, where I
wanted to go to school. In preparation, my parents made sure to do all the
right things—the legal way, of course, not the Operation Varsity Blues way. I
really was captain of my high school tennis team. The only padding on my
college résumé was volunteer work; prestige programs like “medical camp,”
which was ten days of Grey’s Anatomy cosplay; and a combination of athletic
and academic interests. My parents hired an SAT tutor for me after I earned a
low math score on my PSATs, I took a smattering of AP courses, and I
attended a competitive high school with an entire department dedicated to
coaching students through essays and applications. I didn’t know that most
people don’t have tutors or that securing a time extension for standardized
tests was difficult because everyone I knew had acquired a version of either
or both. With all that preparation, having that fate endangered with a
suspension was a traumatic experience.
I got a lot of well-meaning advice from people about where to apply and
what schools I would do best at. No one ever suggested historically Black
colleges and universities (HBCUs). There were Black girls who went to my
school and chose to attend HBCUs, but no one in my graduating class did.
There is real value in being educated in an environment where you do not
have to constantly perform or defend your identity. There is a sanctity to
Black institutions that must be maintained for the sake of preserving the
cultural heritage that is continuously under attack, but I don’t think I would
have been emotionally ready to matriculate into an HBCU. And I did not
want to attend school in the South. My attachment to my family kept me
firmly within a four-state radius. I was given a list of the “best” schools in
New York, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and Massachusetts. I selected schools
of varying sizes, all in the Northeast. Early on, I wanted to go to NYU
because it was close to home and seemed fun, while Columbia seemed
depressing—no offense. And after years of single-sex education, I was
absolutely not considering the all-girls school Barnard. Many people
suggested I go to a smaller university or college in the name of comfort,
convinced that I would be culture-shocked to graduate from a class of twelve,
then fifty-two, then twenty thousand; they thought I would feel overwhelmed
by the scale of a large university. Spoiler: I ended up at NYU, and the
anonymity I felt there was one of my favorite parts.
The college application process was a decade-long pursuit for me that
culminated in me, a teenager, trying to reasonably make estimations about
my deepest desires in order to set up the rest of my life. I got into every
college I applied to except for one. (Brown, why didn’t you want me?) I
don’t remember sharing that information with many of my peers. It was
definitely not popular for girls to speak about their triumphs and
accomplishments in 2006. It was “bragging,” which was ugly. Still,
somehow, the news trickled out. I was in AP English one afternoon, sitting
next to my white friend who was not happy with her college prospects. I
believe her dream school was Georgetown, and she didn’t make the cut. She
turned to me and said, “You’re so lucky there’s affirmative action.” It was
like I had been slapped. My heart rate quickened. I had imagined that
everyone was talking about how I had only gotten into schools because I was
Black. And, turned out, she believed it because she believed the most pivotal
lie of American life: the words scribbled on the so-called Declaration of
Independence, declaring that “all men are created equal.” In this case, not
men, but you get the idea. Because we are all “equal,” we should be judged
solely on our merits, talents, and accomplishments. In her eyes, my Blackness
gave me a cheat code. In fact, we were actually nearly identical in terms of
our qualifications, so perhaps my race did give me an edge in college
admissions. That doesn’t mean I didn’t deserve to be admitted. For all the
“colorblindness” privileged white women love to proclaim, she was pretty
quick to point out that a college might want me—rather than, say, a legacy
student, an athlete, or someone with dual citizenship—only to fill a diversity
quota.
Gaming the system of academia is a hobby among rich white people,
one this girl was bitter to have lost. Again, see the Varsity Blues scandal of
2019.
 Planting a seed of doubt that erodes a Black person’s self-esteem is a
classic tactic of white supremacy. Suddenly, I was suffering from impostor
syndrome, a condition characterized by feelings of unworthiness, and my
case was acute, if not latent. I started thinking that I had been admitted to
college solely because of my race, not because I was an excellent student,
captain of the tennis team, on the yearbook committee, and a finalist in a
national photography competition. Not because of my stellar admissions
essay, excerpts of which would later be published on my college’s website.
Not because I was starving myself and sleep deprived from studying and
taking the most challenging course load possible. Just because I was Black,
and that’s it. “Not that I’m racist or anything,” she added after a beat, when I
didn’t respond.
In that same class, we read Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry
Finn, and our English teacher encouraged everyone to read passages out loud
that contained the N-word—with the hard -er. “It’s just a word,” she said,
downplaying everyone’s visible discomfort. As the only Black girl in the
entire class, the weight of the shame I felt pressed on all my internal organs
simultaneously. What could I have done? The alternate reality where I had
enough gumption and vocabulary to challenge that teacher was light-years
away. She justified her actions to a 99 percent white room by explaining that
it was a satirical work and, of course, “historical.” We were to understand
that Mark Twain was just joking, a convenient excuse for the acceptance of
racism, and that it was so long ago, it almost didn’t matter anymore. There
was no nuance in the lesson to give context to the historical origins of the N-
word, how powerful it was, and how hurtful it could still be. There was no
way to demonstrate the thread of continuity that links Twain’s “satire” to the
idea that I “only got accepted to college because of affirmative action! Omg
jk, jk.”
Instances like this, in countless classrooms in my youth, made me feel
humiliated to be the only Black girl. Some people have to grow into
themselves. I had to learn to love and accept myself, and neither of those
things seemed possible for me in those moments, especially when I was
mortified to discover that people were discussing my major triumphs as the
result of a diversity quota. I was ashamed. Suddenly, my Token Black Girl
status seemed useless. Harmful, even. I was only good for making white
people appear less racist. All my other skills and accomplishments, well, they
were frivolous. Looking back, I wonder whether this is part of the reason I
didn’t choose to apply to HBCUs; I needed a metric to prove to both myself
and my classmates that I could do anything they could do.
In a 2015 piece for the Huffington Post called “The Myth of the ‘Good
Negro,’” Nikki Johnson Huston, Esq., exposes the issues with being forced to
absolve white people of their racism by your mere existence, even when they
are engaging in blatantly racist behavior: “There is an unspoken code for
many middle class or affluent African-Americans that we don’t speak about
race with people outside of our race because it always tends to end badly for
both sides. Actually it only ends badly for us, because we are seen as angry
and hostile—with comparisons to Al Sharpton—and it could hurt our
careers.”
People of color are conditioned to accept degrees of racism in white
spaces because they fear the consequences of looking “crazy” for pointing it
out. Really, looking crazy is the least of it. Losing your position, job, or
housing may be more in line with the potential repercussions. Colin
Kaepernick is a great example. White supremacy flexes all its power when
attempting to squash dissenters, and this is true across many different
industries and situations. It is why many still speak anonymously when
exposing racism they have faced. Ditto sexual harassment or assault.
Repeated N-word use feels like high-key racism, but if authority figures are
presenting you with mental gymnastics to convince you that it is part and
parcel of the classic American literary canon, who are you, at sixteen years
old, to say otherwise? Those who put on blaccents and use elements of Black
culture to get a laugh are also doing harm to Black people, but call it what it
is, and you’ll get labeled “too sensitive.” You “can’t take a joke.” This further
ostracizes you, and when the stakes get higher—when, say, a promotion, a
raise, or a job opportunity hinges on your ability to “hang”—you might be
surprised at what you can ignore. White supremacy is very cunning. It can
adapt to fit many different scenarios, spaces, and moments in time. But the
end goal is always the same: to uphold the idea that, in all things, white
people are the best, the most deserving, and the pinnacle of everything good.
And anyone who says otherwise should be destroyed.
The exhibition of people of color bearing their badges of white
acceptance is, in part, due to conditioning as well. Institutions stifle cries of
racism by making sure that, publicly at least, they are impressively
committed to diversity: Look, we have a Black! It should not be a convincing
tactic. It does little if language and policies do not change in a real effort to
eradicate racism, if you still uphold white as the default, if you are satisfied
with your Token Black Girl and shove her in front of the camera at every
opportunity, and if, for example, you let a Black girl into your family and still
allow her to be slandered and disrespected. (Yes, British royals, I am talking
to you.) Those acts continue the traditions of racism and do nothing to
mitigate its violent othering.
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

For my first two years of college, I was enrolled at Tufts University, a

prestigious PWI (for the those who don’t want to run to Urban Dictionary
right now, that’s “Predominantly White Institution”) minutes outside Boston
in Medford, Massachusetts, a sort of quintessential northeastern college town.
I fell in quickly with a group of binge-drinking, casual cocaine–abusing white
girls. My friends were mostly private-school kids who liked to imitate what
they thought was adult behavior, even though we were just eighteen. Partying
hard was the bonding ritual of choice.
Entering college was a strange culture shock. It was the first time I was
around many different types of people. It was the first time I had met anyone
who didn’t have a shared history with me or a way of understanding me and
where I came from. And it was the first time I was forced to absorb negative
stereotypes of Blackness on a large scale. The town/gown relations of the
community surrounding the campus were extremely racially charged. The
microaggressions I’d experienced in high school and middle school became
mega-aggressions. Once again, I found myself operating in service of white
supremacy, while veiled racist policies in the name of campus “safety” made
sure to effectively segregate the students from the Medford and Somerville
residents. Within school itself, I found it challenging to articulate my history,
I suppose because it was considered so unusual. Many students had never met
a “Black girl who rides horses,” and they weren’t shy about telling me so.
My freshman year, a group of guys mocked me for still having tags on
the clothes hanging in my closet. It was apparently “bougie,” a signifier that I
had spent money, and I should be embarrassed about that. These boys had no
idea that I had worn a uniform for all my years of schooling before arriving at
college. To attend class in jeans was a luxury. I used all the teasing to stiffen
my resolve. I already knew what to do when I didn’t feel accepted: be
meaner.
 In one of these instances, I told a lie that haunts me to this day, but since
learning to “let things go,” the ghost is tiny as a garter snake instead of the
king cobra it was before. There was a girl I found exceptionally cool—Zara,
pronounced Zaw-rah and not Zair-rah—who grew up in DC and attended a
fancy prep school like mine. One day she was holding court in her dorm
room, the essential location for the pregame party. Zara was white and
extremely confident in ways that I could never be. She chain-smoked and did
drugs and was unathletic. She had huge boobs and no butt and bony legs. She
had a pretty face and long blonde hair with a shaggy side bang she sometimes
cut herself. But the really sexy thing about her was her ability to be
constantly at the center of everyone’s attention. Growing up in DC, she had
developed a comfort level and familiarity with Black people that even I
couldn’t muster. She knew DC area rapper Wale personally. She hung out
often at “I-house”—short for the international house—on campus.
As per usual, I was the only Black girl in the room, but with Zara as the
queen bee, the circumstances felt particularly delicate. I do not remember the
exact circumstances now, but somehow the topic of braids came up, and
somehow I said, for no reason at all except perhaps that I was possessed, that
I had never had them. I suspect now that I wanted to distance myself
comfortably from my Blackness. Every other white girl in the circle let this
go without comment or thought, but Zara rang the alarm and called bullshit.
“Every little Black girl gets braids,” she scoffed, her worldly knowledge
smoking me out of my hole.
“I don’t know,” I replied, determined to run with this ridiculous lie. “I
just didn’t.” I shrugged for good measure, hoping to sell it with my
nonchalance. Now, had I been born into Gen Z, this egregious falsehood
could have been dismantled with a quick sweep of my social media, which
would have shown me on multiple occasions, with, you guessed it, braids.
Luckily for me, it could not be proven or disproven, so Zara and I just stared
each other down until someone presented a more exciting topic for
discussion.
Why I said that in the first place and then doubled down on it, I have no
idea. I guess, in Zara’s presence, it felt necessary to make myself appear as
much like her as possible, even though we really did have several things in
common, and there was no need to fabricate more. The one thing that we
glaringly did not have in common was that she was white, and I was Black,
so I tried to erase it. I was desperate to make my experiences mimic hers, and
I was jealous of the way she was accepted and admired. Eventually, I
transferred schools and fell out of touch with Zara, but lying to fit in with her
circle is something that my anxiety-fueled ego wouldn’t allow me to let go
of. It’s still a shameful scar on that part of my life. If I could go back as a
more sure-of-myself woman, I would tell that group about all the times my
mom braided my hair growing up and what an act of love it was.
But I was intent on fitting in at whatever cost, and I had already started
to develop my judgment muscles. I started dispensing guidance to my peers
on what was acceptable or not to wear. This authority gave me a fragile sense
of control. The media was also encouraging these kind of pronouncements.
“Who wore it best?” pages dominated the weekly magazines and blogs,
encouraging audiences to draw comparisons between starlets. Being caught
in the same outfit as anyone else felt like it would be absolutely deadly, so I
spent a lot of time scouring stores for unique colorways of the same exact
items my friends had. OK, fine, Uggs, but make them bubblegum pink. Red-
carpet commentary and newly popular blogs like Perez Hilton, Pink Is the
New Blog, and Dlisted had scathing criticisms of the young women they
featured. But their cruelty was played for laughs. Likewise, shock-jock
comics like Dane Cook and Tucker Max added an extra level of toxic
masculinity and rampant misogyny to the young cultural ethos. I adopted
their language easily when speaking about other women in my life. The same
girls who were trashed in the media made looking and getting trashed trendy.
Being drunk was a pivotal destination, and I spent a lot of time and energy
both acquiring alcohol and drinking. How fucked up you could get was a
badge of honor. That culture also made girls more vulnerable to sexual
assault and less likely to remember the details surrounding it. The party never
stopped.
My college years saw the rise of the “Zoe-bots,” a group of impossibly
thin actresses and socialites that were styled freakishly similarly by Rachel
Zoe. Their look was all big shades, big bangles, and tiny bodies. My friends
mimicked that look, and we judged each other mercilessly. I often found
myself in court. This was the way of the world. When it came to clothing and
beauty, we were brutal and bloodthirsty. I needed to ensure my superiority or
suffer the constant anxiety of being found on the receiving end of a “don’t.”
Everything was Chloé Paddington bags and flavored Absolut. The way
your jeans exposed your hip bones was just as important as the denim brand
itself. At the time, denim brands were on the rise as status symbols in their
own right. The price of jeans crossed into triple digits, and you could tell a lot
about a person from the label on their derrière. Brands like 7 For All
Mankind, True Religion, and Citizens of Humanity were dominant among
my group of friends. When the quieter, label-less brands began to emerge—
like Paper Denim & Cloth and J Brand—wearing them held the underlying
assumption that you had already established your style dominance by
wearing the flashy brands, and therefore felt so cemented in that position that
you didn’t even have to shout with your jeans anymore. People would just
know.
The opportunity to leave behind my uniform and wear my own clothing
felt like walking a red carpet. Some assume that attending an all-girls school
quells the urge to dress up, if you’re a straight girl at least, since there’s really
no one to attract. To me, this makes no sense. I cared infinitely more about
my friends’ opinions of my clothing than I ever did any boy’s. I am sure I’ve
never thought about a boy when getting dressed. Their taste or approval never
interested me.
I went into college assuming I’d end up a plastic surgeon. I had even
gone to that medical camp thinking I was prepping for a future career in a
hospital. That ambition was derailed after my introductory bio lab, an 8:30
a.m. class that almost ruined my life. Instead, I felt beckoned toward a
glamorous life that was advertised by The Hills and The Devil Wears Prada.
Luckily, by that time, I was practiced at seeing myself in white women, so
the lack of Black faces in those Hollywood fashion narratives held no
obstacle. I had zero reservations about my ability to make it in fashion. I
started working on my new plan immediately. I needed to establish myself as
a fashion authority from the moment someone looked at me. The problem
was, at the medium-size liberal arts university I’d chosen, not many people
cared about clothes.
Tufts didn’t have the WASP-y community I was accustomed to, and I
was struggling to find my niche, so I made the decision to rush a sorority.
Female relationships had always come naturally to me, but at Tufts, I was
having a really rough go of connecting with the other students. Everyone was
studious, but overall, they lacked the resolute commitment to appearance that
I craved, both for validation and purpose. So I used those girls to sharpen my
teeth, dispensing overt criticisms of what others looked like. The more I
vocalized my opinions, the more people responded to my position as an
authority. It was a real-life manifestation of “fake it ’til you make it.” To my
surprise, people began to defer to me, asking me what to wear or buy. It was
fascinating and addictive. I craved the power that making decisions for others
gave me, and in order to establish my dominance, I crushed a few souls in the
process. Like any Machiavellian psycho would say, “It had to be done.”
One poor, sweet sacrifice, let’s call her Elise, fell into my trap. Elise
was a petite blonde from Fairfield County and a fellow rushee for the
sorority. Her style, which feels silly to say when speaking about an eighteen-
year-old, was basic. She wore cutoff shorts and Rainbow flip-flops. She had a
braided hemp anklet and probably a wardrobe full of preppy staple brands
like Tory Burch and Vineyard Vines. She was pretty and small, so the
clothing had no bearing on her popularity. I identified her as easy prey
because she was often visibly insecure, and I still feel pangs of guilt when I
think about how I incinerated her for sport.
One night, we were engaging in a rush activity that also happened to be
a campus tradition: “painting the cannon,” a peculiar ceremonial bonding
experience. The cannon sat, covered in decades worth of paint, at the top of
the hill overlooking the campus. Painting it required an all-night stakeout
because pranksters would often wait until the cannon was abandoned and
then paint over it. After you painted it, you had to keep vigil to make sure
your work was not undone. On this particular night, Elise wore a pair of
white leggings, which was not ideal attire for the activity at hand, but there
was no itinerary for sorority rush. In her nervous way, she began asking the
other girls if she should leave to go change. I despised girls who wore their
weakness on their sleeve. I felt it was a brand of white privilege, and I took it
as a personal affront. I’d never been afforded the luxury of being publicly
vulnerable. The superhuman strength required to be the only Black girl
around for miles had to be turned on at all times. The sheer effort I exerted
feigning confidence was award-worthy. So the pathetic quivering that
accompanied Elise’s near-constant uncertainty incurred a disproportionate
wrath in me. I snapped. “Well, you should never wear white leggings
anyway,” I said, defiantly staring her down, my five-eight frame looming
over her tiny five-foot (if that) body. It was savage, even for me, and I
watched shock and hurt flood her body as she gaped at me to see if I was
joking. Many other girls were in earshot, and they all lowered their eyes,
feeling the secondhand shame that comes with watching someone get
publicly flogged. I am not proud of that moment. I knew it was wrong. I
wasn’t able to make the connection to that feeling I’d had so many years
before, when Kristen told me the Spice Girls weren’t cool as I stood in a T-
shirt emblazoned with their faces in front of all my best friends. At the time, I
had no empathy for Elise. I heard her crying later to other girls.
I still feel bad about behaving that way toward Elise. I hope any bully
would after the requisite amount of therapy and much-needed personal
reflection. Personally, white leggings terrified me. They would put all my
cellulite and extraneous flesh on clear display. On her, with her protruding
hip bones and toned little legs, they betrayed nothing. It was simply a white
pant. Years later, when white leggings became hugely popular, buoyed by a
minimalist movement, I still wouldn’t dare put them on. Back then, all I saw
was an opportunity to further prove that I was an authoritative voice in
fashion, even among freshmen on a New England college campus. The scale
of my influence didn’t matter to me, so long as I had some. I made Elise a
sacrificial lamb, and it worked. In the end, it forced people to desire my
approval, and I loved the chance to apply my fashion knowledge to real-life
circumstances.
I doubled down on my shopping. The experience of trying on clothes
and evaluating them was enchanting, and I wanted to re-create that feeling as
many times as possible. Fashion was the perfect place to bury my self-
loathing because it was a system that could always renew itself. Every week I
would go into a store and there would be something new. And every time I
bought something, compliments would follow. I could tell people looked at
me with envy, and I loved it. Fashion protected me from my fear of being
ordinary.
Why, yes, this is a new Marc by Marc Jacobs T-shirt. I pretended to be
humble. It was important to be confident but not too confident. I was still
Black, after all, and everything could come crashing down if I became, you
know, too special. Still, I was thriving in my quest. Few people were at my
level now, and like the voiceover asks on America’s Next Top Model, “You
wanna be on top?” Yes, I did.
This is exactly what a penchant for beauty and glamour does: It creates
and fosters competition where there is none. It establishes power hierarchies
and makes pliant subjects of its devotees, forcing us all to uphold its
structures as we police both ourselves and everyone around us. I had no way
of knowing that my behavior was perpetuating a cycle, making other girls
and women feel inadequate so that they, too, might impose the same values
onto someone else. It is so efficient in its manufacturing, no one can really
determine when it starts working on you or when you start working for it. We
were all so busy trying not to be the ones called out for wearing white
leggings or merch from a passé girl group that we didn’t have time to think
about how it was all related. Beauty, perfection, fashion—all of it fanned out
like a virus, covering every woman I knew. Women who seemed immune
were immediately shunned, called out for their laziness, or assumed to be
lesbians. Being totally outside the parameters of acceptable femininity was
inexcusable if you wanted to fit in, especially with white people, where the
ruling class is rich white men. It was one thing to drop the ball one time, or
even occasionally; it was another thing entirely to decide not to play the game
at all. I would look at girls who claimed they “didn’t care,” who displayed
their disdain for makeup and clothing, with plaintive pity. Perhaps they don’t
know, I would think. Maybe they hadn’t read enough Vogue. I thought it was
my own personal duty to demonstrate where they were failing and how they
could improve like I had. I knew I could recruit more disciples if I continued
to impress people with my outfits and makeup. The pathology of constantly
striving to improve oneself had worked so flawlessly on me, I genuinely
thought that when I was critical, I was being helpful.
As the allure of this began to wane, I needed a platform bigger than a
frat party to exhibit my exquisite taste. I needed a more legitimate platform
where I could continue to inform women what they were doing wrong and
how they could do things better. So I got an internship at a magazine.
 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I say it like getting that internship was simple. It was not simple at all. Here’s
how the process went: I first had to decide where I wanted to work. Since I
read basically every magazine every month, there was a substantial pool to
work with. Not many eighteen-year-olds pine for unpaid summer jobs, which
I didn’t know at the time, but it ended up working to my advantage. I made
an Excel spreadsheet of every single magazine I read, along with their contact
information for internships. I then made a list of all the designers I liked,
along with their contact information for internships. I was so attracted to the
glittering facade of the industry presented by reality shows and movies that I
wasn’t actually sure whether I wanted to work in public relations or in
editorial, so I figured I would try both and see what I could get. I had high
hopes, but I knew the competition would be stiff. I came home from college
for spring break instead of going away like my friends, and I focused on
setting up in-person interviews. I took the train into the city and met with
dozens of brands and magazines. One Friday, I went to NYLON. Its offices
were in Soho. The publication itself was a bit more indie- and rock-focused
than my personal tastes, but I was still a fan.
As I entered the Soho building, my heart was pounding. I was greeted at
the doors of NYLON by two shar-pei dogs, one gray and one brown, owned
by the publisher and editor-in-chief, a married couple. I knew immediately I
had to get this job. (I mean job in the loosest sense of the word, since this was
in no way a paid opportunity.) I interviewed with the office manager, a thin
white girl with blunt, thick bangs in her early twenties. She introduced me to
the beauty editor, and we had a quick, friendly chat, after which she offered
me the internship on the spot. I was shocked. I had assumed it would be a
more difficult interview process with several more hoops to jump through.
The office manager gave me a tour of the place, then passed me off to the
other interns, who took over touring duties and brought me to the mailroom.
Minutes later, an editor walked in and dumped a bunch of NYLON issues into
my outstretched arms, with instructions on where to send them. I was ecstatic
that I fit in so well she assumed I was part of the team. In reality, I don’t
think she looked at me at all.
It was one of the strangest interviews I’ve ever had, but I was in. One of
my core, inner-child needs is acceptance (thank you, therapy). For many
people, the need for acceptance has to do with lack of parental love. That’s
where we get terms like “daddy issues” and “mommy issues.” But I was
comfortable and supported at home and felt very unstable in the world.
Acceptance was such a precarious objective, often dependent on what I
looked like and my ability to conform. In my world, where there was a
disproportionate number of blue-eyed girls named Katie, this was tricky. I
clutched my need for acceptance and dragged it around with me into
adulthood, so much so that some of my happiest memories involve gaining
acceptance of some kind. They represent a reliance on achievement, that my
hard work and dedication yield a positive outcome. Getting into college,
scoring an internship at NYLON—these feats underscored messaging that I
desperately needed to hear: “Welcome, you are now one of us.” Being one of
us, by definition, means that you are excluding others. Not everyone can be
an us. There has to be a them. I was so content to be in the club, and I needed
to do my part to keep it exclusive. So I dutifully ensured that getting in was
difficult, that staying in was difficult. I was protecting a ridiculous lie so I
could pretend to be happy.
Even though I had made it over the sacred threshold of a magazine
office, I still struggled to find acceptance. On my first day, I carefully
selected a floral dress and ballet flats, which I paired with a Ralph Lauren
boy’s blazer (a tip I got from Teen Vogue), and marched confidently into the
NYLON office. My little intern table—I can hardly call it a desk—was
situated next to the fashion editor’s desk. She was speaking to another intern,
who had already been there for months, discussing what they did over the
weekend. The intern, a white, five-eleven, size-negative-two chain-smoker,
said she had gone to Topshop to check out the new Kate Moss for Topshop
collection. The fashion editor replied to her that she shouldn’t bother, that all
the clothes were frilly floral dresses—“Very girlie and very not NYLON,” she
almost purred with a cool edge in her voice and her eyes trained directly on
me. I gulped and scolded myself for choosing such a stupid, juvenile outfit.
I’m friendly with this woman now, who has since ascended the ranks to a
much higher position. I think she would cringe to know how this interaction
affected me, but just like anything that caused me pain, instead of letting it
break me, I took notes. I learned to deliver critiques in a similar aloof way, to
force interns to audition for acceptance. I turned that experience into a
learning opportunity, making sure I never made that mistake again and
adapting that behavior to be useful to me.
In April 2020, Tyra Banks came under fire for some resurfaced clips
from early seasons of America’s Next Top Model that depict questionable
conduct, to put it mildly. In one, Banks reprimands a contestant for refusing
to close the gap in her teeth in the makeover portion of the competition. In a
later season, she gives a model a gap. The most damning clip depicts the
show setting up photo shoots for the wannabe models where they try on
different races, essentially promoting Blackface, brownface, and yellowface.
Looking at this in 2020 is cringeworthy, but a decade prior, it was a true
depiction of everything the fashion and modeling industry was. Banks, who
came clean about feeling the pressure to get a nose job at the beginning of her
career, had already been through all of it and more. She was trying to tough
love the next generation into successful careers, and to do so, she clearly
adopted the language of oppressors. This industry has a way of passing on
bad habits like that.
Policing the clothing choices of others felt like my ultimate calling. I
had been doing it for years already, but the higher I climbed on the masthead,
the more authority I had to deliver ferocious evaluations. And, as it turns out,
that was encouraged. The same year I started college, Twitter was born.
Twitter offered the opportunity to provide real-time commentary and build a
following based on your opinions. Like the model that comic Joan Rivers
provided for popularity and engagement, the nastier the comment, the more
attention you got. It was a constant game of one-upping to demonstrate who
was funniest, smartest, and first. The more cutting and ruthless tweets won
out in terms of engagement. Following along in the tradition of blogs, Twitter
was a digital discussion forum designed for people who wanted to lash out.
And lash out they did. I would spend all my energy reading blogs and tweets,
making sure my clothes were the “right” ones, and making necessary
financial sacrifices—like trips and food—so I could look like I worked in
fashion.
That first summer I spent interning for NYLON was formative. I did a
lot of transcribing and research. I was given work by the beauty director, and
eventually, they let me write little blurbs in the pages. All my blurbs got
rewritten, save a sentence or two, and I would sob about being talentless and
going nowhere, my feelings hurt that they didn’t like my words. Despite my
wounded pride, I remained determined. I rushed to finish my assignments in
record time, then would try to find something else to do. I sorted the mail. I
walked the dogs. I organized lipsticks, fragrances, and foundations. I steeled
myself for the task of becoming more “on brand” for NYLON, a pattern of
attempting to chameleon myself to fit wherever I was working was born. I
learned a lot about expectations, branding, and more importantly, what it took
to make a magazine—and what it took was a lot of white women. I was the
only Black person at NYLON that summer. There were maybe two Asian
girls, but as for Black people, it was just me. It was a familiar position, and I
didn’t think about it much. It mostly came up as a problem if I was given an
assignment on a subject that even I, swaddled in all things white culture, had
no frame of reference for, like punk or alternative culture, two major aspects
of the NYLON brand identity. NYLON was pretty alternative at the time, and I
was strictly and thoroughly pop.
Just as the acknowledged canon for artistic greatness is limited to white
men, the canon for beauty is limited to white women. I did countless image-
research projects on women like Debbie Harry, Jane Birkin, Marianne
Faithfull, Twiggy, and Françoise Hardy. Women like these served as the
guideposts for the look the NYLON reader wanted to achieve. They were in
permanent rotation in our pages, and I dedicated myself to studying them. I
had barely heard those names before that summer, but I became an expert in
their biographies and faces. I wanted to succeed in my job, and to do so, I
needed to know this playbook. These women were adults, but the inspiration
was drawn from their teenage years. Since I was eighteen at the time, it never
bothered me that women in their late twenties and thirties were using
teenagers as beauty inspiration. That’s what they wanted, and that’s what I
gave them. After about a decade of regaling the looks of prepubescent girls, it
will eventually get to you. But as an intern, I was a peon and happy to do
whatever I was asked. Who was I to question anything? I could barely say
Givenchy the right way.
Studying was a go-to skill, so that’s what I did. I studied pronunciation
guides for French words I didn’t know and became deeply invested in
understanding the inner workings of the industry. Fashion is a dictatorship,
not a democracy—it can’t work any other way. The inclinations of a few are
what drive many decisions. There aren’t many opportunities to challenge
leadership, even fewer when you are at the bottom. For the most part, just
consider free will an illusion. Someone else will always be calling the shots,
and when the personal and the professional bleed together so indiscernibly,
people forget that they have a separate selfhood from the one that shackles
them to their job.
That summer, I learned that the editor-in-chief and the publisher are at
the top of the food chain. They get the final say on everything and tend to
influence the culture of the office. With each new boss, you begin to attune
yourself to their whims, pleasures, and displeasures. Every magazine has its
own brand voice, which is how it can be identified in the market. It also has
its own unspoken dress code for its employees, prompting a mini makeover
with every new job in the industry.
Within magazines, there are interdepartmental rivalries. The fashion
team reigns as the Regina George, so to speak, but each team can be snobbish
about their area of expertise. The art department gets to stick their nose up
about fonts. The photo department admonishes everyone over image quality.
Everyone pretty much unilaterally hates the staff of the digital department,
which is viewed as young and inelegant, but this has changed as traditional
print advances toward fossil status. The features department has jurisdiction
over films, music, and culture in general. But the fashion department is the
worst because it works with the most visual and outward-facing medium:
clothing. Back in the latter half of the aughts, it was important for everyone
to look like they worked at a magazine, no matter which one you worked for
and no matter which department you worked for. You wore your employment
like armor. Just like you recognize a mail carrier by a postal uniform, you
should be able to identify someone who works at a magazine by how they
look. This can bring a lot of stress to an employee who is uniquely passionate
about home decor but whose job demands a certain diligence when it comes
to physical presentation.
Also, people were quite mean, almost as a rule of engagement. I still
don’t know whether this was a general consequence of everyone being
overworked, underpaid, and slightly depressed, or more of a bizarre gag we
all played on each other just because. Over the years, the culture has
improved (being nice is cool!), but when I first started working in fashion,
meanness was the price of initiation. In digital spaces, humiliation, slut-
shaming, and judgment were the norm. That style of humor, writing, and
blogging affected how I socialized or expressed myself. Being mean was
funny.
We were not having a mental-health conversation yet; we were too busy
enjoying Mariah Carey having a “breakdown” on TRL. Britney Spears
shaving her head was late-night fodder, not cause for concern. It was a
vicious portrait of who and what we cared about as a society, and magazines
were a place where snobbery and elitism were born and fostered. It seemed
wholly necessary to accept abuse as an intern, or witness it being flung at
your coworkers. The pattern was to exert the full extent of your limited
power over those who had even less. It was a warped way of working, where
mistreatment was believed to produce the best kind of creativity, and
kindness was deemed useless. Fashion hardened me even more, and I
doubled down on the drive to succeed, wanting to climb even further since
the higher you were, the more irreproachable you became.
Very few places operate like this now, partly because the money and the
perks that required this kind of fanatical loyalty have all but dried up. It starts
to seem crazy if you’re a magazine executive who is lambasting employees
for some free jeans and lip gloss, much less so if you’re behaving that way
because your position allows your children entry into a prestigious school,
opens the door to an interest-free mortgage, and grants access to year-round
car service. You start to do what you think you have to so you can protect
that position.
People ask whether it was difficult to work at magazines, and the short
answer is yes. I would endure the polite, delicate kind of racism that whispers
and stings, just like in my adolescence. There were many politics at play, and
if I thought high school was bad, navigating this new, complicated game as
an adult without a rulebook was near impossible. But it was my job to make
it look fun and easy. I was preserving the impression that the club was one
people should want to suffer abuse to enter. Eventually, I believe that fissure
between perception and reality, the one I’d been walking my whole life,
drove me into a deep depression. But you don’t get to complain about your
glamorous job. As Meryl Streep’s fictionalized character Miranda Priestly
quips in The Devil Wears Prada, “Don’t be silly, darling. Everybody wants to
be us.”
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

By the summer of 2008, I was a professional intern. I transferred out of Tufts

the first semester of my sophomore year because of the limited opportunities
for continuing to intern in Massachusetts. I wanted to continue working in
magazines, so I transferred to the College of Arts and Sciences at NYU and
then the Gallatin School of Individualized Study when the school
administration tried to put a cap on my internship credits. I found it
counterproductive to sit in biology class when I was already working in the
field I wanted to go into.
I was happy at NYU—or as happy as my low-grade functional
depression would allow. My NYU circle was richer and more privileged than
the one at Tufts. I made friends easily with jaded but driven girls—girls who
declared partying venues “over,” who could get free drinks or dinners, and
who made out with celebrities. In this group, I was almost always the most
cautious, and I was mesmerized by their devil-may-care/YOLO attitudes
because I knew my rules were different. I didn’t do drugs or blow off classes
or even breathe easily. This isn’t to say I didn’t party; I did, but my new
friends’ lifestyles were almost straight out of a Gossip Girl plotline. We were
the most glamorous, broke-ish students there were.
I scored my next internship at W Magazine. I secured my spot by
borrowing a friend’s Marc Jacobs Stam bag to impress the assistant who
interviewed me. It worked. It was critical to look the part, even as an intern. I
was so excited to have made the cut, to be initiated into such a high-fashion
institution. That internship was where I memorized the addresses for
designers like Oscar de la Renta, Calvin Klein, and Ralph Lauren. I will
likely be able to recite these from memory for the rest of my life. It’s where I
finally found out how to correctly pronounce Givenchy, Loewe, and Balmain
and sniggered at people who still struggled with little finesse. It takes no time
at all to become a snob once you’re sitting at the table with the cool kids.
 It’s also where I was trained in fashion’s obsession with being thin. The
assistants subsisted on cigarettes and Diet Coke. We wanted to be thin, made
no money, and spent a dangerous amount of time working in an office that
never ever allowed breaks. As a college student without an iota of knowledge
on nutrition, I assumed I could eat whatever I wanted so long as I ate a very
small amount. It was already my regular practice. So every day, I would have
a toasted everything bagel with cream cheese. I would get it from a two-story
deli across the street on Third Avenue. It kept me full for the whole day, or at
least that’s what I told myself, and most important, it was cheap. My food
intake for an entire day cost me $1.75. Honestly, what could be better? We
interns did our best to try to hide the fact that we needed to eat, take a break,
or otherwise stop working because being seen as lazy, entitled, or
uninterested had disastrous consequences.
Keeping the fashion closet neat and orderly was one of the
responsibilities of the intern crew. The fashion closet was less a closet and
more a massive room for clothing storage, also doubling as an office and
occasionally a dressing room, a stage, and a shipping center. Because I was
an overeager weirdo, I would sometimes come into the office early to
organize things. One such morning, as I typed away on a Mac desktop with
my bagel, an assistant whose style I idolized and a friend to this day, came
into the closet. She checked that everything was fine with the racks, chatting
with me about innocuous nonsense before turning to me and saying, “Wow, I
mean, I’m really jealous that you can eat that. A bagel is like six slices of
bread, you know?” And then she walked out, and I didn’t eat another bagel
for the next seven years or so. I also repeated that line anytime I saw
someone with a bagel. To anyone I said that to, I’m sorry.
Trying to make it in the fashion business, you can begin to feel
puppeted. The lines blur between who you are and the role you need to play.
You need to act one way, dress one way, and look one way. Do you actually
like that thing, or does your boss like it? No one even bothers to examine
where grand creative direction originates; it’s just made very clear that you
study it, then live it no matter what, and that attitude extends way beyond
style. Someone said bagels are six slices of bread to me, and I said it to
countless other people. And before you know it, no one is eating bagels, and
everyone is low-key starving and totally miserable.
Because I already knew what profession I wanted to pursue, I structured
my education around that. I condensed all my classes into two days a week,
whether or not I was particularly interested in the subject. The other three
days I spent interning at magazines, which I took as seriously as if it were my
full-time job. I did not go abroad. I did not go on spring break. I did not go on
Christmas holiday or long weekends. I wanted to be available to work at all
times. This flattening of my needs mimicked my refusal to feed myself, and it
all worked out for me. I was a sample size when I ended up getting hired as a
full-time assistant before I finished my senior year at NYU. I was lucky
enough to be able to study at a school where I could make up my own major,
and the one I designed was “Fashion Theory,” a study of the coding of
clothing from monarchies to the present, with a special focus on the ways
fashion can communicate political afflictions, class status, and subculture
allegiances—something I would be able to use later in my fashion career.
Being an outsider gives you one tremendous gift: the gift of observation, of
surveying and understanding environments that you are on the periphery of
but not totally immersed in, and fashion magazines presented a really
fascinating opportunity for study. Over years of interning, I began to
understand the power dynamics and politics of working in fashion.
Magazines are kind of like people you might meet in life. Vogue is the
mom, with the strongest and most historied presence. She’s well respected
and revered, but everyone thinks she has a stick up her ass, and they’re all a
little afraid of her. Elle is the cooler, younger sister to Vogue, but Vogue isn’t
worried because Elle lacks refinement. Elle chews gum and once had a skater
phase. Everyone loves to hate on Cosmo, who is like your cousin who got
knocked up in high school. Vanity Fair is your reserved but liberal-leaning
uncle who wears glasses and used to go out for drinks with Tom Wolfe. Town
& Country is your racist grandparent who abuses the help. Glamour is your
little sister’s best friend who you can’t stand, rolling your eyes at everything
she says. Complex is the guy you regret sleeping with who always texts you
when you’re home for Thanksgiving. Harper’s Bazaar is your sorority sister
who did a lot of coke in college, had a wedding that was way too big, and
secretly voted for Trump. The New Yorker is the grad school professor you
have a crush on. He is definitely too smart for you, but you still flirt with him
sometimes to feel older and sophisticated.
When trying to make it in publishing, it’s necessary to maintain a
familiarity with each of these brands, and you must remember to alter your
dress and behavior to properly integrate. When you get old enough, or more
advanced in your career, you will simply shed the ones that suck and keep the
ones that don’t. That’s just how relationships work. When I first started out, I
wanted to be where anyone wanted me, but I was wanted only insofar as I
could stand the unspoken and spoken commandments that allowed me to be
there.
At my first paying job, my boss’s boss, the creative director, a famously
trenchant British man, told me and the other fashion assistant that we were
“too milk-fed, like all American girls” and demanded to know why “we all
looked like Reese Witherspoon.” I, of course, look nothing like Reese, and
neither did my Jewish coworker; neither of us were blonde, and both of us
had several inches of height on the famously petite A-lister, but it didn’t
matter to him. He thought we were too fat and that we should know it. Of
course, Reese Witherspoon is hardly fat, but that didn’t matter to him either.
We knew what he meant. We were both twenty-one years old, and this was
our first job out of college. Wanting to do our best, we took the note, each of
us dropping at least ten pounds from stress alone, then using the residual
anger that resulted from our endless starvation to influence our interns,
touting the benefits of not eating and romanticizing thin bodies. The objective
of this chain of command is to make it known that being fat is unacceptable,
and whatever is in your power to do to make sure you don’t gain weight, you
do at all costs. For a long time, I was sure my weight would affect my
hirability. No one ever said this to me directly, but when I looked around
fashion, all I saw was an abundance of thin women and men. For years, I
didn’t meet anyone above a size six who worked in fashion. So you tell me:
Does it matter?
In the third round of a job interview at Teen Vogue, I met with the
fashion director, who grilled me about what restaurants I liked to go to and
what stores I liked to shop in. I was twenty-three years old and applying for
an assistant position. I used to share a disgusting punch bowl at Brother
Jimmy’s and get blackout drunk off free shots at Dorrian’s. At the end of our
chat, the fashion director told me that what the team was currently missing
was a girl with a “cool downtown urban vibe,” and she hoped that could be
me. This was true at most places I’ve worked; we weren’t so much being
hired as being cast. She was telling me the role she needed me to play, so I
played it. Just like being Scary Spice or Jessi or Lisa Turtle, I just zipped
myself into whatever role was required of me at whatever time it was
required. I had no attachment to any of these appointed identities and
certainly no ability to refuse, even if I wanted to. I made my body available
for any and all projections, and I tried to accept each one so I could, in turn,
be accepted.
The hypocrisy of the industry is staggering. We, by definition, must
remain exclusive for esteem, but countless brands—both publishers and
consumer-product companies—count “inclusion” as an integral part of their
business, especially now. At every turn, you’ll discover that’s not true. Many
size runs don’t extend past what can be described as a generous medium, and
fashion offices and magazines are overwhelmingly run by white people. Sure,
in the last few years, there has been wider acceptance of different body types,
skin tones, and racial backgrounds, but the acknowledgment that you need to
broaden customer appeal in order to sell something is not synonymous with
genuine respect. Changes to organizational structures or leadership do not
extend past the surface level; we don’t like to look under the surface in
fashion. As for the publishing companies, well, the demographics there
shouldn’t surprise you. Fashion is a who’s who of very rich people. They are
thin. They are white. That’s pretty much it.
Working in that environment, I never thought I could be rid of my
eating disorder. My success was dependent on my ability to stay skinny so I
could wear the clothes that impressed people and be promoted to keep trying
to impress people until I died. Black women who seemed to have made it in
fashion, like Genevieve Jones, Shala Monroque, and Michelle Elie, seemed
well adapted to the pressures of the industry and were revered for their
excellent taste. What else did they have in common? Their sternums
protruded through their clothing. I don’t point this out to shame them, but it
demonstrates the kind of body that is acceptable in the fashion world. To a
certain degree, a bony body can supersede Blackness, if you can wear the
clothes well.
I hadn’t developed a gauge for understanding when I was hungry and
when I should feed myself. Since I was perpetually hungry, I assumed it was
just a condition I had. I even told my therapist that I was prepared to live that
way forever. I figured I would just live my entire life hungry, and I was
happy to if it meant I would never get fat. Over the years, many ex-models,
singers, and dancers have written about their eating disorders. Their jobs are
in the public eye and especially vulnerable to the pressures of the oppressive
beauty system. What frightened me most about reading those accounts—and,
trust me, I have pretty much read them all—was a trajectory that saw women
(and men, in some cases) being cured of their disorder and then gaining about
one hundred pounds and becoming almost unrecognizable. That possibility
was terrifying. A whole lifetime of dieting just for me to “recover” and get
fat? Are you nuts? I wouldn’t let that fate befall me. Zoë Kravitz was a
notable outlier, who remained thin after declaring herself free of anorexia and
bulimia. I accepted that I could change if, and only if, it would be like that.
But the way my weight yo-yoed if I deviated from my ordinary routine told
me that would not be my story.
As I spent more time working in fashion, I started getting invites to tag
along to sample sales. The problem with clothing made for fashion, I would
later learn, is that if you have a body that is curvy in any way, you will
inadvertently draw attention to those curves, even when you don’t mean to. I
have lost a lot of sleep worrying about how my legs look in shorts, if heels
are going to be “too much” on me, and whether to wear something that could
be seen as too short or too tight—the slumbering influence of years in
uniforms cropping up.
Once, when shopping with coworkers at a department store abroad, I
found a pair of platform lug-sole boots by Alaïa. We loved Alaïa. Most
everyone in fashion does. Those boots were on major discount, and I was
ecstatic. I tried them on, and at five-eight, they pushed me north of six feet,
easily. My coworkers told me I couldn’t wear those shoes because they made
me look too masculine. That’s not exactly the phrasing they used, but it’s the
nice way I’ll say it. They said such boots were only for tiny Russian
millionaires like Miroslava Duma, a rising street-style star our age who stood
at five feet on her best day. She later exposed her closeted racism in 2018,
when she posted a photo of a celebratory bouquet she received upon arriving
in Paris for couture week with a card that read “To my n*ggas in Paris.”
Needless to say I never looked at a heel that high, or at Miroslava Duma, ever
again.
The fashion industry has a way of molding you, of letting you know the
limits. On a surface level, we encourage “individuality” and “artistic
expression”—to a point. The skeleton of what is acceptable does not really
change. Some of the rules I absorbed those first few years included these:

Stretch fabrics are tacky; everyone will judge you.

Looking tacky, in any sense, is something to avoid.
To some degree, it is still expected that one should suffer for fashion.
We might not wear corsets anymore, but we have a newer and better
 corset: 100 percent cotton denim jeans. They are a penitentiary made of
fabric.
Jeggings are a joke.
Formfitting things are reserved for models only or other similarly svelte
forms that fashion people think regular people want to see, as to avoid
your breasts “falling out” in front of a Vogue editor at dinner.
Single-sole heels are always preferable, even if they are the most
painful.
Black is the best color to wear because it’s easy, but it doesn’t look great
on a page, so everyone wears black and no one shoots it.
If you’re good at your job, the day will come where you won’t have to
pay for anything, but until that point, you must buy everything so you
can build up the reputation of being someone who is well dressed, and
then, eventually, you will get everything for free.
Youth, money, and a bony body to hang it all on are all that matters.

All the magazines drive these rules home, and then it’s reinforced by
movies where twenty-seven-year-olds are cast as mothers of three, and
nineteen-year-olds are the love interests for forty-seven-year-old men. I never
thought it would be possible for me to break any of the rules, so I tried to
follow them as dutifully as possible.
 CHAPTER NINETEEN

After graduation and my first jobs working in editorial, I took a break from
traditional print media to work at a luxury retailer start-up. The entire ethos of
the company—selling exclusive luxury—all but hinged on the foundation of
white supremacy. Pleasing the powers that be involved catering to a very
thin, very rich white woman, who, in turn, wanted to cater to other women
like her. That mission was made explicitly clear. I reported to a woman
whom I admire for her tenacious insistence on inclusion at every level and
her dedication to making sure I was advocated for and protected. Her type of
integrity is rare, and though she was white and thin herself, she made it
possible for me to contribute creatively and be heard in rooms where I would
otherwise have been ignored.
Her protection could reach only so far. It was my job to communicate
the brand’s message: that the best way to look was being swathed in
expensive clothing while also being a size zero while also being blonde while
also looking rich, but fun, but still rich. I was reprimanded for hiring models
who were brunette, let alone another race. My immediate boss constantly
went to bat over an Asian model, who we loved working with but who the
founder later banned, saying she looked like a “mean old Chinese lady.”
After that, a dark-skinned Black model, also lovely, was banned, too, because
the founder said she “did not look expensive” and that her look was
antithetical to trying to sell luxury clothes.
I knew my skin and body must have repulsed this woman. I didn’t look
expensive, either, did I? It was the muted mockery that, when paired with
what I had already experienced in childhood, properly eroded my self-esteem
—a series of tiny wounds that set about decaying my sense of self. None of
this would stop me from fighting for approval. I put the full value of almost
every paycheck back into that site, accumulating clothing and attempting to
elevate my personal image in the hopes of being accepted.
 It was a higher-stakes version of high school, which is pretty much what
working in fashion is like. My yearning for acceptance just got a little pricier.
I flagrantly starved myself at this point, encouraged by the camaraderie of my
coworkers, who would join me in eating a single banana and gleefully
exchanging war tales about caloric deficits. We drank gallons of water, which
would have been healthy if it weren’t merely an attempt to keep our stomachs
full and distract our bodies from starving. I chewed ice chips obsessively,
which served both as a distraction for my anxiety and a way to satisfy my
craving to chew what should have been food.
Another stressful aspect of the job was the requirement that it be
publicly perceived as the greatest job ever, and this is true across the board
for most jobs in media. For a fashion start-up, that meant I was invited to a
lot of fancy parties and events. My wardrobe needed to match my new
lifestyle. It is not financially possible to live in New York and maintain such
a ridiculous level of glamour unless you are very rich, even if you never eat
anything. Because I was becoming identified as a well-dressed person, I was
invited by designers to borrow clothing. “Borrowing clothing” usually means
samples, and samples are the pieces that are worn on the runway or by
celebrities. They are the prototype of the clothing that will be later made in a
full-size run. Samples are small. Extremely small. I admonished myself
harshly when I tried on a sample and it didn’t fit. I had access to clothing and
designers the likes of which I had never seen before, and it was a brutal blow
when the fabric wouldn’t close around my hips.
Working at that start-up was like being fashion famous. The industry
was excited about the company. In 2012, Instagram had just begun to tear at
the iron curtain of fashion, opening up doors to the public that had been
closed for decades. Behind-the-scenes content was a cute novelty that people
wanted to be a part of. It was thrilling to be involved in something new
bubbling up, and more importantly, working there was the ultimate stamp of
approval, no matter how precarious my position seemed. From the outside,
we were the quintessential popular girls: stylish and willing and ready to have
a good time. We went to Paris, we did closed-door fittings with famous
models and actresses, and we got our photos taken everywhere. It was my
first experience upholding the facade of a brand at the expense of my own
well-being. My success hinged on maintaining the performance, making sure
that the reputation of the brand remained something to be coveted and
relished.
 Looking the part was crucial to success in fashion, and as a subsidiary
extension of the Vogue brand, this company wanted to mirror Vogue in every
way. There were adopted idiosyncrasies about how to handle shoots, passed
down from some sort of generational and verbal rulebook, like “No shoes
photographed on couches” and “Two girls can be featured in a single
photograph, but not three”—really antiquated and bizarre commandments
that were whispered in a professional game of telephone. One of these
directives dictated what employees should look like, and the term “Vogue
girl” was tossed around as an all-encompassing descriptor. If you closed your
eyes and imagined what you thought a girl who worked at Vogue would look
like, you would likely conjure an attractive, tall, thin, and white woman, but
most importantly thin. Everyone we hired was filtered through this value
system, even interns. As an assistant and then an editor, I was often tasked
with conducting the intern interviews and overseeing their work once they
were hired on. I wanted to give Black girls opportunities, but I was conscious
of the optics. I tried my best to hire one Black intern, one white intern (or
another non-Black ethnic variation), and alternate them over semesters so no
one would be suspicious of my motivations. I had just left Teen Vogue, where
a director had accused my former boss of “trying to turn the magazine Black”
after she brought on too many Black employees.
One intern, a sweet, smart, plus-size Black girl, went on to work at
actual Vogue. Our paths crossed again almost a decade later. She told me that
when she inquired about full-time employment after her internship, I
informed her that “what they are looking for is a Vogue girl.” She interpreted
this to mean white. I did not mean white; I meant skinny. But it doesn’t
matter because it was hurtful, and it was something she carried around for
almost ten years—an interaction I barely remembered. At the time, I thought
I was giving her a kind warning about the physical requirements of the
industry she was entering, offering a generic euphemism that had become
common language in my world. I didn’t coin the term, but that oppressive
language quickly took hold in my brain, and I unconsciously weaponized it to
harm someone else. I wish that kind of cruelty didn’t come so naturally. I
never cared about being a “Vogue girl” or protecting what that image meant,
but I did care about performing well in my job and doing what was expected
of me. Unfortunately, this meant a further endorsement of white supremacy
and asserting white supremacy’s particular brutality over myself and others. I
was, by this point, extremely practiced at both.
 In my last year working for the start-up, we did a partnership with
Vogue for the Met Gala, and I got to attend the party. The Met Gala,
considered the “Fashion Oscars,” is a distinctly exclusive event and is
arguably the only reason Vogue is still relevant. You cannot simply go to the
Met Gala; you must be invited. I was working, but it was still exciting to
attend. The theme of the Gala was punk. I spent weeks stressing about what
designer dress I was going to borrow and how small I needed to be to fit into
it. My boss was getting a custom gown made by Thom Browne, so hers was
going to fit within an inch of her life. I, a peasant, had to make sure my body
could fit the clothes, not the other way around. The magazines I read as a girl
had assiduously detailed dressing for your body type, but in Fashion with a
capital F, only one type of body is acceptable. I had suspected that fact as a
distant observer, but it became abundantly clear once I entered the eye of the
tornado that there was one look: skinny. You either did it right, or you were
invisible.
In the weeks before the Met, I starved drastically, abstaining from food
so my bones could be on full display on “fashion’s biggest night of the year.”
I committed myself to doing nothing but working and working out. I wore
my eyes out searching through the runway shows on Style.com (yup, that
long ago) for punk-inspired gowns that might work for the event. I happened
upon a sequin and tulle dress from Theyskens’s Theory by Olivier
Theyskens, and I exhaled with celebratory relief when that size-zero sample
(with stretch, come on) zipped all the way up.
For reasons I will never understand, I was assigned the job of “greeter”
(although come to think of it, perhaps it is an ideal Token Black Girl job),
which meant that I stood like a statue in the doorway leading to the dining
room, ushering guests through after they were received by Vogue editor-in-
chief Anna Wintour and her fellow cohosts at the top of the stairs. My
position was largely unnecessary since waiters serving glasses of champagne
stood directly next to the hosts, and there was really only one way to walk, so
I don’t know how anyone could have been confused about where to go next.
Regardless, that was my duty, and I was both thrilled and terrified. I was, first
of all, positioned very close to Anna, which required me to be on my best
behavior. That meant no gawking at famous people or doing anything else
unsavory. Second, I was on full display to each and every celebrity who
walked by, and I could feel their eyes evaluating me, gauging how on or off
brand I was for the Met. And third, I was the only Black one, so I knew that
had I messed up at all, it certainly would have been remembered.
My heart pounded with panic the entire time, and since I was so
malnourished, I am sure you could see my pulse beating against my ribs with
a steadfast rhythm. I stood there for four and a half hours, in one single spot,
while my legs shook from the strain of my five-inch-high Manolo Blahnik
Chaos sandals. This is a single-sole, ankle-strap sandal, in case you’re not a
shoe freak, and it’s not easy to remain immobile in them on a concrete floor
for hours at a time. When the final guests, Beyoncé and Jay Z, walked
through the doors a little after 8:00 p.m., I all but collapsed—as soon as I was
out of the sight of anyone who could be mad about that kind of thing. The
Met Gala staff—basically all the employees of Vogue—eat dinner in the
basement, while the guests have their dinner upstairs (yeah, like Downton
Abbey), and since eating was of no real consequence to me, I made my
escape to my apartment about thirty blocks south of the Met and changed into
white Chuck Taylors that were covered in spikes, a gift I got when I worked
at Teen Vogue. They were extremely punk, and I was thrilled to be able to
walk, if nothing else. I got in a taxi to go back uptown and was at the after-
party before anyone even knew I was missing. The after-party that year was a
Kanye West concert, and it was much more enjoyable in sneakers. I heard the
real Vogue girls sneering and whispering when I walked back inside,
something I’m sure they don’t remember. “Oh my God, I can’t believe she’s
in sneakers.” I knew I’d probably fucked up, but at that point, I had pushed
myself so far to look “right” at this party that I was just relieved to be in
tolerable footwear.
Just like with hair and just like with my weight, I learned to sacrifice so
much for clothing. When I was building my career, I purchased the most
ridiculous items, wardrobe elements that I cringe to remember. I wasn’t even
sure I had a taste. I would just buy things that would get me the kind of
attention I thought I needed to succeed. I had skirts I couldn’t sit in, shoes I
couldn’t walk in, and stacks of sweaters I liked to call “tricky knits,” which
had to be specially cleaned and could never be in the presence of any jewelry
since they would completely unravel at the slightest snag. Poetic, really. I
was so uncomfortable in nearly all of it, and I hated being itchy and fidgety,
but the compliments kept coming. The followers kept coming, followed by
the job promotions and new opportunities. I had built a new nightmare for
myself, one that was both beautiful and horrific because I had the life I
wanted, in theory, but the continuous maintenance was torture. Still, I knew I
couldn’t stop. I was finally being accepted, just as I had dreamed about for
years. People asked for my opinion about trends. They asked about my
personal beauty regimen. They wanted to know where I shopped and what I
was “coveting.” I became addicted to the accolades. I didn’t know how to get
off the ride I had begged to be on in the first place. And I never thought I had
the right to complain.
 CHAPTER TWENTY

A few months after the Met Gala, my mentor departed from the start-up, and
I started looking for a new job. Without her protection, I couldn’t stick
around. I was hired as the fashion editor at Elle.com and joined a ragtag team
of young and scrappy internet women who became my favorite coworkers
ever. I was twenty-five years old and in such a poor mental space coming out
of working at the retail start-up that the camaraderie between me and the
other girls at Elle was a welcome reprieve. I began expanding my
professional interests, thinking more about cosmetics and hair. I was the only
Black member of the team and became a de facto guinea pig, testing out
products and experiences so I could report on whether a brand’s promises
about inclusivity were true.
It was not uncommon for me to find myself in a salon chair for a
complimentary treatment. On one such occasion, I stopped by Hair Rules, a
natural hair salon for Black women and our curly-haired allies founded by
celebrity hairstylist Anthony Dickey, known affectionately as Dickey. At that
point, I had graduated from just a few tracks to a full-blown weave, my
natural hair totally disguised in intricate rows of braids under hair extensions.
The entire procedure was extremely labor- and time-intensive, taking
between six and eight hours for me to get my hair done. I was, in truth, tired
of the process. I had spent years of my life waiting in salons under dryers,
getting braided up, sewn up, coiffed, and curled just right, before I was
finally set free with my done hair, only to return for the same process six
weeks later. It started to pull me apart, having to sit in the salon chair as I
watched my precious time dissolve away, like pouring water over salt. I was
ripe for seeking a shortcut out of the system, and the stylists at the salon piled
on me, telling me how beautiful my natural hair was and that I should
embrace it. They bolstered my self-esteem, calling over their colleagues to
admire my curls, gently suggesting, in their own way, that I “go natural.” I
consented to their pleas and let them toss my tracks in the trash. I left the
salon feeling lighter than I had in years, my natural hair barely blowing in the
wind, now that it had no chemicals in it to alter its genetic temperament. It
was a simple blowout complemented by a single pass of the flat iron. Not
bone-straight, but straight enough.
That was Saturday. By Monday, I was back in the Hearst tower, and
like anyone with natural hair will tell you, you never have the same hairstyle
twice. So while I struggled to re-create what the Hair Rules experts did for
me not forty-eight hours before, I still had to show up at the office, whether
or not I was satisfied with my results. I walked into my nightmare. My hair
had poofed up, just like it would before I had a relaxer. It was straight-ish but
still different from when I had a full weave. Ugh, the shrinkage! Unlike when
I got my first perm (to absolutely zero fanfare), my coworkers’ oohing,
aahing, and fawning over my “new” natural look also came with some
unwanted hands in my hair. This was in 2014, three years before Solange
Knowles’s indispensable album A Seat at the Table featured the song “Don’t
Touch My Hair,” forcing white women (at least the ones semi-knowledgeable
in pop culture) to do a double take before reaching out to a Black woman’s
tresses. I am not sure who was telling their all-white coworkers to back off,
but it certainly wasn’t me. I was still mute on race at the time, and I was not
going to rock the boat at my dream job.
I shamefully let the petting and fawning continue, somehow managing
not to burst into tears, but I was suffering. I felt so exposed as I was blitzed
with questions. “So this is your real hair?” “Did you get a haircut?” “OMG,
so cute, but is it going to look like this all the time?” By 1:00 p.m., I had
made an appointment with a hairstylist in Westchester, where my parents
lived, and by 2:00 p.m., I was working from the salon, knowing I would be
there for at least the next six hours while I got my weave reinstalled.
Sitting in the stylist’s chair, I received a Google Chat from my boss
asking where I had gone. I hadn’t said anything to my coworkers; I’d just
left. I’ll never know if one of them ratted me out or if my boss’s intuition led
her to question me, but I still felt it best not to lie. “I had to go get my hair
done,” I typed back, confident it wouldn’t really be a problem since I could
do all my stories from the comfort of anywhere with Wi-Fi. I was such an
obsessive workaholic that I would likely be doing more than I should
wherever I was. This was not the right response. Apparently, leaving work in
the middle of the day for a “salon appointment” was not allowed, as I learned
from the Chat tirade my boss unleashed on me minutes later. I realized I
sounded frivolous and nonchalant, but there was absolutely no way I could
convey to that white woman how life and death this appointment felt. I
apologized and tolerated my lashing with as much dignity as I could muster,
after already having been emotionally pummeled all day.
The issue was not that my boss was callous or didn’t have the capacity
to be empathetic. In fact, the opposite was true. In many ways, she felt more
like a racial crusader than I did. The issue was that I was deeply ashamed of
having to explain the series of grave mistakes I had made: removing my
weave in the first place, my failure to re-create the hairstyle, the inability to
tell my coworkers to back the fuck off, and finally, my desperate flight to get
back to a place where I felt more in control and presentable, with my fake
hair sewn neatly onto my head. I couldn’t possibly say all that because, on
some level, I knew it was insane. It was easier to let my boss think of me as
an impatient narcissist who made a poor judgment call. Just like the
disappointment from my gym teacher, I knew this was something I must
withstand.
When you work in media, being looked at can become part of your job
description, and the outward-facing element of being the Token Black Girl is
often exploited because the entire industry hinges completely on image. By
the time I made it to being magazine editor, I was used to being trotted out
like a cute little show pony. In 2014, I received a pair of Timberland boots as
a gift, which I wore to an event I can describe only as a Republican
alcoholic’s paradise, also known as The Hunt. The Hunt is a giant outdoor
frat party, so I was excited to test the boots’ impressive all-weather
capabilities, and while I realized that Timberlands were not a new or novel
boot, they were new to my closet. I wanted to tell people about how cool they
could look with outfits. This was during the “normcore” era, a time
characterized by the growing popularity of items that were not designer
branded but more practical and utilitarian. I put together a slideshow for
Elle.com of some chic women of all races—and yes, I included the
Kardashians, as was customary of digital media in 2014. The piece was a
flip-book, meant primarily to drive page views, and not really an
informational article, so I wrote up a snappy little intro about the boots and
their place in fashion history. I name-checked Brooklyn-born Jay Z and
Biggie Smalls, anchoring the style’s origin with men in hip-hop, then tried to
use imagery of women like Rihanna, Ciara, JLo, and Rita Ora to demonstrate
how women made the boots their own. I submitted my story and went home
for the night, honestly thinking it was a job well done.
At the time, my title was “fashion editor.” I was an editor, but I also got
edited. I don’t know who edited my story that night—at least six people
could have done it—but the piece that was published removed all mentions of
the historical context for the boots, and what’s worse, the tweet that
accompanied the link said the boots were a “trend.” It was a cultural-
appropriation atomic bomb.
Worse still, when the angry tweets began to stream in screaming erasure
and disrespect, the Elle Twitter account tagged my Twitter handle and hung
me out to dry in front of the entire world. Yes, the best way to respond to
calls for you to hire Black people is probably not to say, “Hey! Look here at
our Black girl who’s responsible for this story.” The ensuing tweetstorm
lasted for two days, and there are still people who think I betrayed the entire
Black community by penning those three hundred words.
As the Token Black Girl in any situation, but especially a professional
one, it’s often difficult to shoulder the burden of positively representing your
community within an institution in whatever outward-facing ways are
required. This can make Black girls sacrificial lambs, as many people lack
sympathy for Black girls, who, for whatever reason, choose to work or
socialize with a lot of white people. This was true of Normani when she was
the sole Black face of Fifth Harmony, enduring her coworker Camila
Cabello’s abuse. This was also true of Nia Sioux (née Frazier), the only Black
cast member of the Lifetime reality show Dance Moms, who repeatedly got
called a wannabe white girl on social media when she was between the ages
of eleven and fourteen. This was true of Justine Skye, who in 2017 was
photographed with her famous friends in London and simply labeled “and
friends” by British Vogue when every white girl in the photo was named. I
was too young to know what the public discourse surrounding Mel B was
like, but I suspect it was equally unkind. It used to be true of Jordyn Woods,
former bestie of Kylie Jenner, and there was still a portion of the Black
population who wanted to scream, “I told you so!” when the Kardashian and
Jenner clan tossed her aside. There is a universe in which becoming the
Token Black Girl makes you a sellout.
The truth is I was doing my duty as an editor and as a member of the
Black community to showcase the shoes and reference those who wore them
first and best. It was important to validate the names of those men and
women who originally made Timberland boots look good and acknowledge
their contributions to Black and mainstream culture. I had included that list of
hip-hop stars and rappers in the introduction, so when that context was
removed, what resulted was a betrayal of Black readers, but it felt like a
betrayal of my work too. And I was left holding the bag. I don’t have a clue
who was responsible for the edits, but all six of the women who could have
done it were white. My only reasonable conclusion is they saw the copy
about rappers; thought, This is very off brand; and deleted it so the focus of
the story was simply shoes without context. This is part and parcel of the type
of historical erasure that got the Twitter community so riled up in the first
place. Cultural signifiers of Blackness migrate over to white spaces, where
they are colonized and capitalized on for financial gain, and the edited
Elle.com story fit into that erasure.
I had already responded to some tweets before realizing my copy had
been altered, and when I checked it, my blood ran cold. By then, there was
nothing to be done. Because I was employed by a white institution, one that
had a hand in systemic oppression by way of erasure and promotion of
Eurocentric beauty ideals, I was guilty by association. The feelings of having
to defend my Blackness in childhood came roaring back. And then, of course,
there was the inescapable reality that I was actually employed by this
magazine and still had to do my job for them.
A 1993 New York Times article details the rise of Timberlands in Black
and brown communities in northeastern cities and the measures the company
took to make sure these boots were not marketed specifically to this
demographic. Jeffrey Swartz, the company’s executive vice president at the
time and grandson of Timberland’s founder, is quoted in the story: “In fact,
he said he was pleased that a new market had sprung on its own. ‘Their
money spends good,’ he said.” It’s triggering to read twenty-eight years later,
but that quote recalls the reality that, for a long time, fashion relied on the
cache of the Black community without offering the community any respect.
In hitting “Publish” on that story, all of us at Elle were guilty of the same
thing, and as the sole Black employee on the fashion team, I had to answer to
both my bosses and Black people as a whole. This incident has haunted me
for years. It called into question my loyalties and my integrity. As a result, I
got labeled every hurtful thing you can think of: a “coon,” a “Black white
girl,” an “Oreo”—monikers you will recognize if you are a Black person
who’s ever had the misfortune of being too influenced by whiteness.
 I try to extend empathy and grace to people who experience similar
situations as adults. When actress Garcelle Beauvais joined the famously all-
white cast of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills in 2020, she faced
criticism over being “boring” and “wanting to be white.” It is possible to
aspire to assimilate to white supremacy so much that you lose your Black
identity completely and become a harmful presence. Stacey Dash exists, for
example. But there is such a lack of understanding for the pathology behind
living as a single Black female representative in a white world. The more
tokenized experiences are spoken about openly, the better off we will all be.
While no one knew about my life or story back in 2014, I always felt I had
something to prove. I had to prove to my white coworkers that I belonged in
their white space and deserved my position there, and I simultaneously had to
prove to a Black collective that I wasn’t an insensitive asshole playing to win
for Whitey.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

At the same time my Black card was getting snatched back on Twitter
because everyone thought I was stuck in the Sunken Place, I was actually in
Massachusetts on a press trip. A press trip is a sponsored trip organized for
promotional purposes to foster a good-faith relationship in the hopes that you
will want to write about the sponsors’ products one day. On this particular
trip, I found myself in Nantucket on an extended weekend, getting acquainted
with some new brands—and partying.
It was summer, and as part of my “diet,” I was not drinking. I was
accompanied on the trip by editors from various publications who found my
alcohol abstinence a fascinating oddity but useful in a destination like
Nantucket, where they have been reluctant to embrace Uber. I was the
designated driver. One night, we went to dinner at a casual restaurant, and I
drove a full Cadillac (one of the trip’s sponsors) to dinner, with the promise
that I would later shuttle the same group to the Chicken Box, a live music
venue and bar that’s the real turnup. Our dinner patrons were Miraclesuit, a
swimwear/shapewear hybrid that sells mass-market bathing suits geared at
helping women hide so-called “problem areas,” like tummies, cleavage, and
hips. The head honcho was a woman named Sandra, a petite, artificially
tanned, grandma type, and her husband, Stuart, a loud, six-five tank of a man
who—and this is not an exaggeration—wore only custom full-sequined
blazers. He had a dazzling one on sitting catty-corner to me at the long table
where we prepared to share a meal.
The conversation started off innocently enough. I was surrounded by
my fellow editor colleagues. Generally, people who both talk and write for a
living make easy dinner guests. Stuart was (obviously) very interested in
being the center of attention. Aside from his intrusive physical presence, he
had committed to a class-clown persona, which seemed incongruous for a
man who would surely have been classed as a senior citizen. He was seated at
the head of the table, and I was immediately on his right, so I found myself
on the receiving end of many of his questions and, I’ll say, colorful jokes. I
learned that he had two granddaughters, three and five years old, and that
they were constantly fighting with each other. “Sisters,” he said with a shrug.
I assured him that it would get better. “My sister and I used to fight a
lot, but that all changed when I got my license and I could drive us to school.
We’ve been best friends ever since,” I offered, with all the sage wisdom of a
twenty-six-year-old.
“What was it like driving to school from the ghetto?” he asked.
I was taken aback. I hadn’t given him any indication that I drove to
school either in or from the ghetto. I decided that the best course of action
was to cut the topic off at the knees. “I didn’t go to school in the ghetto,” I
responded. He asked me where I went to school. I couldn’t tell whether my
colleagues—who were listening in—were feeling the same discomfort I was,
but no one else said anything. I told him I went to an all-girls school in
Connecticut, which was a truthful, if generic, answer that I usually gave to
strangers. He began to badger me about where and which school, and I finally
broke down and told him that it was in Greenwich, which, of course, might as
well come with a cha-ching sound effect. “So what do your parents do
exactly? Do they work, or are they on welfare?”
At this point, I’d had enough. I got up from my chair and went to the
opposite end of the table to tell my other Black girlfriend what was going on.
Some polite shuffling was done to rearrange the seating, and the dinner
continued, but the man’s loud, boisterous posturing grated on me, even
several seats removed. I have an almost perfect recollection of this evening
because, unlike many other dinners I’d had in Nantucket, I was stone-cold
sober. He was not. He proceeded to get drunker and drunker, and not a single
person told him to ease up on the cocktails—or the racism. I think the term
ally gained popularity in mid to late 2020, but in 2014, the idea that
bystanders had a direct responsibility to come to the defense of someone in a
hostile but nonviolent scenario involving racism was still somewhat of a
novelty. I had no allies. I felt so angry and alone because no one told that
man to shut the fuck up. He was the one picking up the dinner tab, so he had
some power over the group, but if it meant I could have avoided this
experience, I would have gladly shouldered the bill myself.
The night wasn’t over. As we filed out of the restaurant and everyone
got into their respective rides, he bulldozed his way into the Cadillac I was
driving and sat himself in the front seat. He turned to me, grinning, and said,
“Oh look, Chocolate Thunder is driving,” which was, I guess, a nickname
and private joke about me that he had with himself. I turned off the car and
got out, saying, “Good luck getting to the Chicken Box, because I am not
going.” The ensuing drama put a halt to the entire night. A distraught Sandra
tried to apologize to me on behalf of her husband, and a couple of miraculous
fixers spirited the wasted Stuart away so everyone else could go to the bar.
If you’ve gotten this far in this book, you can probably guess I am
especially sensitive to peer pressure, so I ended up driving everyone to the
bar and staying until they were all ready to go home. Stuart was officially
uninvited, but the evening was tinged with the stench of what happened and
no one really knowing how to handle it or what to do. I got “supportive”
hugs, and by that point, everyone was lubricated enough to slur “That was so
crazy” at me. But no one really did anything about it. To eat, drink, and be
merry in the fashion industry comes with a hefty price tag, and whether that
means enduring sexual harassment or outright racism, there was an
understanding that it just came with the territory.
When I got back to New York, I sent the PR firm that organized the trip
an email about it, and later, when Miraclesuit reached out to me for a feature
in Elle, I followed up with a similar recounting of the night, not so politely
telling them that the feature would never happen as long as it was up to me.
I began to loosen the reins on the ideology that your work friends are
family. It started to feel like cheapening the concept of family by including
coworkers. My family, lucky for me, is stable, supportive, and loving. And
using that kind of family terminology at work is emotional manipulation,
simply a tactic of capitalism to get employees to feel guilty about having
personal boundaries and taking days off. After that weekend, I felt hung out
to dry by my colleagues, just as I had in the Timberland scandal. No one
helped. No one came to my defense. And, if given the chance, they probably
would have gone out with Stu and his wife again, if Miraclesuit was buying.
Excusing the bad behavior of white men was already a practice I was all too
familiar with, but working in magazines, that grace extended to anyone
white, rich, and beautiful. Often my job depended on how many of those
interactions I could stand.
When I started my tenure at Elle, it was the beginning of what some
have dubbed the “White Girl Winning Era,” when Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In
was a national bestseller, and Taylor Swift was throwing infamously
exclusive parties for other white girls with ridiculously low BMIs at her
Rhode Island compound. It was a time when the phrase “Girl Boss” was used
sincerely and not as ironic satire. Lena Dunham was rising in popularity,
providing an “alternative” feminine presence for television. She had many
problematic moments when it came to race, to say the least, but guess what?
She rode that wave of success right from her HBO show to becoming a
Vogue contributor, so now any person of color who has been harmed by her
words gets to read them in print each month, cosigned by one of the most
powerful brands in publishing.
At Elle, I was often required to interview and celebrate celebrities who
had questionably racist pasts. Generally, these relationships worked because
the magazine and the celebrity mutually needed one another. For example,
our readership was obsessed with all things Blake Lively. In 2012, the actress
married actor Ryan Reynolds on a plantation in Charleston, South Carolina.
The property, called Boone Hall Plantation, boasts in their Instagram bio that
they are “recognized as the #1 plantation in the Charleston area by USA
Today 10 Best,” which is a hilarious characterization to me, but it gets even
better when they follow that up with “come see why.”
Undoubtedly one of the reasons is Lively and Reynolds’s nuptials,
which, besides being featured briefly in The Notebook, is the property’s only
contemporary claim to fame. It took until the summer of 2020 for either star
to publicly comment on their choice of wedding venue, but it rubbed me
wrong for years before that. The careful and convenient manipulation of
history for your own enjoyment is a privilege that few have. I know I
couldn’t be comfortable attending a wedding on a plantation, much less
getting married on one, but lucky for Lively and Reynolds, they had zero
qualms about stepping on the ghosts of dead slaves for some pretty pictures.
Internet search results still yield praise for the gorgeousness of their wedding,
with magazines and sites like Martha Stewart Weddings, Elle, InStyle, and E!
Online extolling the glamour and beauty of the event.
Two years after their marriage, at the behest of pleasing the Elle
audience, I used Blake Lively as an anchor for a feature where I changed my
clothes ten times in one afternoon. I commended her stylistic choices in what
became one of the top stories of my tenure at the magazine. It forced me to
put my personal reservations aside in the name of traffic, an endeavor anyone
who is a victim, I mean, employee, of internet journalism will recognize. The
fact that Blake Lively might be a racist or, at the very least, doesn’t care
about Black people (trademark Kanye West, 2005) was of no real
consequence. Our Elle.com audience loved her, so I had to love her, or I at
least had to act like I did. And I did, over and over again with many
celebrities over the years until it broke me down.
Almost every famous model we covered, from Bella Hadid to Hailey
Bieber (née Baldwin), has an N-word scandal, or a colorful past with racism
at best. And it’s not just because Hailey married the white guy who remixed
his own song “One Less Lonely Girl” as “One Less Lonely Nigga” in 2014.
In 2018, the same year Bella Hadid was seen dropping the N-word at
Coachella, a crop of problematic texts, direct messages, and public Instagram
comments from Hailey Baldwin made waves on Twitter. Hailey made claims
that she was a “different race” after a trip to Florida, casually using the N-
word in digital exchanges. But the incident made barely a ripple in the
fashion industry. The legacy family darling was still a model on the rise, and
the next year, she was on the cover of Vogue Australia, reflecting on the
“difficulties” she faced being five-seven in modeling. The feature was
reported by Derek Blasberg, a white industry veteran who failed to examine
any of Baldwin’s past racially charged indiscretions in favor of the narrative
that she was an underdog in the modeling world because she was short. Later
that year, both Hailey and Justin appeared on the cover of American Vogue,
celebrating their wedded bliss. A year later, Vogue released a statement about
its commitment to fighting racism.
In 2017, Shia LaBeouf was recorded on video spewing the N-word,
telling a Black police officer that he would go to hell because of his skin
color. The actor apologized and, of course, took the required route to rehab,
citing alcoholism and depression as the cause of his racism—not just regular
racism mixed with alcoholism and depression. I worked with many women
who joked about how “weird hot” LaBeouf was, admiring his unique outfits
and applauding him as a real fashion innovator and purveyor of cool—if not
good—taste. In June 2014, right before Stu asked me whether my parents
were on welfare, my coworker at Elle published an op-ed with the headline
“Why Do I Feel Bad for Shia LaBeouf?” To be fair, he had yet to commit his
most heinous crimes, but this security blanket over LaBeouf was unsettling to
me. In the article, my friend recalls an interaction she had with LaBeouf’s
former Even Stevens costar Christy Carlson Romano, in which Romano
expressed displeasure at the memory of LaBeouf: “I can’t recall the exact
words, but the sentiment was that he was the most. annoying. Person she had
ever met. Her face twisted up with disgust as she spat out the words. I should
have been crushed, but I wasn’t. I refused to believe it. I just assumed she
was jealous.” Of course, now we have more context to bring some clarity to
the reaction, but I look at this as creepy foreshadowing. In February 2021,
LaBeouf’s Black ex-girlfriend, FKA Twigs, appeared on the cover of Elle,
recounting the layers of abuse she suffered at his hands.
If you search LaBeouf’s name on the Elle site, several articles will come
up, almost all of them finding creative ways to excuse his behavior until it
finally became impossible to call him anything but a monster. LaBeouf is an
extreme example, but that same oversight and refusal to hold anyone
accountable also happens on a much smaller scale all the time. Media and
society are extremely quick to overlook offenses people make because we
like them. And hey, as long as you wear the right clothes, fashion wants you.
That’s exactly the thing that’s most celebrated about LaBeouf: his “unique
look.” The same cannot be said for anyone Black. I often have flashbacks to
the ways I was disciplined as a child, the way I was nearly kicked out of high
school for making one terrible comment, and I can’t help observing with
wonder the tornadoes of harm and destruction these rich white people can
leave in their wake and still come out on top.
The industry collectively decides what is and is not a forgivable offense.
Famously, disgraced designer John Galliano destroyed his own brand and
legacy by going on an anti-Semitic rant caught on tape in Paris, in 2011. He
was subsequently fired by both Dior and his own label, his fashions
“canceled” and discarded. But girls like the Hadid sisters, and Hailey Bieber
remain gainfully employed as some of the highest-paid models, repeatedly
photographed by the paparazzi despite their multiple offenses. The industry
consistently fails to hold them accountable for their actions. In fact, most of
their press is largely positive, and it’s hard to find anything that is not. An
irrevocable damage is done to the psyches of people of color who have to
write those positive headlines and altogether ignore what these celebrities
have done in the past. Everyone makes mistakes, myself included, but the
stakes and the consequences for mere mortals are not the same as for these
anointed deities, who will continue establishing dynasties based on toxic
power structures. To keep up with that level of pernicious dominance, a part
of yourself has to be shoved aside so you can do your job and do it well. The
audience wants what it wants, and what it wants is to not have their faves
barbecued for mistakes they made in their teens and early twenties—or even,
in some cases, beyond.
People often wonder why Black media professionals don’t call out the
racism they witness in their workplaces. It’s because doing so would place a
dangerous target on their backs, when even the smallest infractions can have
dire material consequences. That person’s job and ability to find new
employment might be on the line, and once employees have been branded
“difficult,” they are shut out completely. In 2021, Janet Hubert, the original
Aunt Viv on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, described how her professional
reputation was derailed by the rumor that she was “difficult to work with.” It
is a marked fate for women of color who inhabit the juncture of two identities
that come with distinct bias in the workplace and beyond. These women
become “problem starters,” and the result isn’t just a week’s worth of mean
Instagram comments. For people of color, it can mean a disruption of their
lifestyle that’s so drastic, recovery is sometimes impossible. It is even more
hurtful to walk that tightrope knowing your white colleagues are equipped
with a parachute while you fall to your metaphorical death.
The fashion industry is not ready to have conversations about toxicity,
misogyny, homophobia, or racism in the way they need to be had. Victims of
harassment and sexual assault have their motives questioned if they bring
their experiences to a legal platform. When Black people bring up racism in
this context, they are told they are being “paranoid,” or they need to “lighten
up,” or worse still, that “not everything is about race.” So instead, we just
absorb all that negativity. We swallow it and smile at lavishly decorated
dinner tables with people who have racist conversations privately while
publicly standing for equality.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lest you think that, as I matured, I abandoned my obsession with being thin, I
did not. In fact, I learned to strategize and use my job to further that mission.
In 2014, I decided I wanted to lose some weight, and like any good editor, I
made my pursuit into a “story.” When you pursue something as a story rather
than as a personal agenda, it all but ensures that the endeavor will be free. My
brilliant idea was to attempt to turn myself into a Victoria’s Secret Angel, a
quest I was already primed for by my youthful obsession with the VS Angels.
My real intention, however, was to get skinnier. The Angels were a high
source of web traffic for us when I worked at Elle, and people—me included
—were particularly obsessed with their bodies. I attended the Victoria’s
Secret Fashion Show for work every year, an upgrade from being a regular
television spectator. We did little backstage interviews with the models, but
there was so much mystery in the way the machine functioned. I wanted to
know more. So I pitched the idea to my boss and then to Victoria’s Secret,
and I was off to the races.
The first step in the journey was securing contact with celebrated
nutritionist Dr. Charles Passler, who had famously helped Adriana Lima lose
fifty pounds after she gave birth to her second daughter in order to make a
triumphant return to the runway months later. Another coworker of mine had
pursued Dr. Passler’s services for “a story” but ultimately didn’t get much out
of it. I knew I could be more disciplined and, therefore, more successful, so I
emailed his office and made a consultation appointment.
The first meeting with Dr. Passler served as a preliminary weigh-in. I
discussed my relationship with food, he gave me some at-home urine tests to
do, told me about the importance of external factors like sleep and stress on
body weight, and after one hour, I went home. Three days later, I returned for
phase two, where I brought the urine tests to him and he provided me with
my first eating plan, which served as a “cleanse.” I was not honest with
Dr. Passler, as I had learned by that point that being honest about the way I
ate to medical professionals set off way too many alarm bells. I was
comfortable fudging my way through appearing to be a normal eater, and I
told him just enough to let him know I wanted to lose weight, but not
anything about my obsession with it.
Dr. Passler informed me that my body fat percentage was very high, and
that if it got any higher, it could border on obesity. It was around 32 percent
at the time, and the VS models averaged between 10 percent and 18 percent.
LOL! This scared the shit out of me. He also told me my toxicology report
was off the charts, indicating that I was putting toxins in my body faster than
they could be released. He suggested that I stop drinking alcohol
immediately. This scared me too because, aside from my occasional moments
of diet-induced abstinence, drinking aided my bulimia by giving me an easy
cover; plus, alcohol was a useful social lubricant. As someone who was more
or less required to be out and about for work, I felt I needed it. Since he was
the expert, though, and responsible for the snatched figure of a legendary
supermodel, I felt it was in my best interest to do everything he said.
I quit booze, and I went on a ten-day no-sugar, no-dairy, no-meat
cleanse. At first, I didn’t lose any weight. I was angry and frustrated. I had a
sad protein shake for Thanksgiving dinner, but I loved the fact I could drop
“This is from my nutritionist” or “I’m working on a story” to prying family
members who wondered why I wasn’t partaking in the meal. Then, out of
nowhere, I started to lose weight. Once I started seeing results, I trusted him
implicitly. Dr. Passler “helped” me lose about twenty-seven pounds when I
was at my thinnest. I continued to see him over the next five years, and the
programs I did under his guidance grew increasingly more intense.
Dr. P said I was his star patient. He encouraged me to lose more and
more weight, telling me I could slim down to the actual measurements of a
model if I would just try. He gave a necessary authoritative voice to all the
things I’d already been telling myself, but now it was doctor’s orders. I loved
the results I saw, and I would scream his praises to anyone who would listen.
I talked about him obsessively. If it were the 1970s, I would have run away
and joined his cult. I loved this man. We texted all the time. I told him about
how lazy my friends were, that they would do things like eat cake on their
birthdays (weak!) or have a beer when they were stressed (double weak!). I
would hide with shame if I ever deviated from his plan, and I faithfully
returned to his office every two weeks to be weighed and given my new
instructions on my diet.
When I was within five pounds of my goal weight, which became a
magic number that kept reducing as I would get closer to attaining a goal, he
told me I still needed to work harder. He encouraged me to fast, eating only
bone broth for days. He was impressed with how easily I could do this, not
knowing that I had essentially been training for it my entire life. I sent many
patients his way, either people who followed me on social media or personal
friends. I even encouraged my own size-zero sister to see him at one point.
And then, because I was obsessed and sick, I would go behind his back and
try to do other programs on top of his regimen to speed up my weight loss.
But as long as the numbers on the scale were down, he never questioned how.
He just assumed that the plan was working and that I was behaving as
instructed. He was the most important relationship in my life. I absolutely
worshipped him.
As I got thinner, I got more attention in both my professional and
personal life. I had a boyfriend, who I was sure I was going to marry, which
served as confirming evidence that I needed to be skinny to be desired. I
made more money than ever, which I linked to my superhuman discipline and
drive. On the surface, I was killing it. But the strenuous effort required to
keep myself moving at that pace and make it look fun, easy, and attainable
was untenable. I was in a bad place, and I didn’t know how to get out. It had
all spun so far out of control. I felt that I needed to keep this private
infatuation with my diet because it served as fuel, as motivation for greatness
in everything else. It kept me humble and striving, so I soothed and tended to
it, and then I spread it far and wide outside myself.
I talked about food and nutrition and diets incessantly. I chronicled my
nonmeals on Instagram. I wrote about diets online. I carefully monitored
what other people ate and how much they drank. I never chastised them about
it outright, but I might have subtly commented, and I silently added the
information to the log in my mind, categorizing others as either committed or
lazy. Friends often came to me when they wanted to lose weight. Slimming
down for a wedding? I was your girl. Need to drop postbaby weight? Holla at
me. Intentionally trying to make an ex jealous with an awesome bikini shot
on vacation? I had you. Just as I had cultivated my authority on clothing, I
became an accidental expert on weight loss. I, obviously, didn’t always have
healthy advice. I feel guilty for spreading that negativity, for my constant
projection onto other women, and for the continuation of a cycle that nearly
destroyed me. It got to the point where I would fantasize about being
pregnant because I imagined that growing a fetus was the only way to be free
from thinking about the flatness of my stomach.
I weighed myself at the start of each day, like a freaky prayer ritual, and
was overjoyed when my jeans felt too big. That morning routine would
determine whether I would have a good or a bad day. I never stopped
thinking or talking about my size, and the crazy part was, despite being
smaller than ever, I still wasn’t fitting into samples like I’d envisioned I
would. A big part of the reason I wanted a different body was so I could wear
clothes better. My body was still totally wrong for my needs.
At every turn, I felt I was being rejected by the very structure I so
desperately craved acceptance from. I did everything right, and it didn’t
matter that I couldn’t squeeze my colossal ass into anything that didn’t have
stretch. It left me bitter and furious, so I went even harder with my methods. I
would exercise at SoulCycle after eating nothing for two days, frantically
trying to burn more calories so I could end the day calorie-deficient. I took
the free gum on the way out of the studio, and on my walk home, I enjoyed
the minty flavor and told myself it was dinner. I was so ashamed of the way
my issues with food had swelled into this beast that I exerted further control
over my diet by packing my schedule manically. I would attend two or more
events a night, and since there was hardly food at any of them, by the time I
got home, I would declare it too late to eat. If I needed to put on a
performance and eat in front of my friends, I would carefully space out the
dinners I attended and make a big show of being “hungry” for added effect.
When I went on dates, I would feel increasingly paranoid about eating in
front of strangers. Only when I was much more comfortable with someone
would I eat the tiny fistful of food that I needed for adequate sustenance in
their presence. I would let only men who could stand watching me do this
stay in my life. That’s the real reason I’ve been single for so long.
A guy I really liked looked me squarely in the eyes at breakfast one
morning and said, “You know you have to eat, right?” He said it so sincerely
that the memory still gives me chills. I furiously told him not to “food police”
me. Others tried to gently feed me, and I would resist. In my longest
relationship, my ex said something once about how I didn’t eat much at
dinner and then, every other time we ate together, just proceeded to silently
finish my food. That arrangement worked very well for me. I kept emotional
distance from people so I could continue being bulimic. In 2017, I threw up
on a guy when I was giving him a blow job after a meal. My gag reflex
betrayed me because it was after lunch, and I habitually threw up once my
belly was full.
I was incredibly ill, and yet, all the compliments I was getting pushed
me to pursue more extreme measures. I was also convinced, in a material
way, that being skinny was a key to professional success. My fashion cohorts
would write, “Skinny legend!!!” “Skinny,” “Snatched,” and “Yes, waist” in
my Instagram comments. They would grab me into hugs and tell me how
skinny I was looking and congratulate me on a job well done. Skinny was the
ultimate compliment from fashion people. It is the thing we are supposed to
be, and if we aren’t naturally thin and we work hard for it, we should be duly
rewarded. No one will say it outright, but of course, being thin is the look.
In 2005, the summer before I graduated high school, the late designer
Karl Lagerfeld published a book called The Karl Lagerfeld Diet, revealing
how he’d lost more than ninety pounds. The book exposed Lagerfeld’s own
deep self-hatred and aversion to gaining weight. He detailed his low-fat, no-
carb, twelve-hundred-calorie-a-day diet, which he dubbed “punishment.” Up
until his death in 2019, Lagerfeld served as the creative director for both
Fendi and Chanel, two of the most prominent brands in fashion, where he had
worked since 1967 and 1982, respectively. He had those jobs for longer than
I had been alive. Later in 2009, he expressed anger at a German magazine
that had vowed to shoot only real women, saying, “You’ve got fat mothers
with their bags of chips sitting in front of the television and saying that thin
models are ugly. The world of beautiful clothing is about ‘dreams and
illusions.’”
That kind of thinking and reverence for thinness is in the past. Because
the concept of fatphobia has entered the lexicon, we are all magically cured
of the idea that skinny is the only way to be. In August 2020, former child
star turned lifestyle legend Drew Barrymore appeared on the cover of
InStyle’s “The Badass Women Issue.” In the feature interview, Barrymore
reveals how she was living at home and coping with the pandemic. The entire
feature is incredibly complimentary, presenting Drew Barrymore as a new-
age messiah the way celebrity profiles often do, and then she slips in, when
asked about how she takes care of herself, “I eat really clean and healthy, and
I do an hour of Pilates at least four days a week. I have to work so hard at not
being the size of a bus. And it’s OK. That is just my journey. That is my
karma. I don’t know, maybe I was thin and mean in a past life.” This is not to
shit on Drew’s journey. I have no idea what she has gone through. But the
fact that the quote made it to print and still lingers on the InStyle.com website
is exactly the way fatphobia still drifts on in this industry. The statement flew
by unchecked; several people looked the story over and decided it was worth
printing, which further contributes to the idea that fatphobia is not all that
bad, really. After all, if “Badass” Drew is working hard at not being the size
of a bus, then isn’t that OK for us all? It is no longer as explicit as the way
Kate Moss or Karl Lagerfeld have talked about their contempt for bigger
bodies, but it is still present, faintly, disguised as “self-care” and repeated by
the same people who genuinely say that loving who you are is the best
accessory.
This is not honest. If you think because you have seen Mindy Kaling on
a magazine cover or two that fashion people are all of a sudden devoted to the
acceptance of women bigger than a size two, I hate to crush that dream for
you, but they are not. That is not what’s being said behind closed doors. I
know because I have been in those rooms.
I have no problem saying that I still struggle with fatphobia. I have to
check my behaviors and thought patterns all the time. Thanks to social media
and my career in learning to package ideas in an ideal way for public
consumption, I covered up my fatphobia by pantomiming health and
wellness, in the same way I learned to pantomime happiness in being Scary
Spice or “a downtown urban girl” when the occasion arose. When you
consider what I have seen and what has not only been presented as the ideal
body but also rewarded by my chosen industry in more ways than one, it is
hardly a surprise that these poisonous and self-destructive beliefs persist in
me. It’s not something I can be cured of overnight. I can say all the positive
affirmations I want to myself, but there will still be people who go out of
their way to tell me how women (always women) should look and be
extremely invested in their right to do so. Just like it took a long time to build
a world where skinny was the most beautiful, it will take a long time to tear
that world down. We still have to try our best.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I left my job at Elle when I was offered $25,000 more a year to work at
InStyle, crossing me over into the six-figures club, which is a milestone I
wanted to reach before thirty. I was twenty-seven. I was also in the throes of
my first bout of professional burnout. I had just completed a viral story where
I allowed my Tinder matches to pick my outfits for a week, when a female
executive asked me what I was going to do next. I had overly commodified
myself in service of my job, and it was wearing on me. InStyle offered me the
opportunity to make more money and do less work, something I felt I
desperately needed. It is the only move I have ever regretted making in my
whole career. I went from Elle.com, an imperfect professional environment
that did have bright spots of teamwork, mentorship, and inclusion, to InStyle
magazine, which was easily the most racist working environment I have ever
experienced. In the fashion department, there were only two other people of
color: a white-passing Latina assistant and a fellow senior editor, who was of
Indian descent. Our fashion director was an intimidating Italian woman who
has since gone on to found a company that I can’t figure out the purpose of,
but based on its Instagram page, it appears to exist only to celebrate the
beauty of white women. That’s fitting because it’s exactly what InStyle
employees did under her guidance. In conjunction with another editor, it was
my job to oversee the pages where we found trends based on street-style
images (candid photos taken of stylish people on the street, usually before or
after fashion events) and told readers how to re-create the looks with more
affordable options. I loved those pages. They were a fun way to explore
putting together outfits, and I always felt inspired observing the ways people
choose to present themselves.
I’d matured at Elle.com and felt that it was important to experiment
with being more vocal about inclusion—and by vocal, I mean I wouldn’t say
anything at all but would select images of Black women exclusively for my
street-style inspiration pages in an attempt to make sure they were included.
Month after month for a year, I was always asked to “find new inspiration,”
to “get better images,” to “rethink the pictures.” These notes were just a
coded way of saying that Black women were not desired for the page, and the
images were repeatedly rejected. I knew in my heart what was driving that
rejection, but I refused to back down, and at the risk of looking bad at my job,
I kept submitting these images and they kept getting tossed out. It was hugely
frustrating, and it unearthed old feelings of rejection and longing for
acknowledgment. I wasn’t succeeding at my quiet mission, but it was not for
lack of trying. This is, more or less, how Black women are erased from the
pages of the magazines you read.
I had a somewhat childish notion that my presence as an editor there
would give me the chance to change what I assumed had just been an
oversight on the part of an overwhelmingly white staff to recognize Black
women. It was no oversight. The fashion director didn’t see any need to
salute stylish women of color. If you look at the marketing for her new
company, which she has complete creative control over, you can see exactly
the kind of woman she seeks to celebrate: white and white only.
That is the racism that exists in fashion. Of course, if asked, my old boss
will say she is not a racist. What she wants to be understood is that it is just
who she wants to hire, cast, and acknowledge. It’s incidental. It shouldn’t be
personal. It’s about what is right for the brand, who has the right look—that’s
all. That’s the script, and if you hear that over and over enough times, it
seems believable. So if you got the right clothes and the right relationships
and the right everything, you’d be in, right? Not quite. If you have the
conviction that through hard work and dedication comes salvation, you
imagine that all your weekend hours, neglected relationships, and silence in
the face of disturbing amounts of prejudice would mean something. But none
of it does. You’re still not seen as valuable. You’re here, but you’re not here.
If you actually get far enough to become a real decision maker, I can’t even
imagine the kind of trauma it took to crawl your way to that place.
Eventually, I decided I didn’t want it enough to even try anymore.
Approaching the 2016 election, I just couldn’t believe that my role in the
world was telling women that the best thing to be was a carbon copy of Kate
Hudson. I mean, no offense, she seems great, but there had to be something
else, right? I weighed my options and knew that I didn’t have that kind of
fight in me.
 The reality is when you work in an industry that is responsible for
imagery that can potentially affect millions of people, you are constantly at
moral odds with what you know is right and the requirements of your job.
Since the industry favors white supremacy, it requires you to do the same. It
happened to me when I first had to study the beauty goddesses for my
internship at NYLON, and it had been happening steadily ever since.
In 2015, Valentino released a Spring/Summer 2016 collection that the
house claimed was inspired by “primitive, wild Africa.” Africa, not a country
specifically, just the whole entire continent, the actual origin point of
humanity, was just primitive and wild and a basis for fashion inspiration. OK.
To add insult to injury, the runway consisted of fewer than ten nonwhite
models. There were ninety-one looks.
The designers at the time, an Italian duo (Pierpaolo Piccioli, still
designing at Valentino, and Maria Grazia Chiuri, who now oversees an
aggressive brand of fake feminism at Christian Dior), defended their choice
of words and their decision to move forward with this collection, telling
Vogue Runway that it was a commentary on the recent uptick in
immigrations and refugees from African countries seeking shelter in Italy.
“The message is tolerance,” they claimed, “and the beauty that comes out of
cross-cultural expression.” Except it was not tolerance; it was colonialism
steeped in the history of Europeans taking anything they want from Africa
and denying agency to African people while doing it. The Vogue writer who
reviewed the collection, Sarah Mower (you guessed it, a white woman),
glorifies the choices of the designers to “blend cultures”: “Both designers
pointed out that their respectful borrowings are hardly new; they are part of a
history of Western assimilation that goes back to Picasso and Braque’s
embrace of African art in the 1920s, which, Chiuri said, ‘was the birth of
modernism in art.’ It came over as most modern in this show.”
Let’s unpack this a bit. Valentino commits the fashion equivalent of
looting in 2015, and Vogue calls it “modern.” Oh, it’s modern all right. It’s an
effective reproduction of what has been happening on a global scale for
centuries, but now, it’s to be fed back to consumers for thousands of dollars.
And let’s not gloss over the fact that she suggests that Picasso and Braque
were in any way collaborative with communities they degraded and stole
from for commercial gain and artistic respect.
You can try, but you will find little to no criticism of this collection. Go
ahead, google it. You will likely find critical hot takes only on news sites like
HuffPost or Jezebel, which are on the fringes of the industry. Valentino is one
of the largest advertisers in print media, and that money helps fund shoots,
parties, and the daily functions of a magazine. In other words, never bite the
hand that feeds you. What’s more, Valentino is a cool kid on the block. Like I
said, they have lots of money. They throw fun parties. I’ve been to them.
They make nice things. You want them on your side. So everyone plays
along and says how beautiful the collection is. Even independent fashion
news site Fashionista.com has a kiss-ass headline: “Valentino Crafts a
Beautiful Tribute to Tribal Africa on Its Spring 2016 Runway.” Oh, is that
what that was?
If you let it, the general apathy in the industry toward both historical
and present wrongs will deaden your senses. It is crushing to witness, and
even worse when these wrongs are praised instead of criticized. I worked at
InStyle when the Valentino collection was released, and the staff received an
email from our editor-in-chief at the time saying that Valentino was to
receive no covers that season, a decision that I still respect him for. The other
credits were at the discretion of the editorial staff, and our Italian fashion
director—well, as you may have guessed—still wanted Valentino featured.
So feature we did. This was a slap in the face to anyone who disagreed with
what Valentino did on that runway. It was another way of letting everyone
know how little the feelings of Black people mattered. And in six months,
there would be a new collection, that convenient forgetfulness making it
possible to breeze right past it.
Valentino made no comments on the backlash, and in a stunning show
of defiance, they shot their spring campaign in Africa, featuring Maasai
people as the backdrop. But, even without acknowledgment, they have
learned. In recent years, their runways have been flooded with Black models.
Naomi Campbell impressively led a crew of mostly Black models in the
couture lineup of 2019. Still, that Valentino was allowed to press on from this
scandal as if driving over a speed bump exemplifies fashion’s tendency to
forget anything unsavory and its dedication to embrace any- and everything
new. It worked so well that designer Pierpaolo Piccioli declared himself
something of a civil rights activist, stating to Business of Fashion in 2019, “I
think if a message is aesthetic, it’s stronger. The picture of those black girls
wearing those dream gowns didn’t need words. Streetwear is something
different, but when people see black girls in couture, the highest point of
fashion, the job is done. Images are more powerful than words. Change the
face and you change the perception of people more than any slogan.”
The job is done.
I did a Valentino campaign for social media at the end of 2020, then
took the money they paid me and redistributed the entirety of the earnings to
other Black women I thought were more deserving. I agreed to be their
Token Black Girl for a fee that I wanted other women to have more than
myself, women who might not have been asked had I turned the job down. It
was my way of acknowledging that this industry is difficult to change, but in
the little ways that we can, we must assert some power. I have been the
Token Black Girl all my life, and I know when I am being used and to what
extent, but at this point, I am going to make it work for me too.
The day I decided I’d had enough of working at InStyle, we had a staff-
wide run-through for the front-of-book pages, which are the pages that
contain the most variety in terms of price point and trends and are geared
toward motivating the audience to shop. In the run-through, a white stylist
and editor had photos of two models down on the floor, next to the clothes
that would be used for the shoot. We were deciding which models we would
feature in the pages. One was a white woman, a brunette, with greenish-
brown eyes and very fair skin. She was what the industry would call an
“every girl,” pretty but not threatening, friendly looking, and just a tick above
ordinary. The other model was a light-skinned if not mixed-race Black
woman. She had a visible Afro and was more, in the words we would use in
fashion, “edgy” or “directional.” The truth is she could be an every girl too.
In many communities, she is an every girl, but in the fashion world, where we
don’t actually want to honor the beauty of women of color, she is forced into
the “edgy” box. The fashion director held both photos up in front of the entire
staff of, as I said before, mostly white women, and dropped the Black
model’s photo back down to the floor, loudly declaring, “Well, we have
Lupita on the cover this month so we don’t need her.” Heads bobbed in
agreement. Never once had we said, “We have Jennifer Aniston on the cover,
so we don’t need another blonde woman on subsequent pages.” Of course,
just one Token Black Girl is enough to cover representation for months to
come. Singular, all quotas met. We extolled the physical features of white
women and ignored Black women entirely. It was an exhausting mission to
try to make my coworkers see differently. After a year at InStyle, I left. I got
offered a job at another internet-based start-up, and I took it.
My new job was content director of a Gen Z–targeted publishing
property. The idea was to use social media as a means of distribution,
meaning there was no website and no CMS, just handles. It seemed like a
great gig on the cusp of innovation and something that would be fun to build.
Fatefully, however, I had forgotten the lesson I learned in high school about
needing to mediate my anger and personality so as not to appear menacing to
white people. I got far too comfortable there, if you can believe it. I had
experienced moderate success, so I started to think I could loosen up a bit.
One month after I was hired to work at Clique Media, I was fired. My
offense? A few, actually. The first was that they thought the content I posted
on my personal Snapchat was inappropriate. My own channel, which had
fewer than two thousand people watching it at any time, had rubbed them the
wrong way. Too mean and too Black.
There is no way to overemphasize that Clique Media, a company
founded by two white women, was interested in only white women (at the
time). If there were a female version of Get Out, it would have been this. The
first time I visited their offices in LA, every woman there was blonde, size
two to four, and wore a variation of blue, nonstretch vintage denim with a
white T-shirt, their hair neatly cropped to shoulder length or higher with a
slight beach wave. It was spooky. The only other Black woman I saw was at
the front desk at reception—except I later learned her job wasn’t reception at
all; her job was actually HR.
The red flags at Clique Media were apparent from my first day. Without
my knowledge or input, they had staffed a team for me, despite hiring me to
be a director. They hired two nice, very junior girls, one blonde and one
biracial. Then they asked me to fly to LA from NYC for a launch event right
before a planned trip I had to Thailand. I had told them about my trip many
times during the interview process. It takes a full day to get to Thailand, and I
wanted to manage their expectations for travel while still trying to be a team
player. I asked to upgrade my seat from economy to business on my flight to
LA if they wanted me to be there for less than forty-eight hours so I could get
some rest on the plane, and since I received no response, I just upgraded
myself. When I got to the office and met them in person, I asked if it could be
reimbursed.
Tensions increased when the executive leadership started having
problems with the content I was posting on their channels. The issue with
content that lives only on social media is everyone is constantly on social
media, so the critiques were coming fast and furious. I got in trouble for
posting a GIF of gossip legend Wendy Williams. “Wendy Williams is a mean
girl,” they told me, which arguably . . . sure. But it wasn’t as if it were a clip
of her dogging someone out on television. Digital meme-ing works by
isolating a humorous moment and making it applicable to multiple things. I
posted a photo of my chic friend with her two much older brothers for
National Siblings Day and was immediately told to take it down because it
was “off-brand.” I suppose seeing two Black men on the feed was not
something they wanted. It seemed like any time I posted about anything
Black, it was an issue. Finally, they policed my personal social media to a
point where I began to feel paranoid. When you are someone who shares a lot
of their life online as a professional obligation, you can sense when people
are treating you differently based on something you have shared. Sometimes
questions like “How was your weekend?” get replaced with statements like “I
saw you went . . .” and you know your time, both on and off the clock, is
being heavily monitored.
The company fired me over the phone as I stood outside in Union
Square, and by the time I got back up to the office, I was locked out of my
emails and otherwise dismissed. They said they did not like some
commentary I had made about celebrity children and a joke about Zika—a
joke I made on my personal social media account. They would not give me
another chance or let me demonstrate that I could improve based on their
feedback. I was also informed that they found my request that my flight to
Los Angeles be upgraded “totally inappropriate.” They actually said the
request changed people in the company’s opinions of me. Just to make it
clear, I paid for the upgrade myself. What I think is inappropriate is having
quippy sayings published all over an office and website about “female
empowerment” and giving copious advice about “asking for what you want,”
only to shut down a Black woman when she does exactly that. Shonda
Rhimes left an almost two-decade contract at ABC over the fact that they
wouldn’t issue her an extra Disney pass; the straw that broke the camel’s
back was an exec asking, “Don’t you think you have enough?” When I found
that out, I had to laugh. Black women on scales large and small are being
faced with this riddle every day.
I did what I thought was the classy thing and wrote the two founders an
email apologizing, trying to smooth over what I thought was a
misunderstanding. I never heard back from either of them. It was 2016, right
before the election of Donald Trump, and his flagrant support of white
supremacy pushed race relations to the forefront of every industry. In June
2020, Clique Media and one of the white female founders in particular faced
criticism over fostering a racist and hostile workplace, none of which
surprised me. As far as I know, neither of the founders has ever made a
statement about their role in the racist environment at their company, but the
way I was treated, monitored, and painted as a delinquent tells me all those
accusations were true. When they do apologize and inevitably ask for the
chance to do better, I’m interested to see whether they get it, the same chance
I was denied.
Because of white supremacy, we find a way to accept and excuse racist
behavior at every single opportunity. The most frequent excuses include “I
was young,” “I was ignorant,” and “I was drunk.” And if you, a person of
color, do not “get over it” or “let it go,” then you’re petty. We are not allowed
to demand justice for racist offenses because that justice does not exist. On
the other hand, let a Black person get too heated, say something out of spite,
or make a single mistake, and their life could be over. This is not an
exaggeration. “Just get over slavery, already!” white people will comment on
social media. But it’s not about getting over anything when, in real time,
people are both benefiting and suffering consequences because of racism, and
many of us refuse to acknowledge the inherent injustices at play while
proclaiming that everyone is “equal.”
Even after brazen and audacious criminal activity—an armed invasion
of our Capitol aimed at overthrowing the government like the one that took
place on January 6, 2021, for example—white people expect to be absolved
and forgiven for their crimes. In March 2021, a white radio host in Oklahoma
was caught on tape calling a high school female basketball team “fucking
niggers” because they knelt during the National Anthem, and he was not
fired; instead, he released a press statement to affirm that he was “not racist”
but just “had low blood sugar.” And people accept these excuses. It is only
Black people from whom we demand absolute and unveiled perfection. And
that pressure produces an incredible amount of anxiety. The “work twice as
hard to get half as far” mantra is only a part of it. The other part is an undying
pledge to never mess up because the consequences will be worse for you no
matter what. This, in itself, is violence.
When I lost my job at Clique, it was the first time I had significantly
failed at anything. And I felt like a failure. I turned the volume way up on my
self-loathing. Whenever I feel unworthy, I deny myself food. It is a way of
literally making myself small and weak, and yet, at the same time, I felt that
hunger gave me mental clarity.
The idea that being “palatable” as a Black person, that having a
vocabulary and clothing and shoes, and so on, works to make you more
acceptable to white people was finally exposed to me as a fallacy. So I
decided to say “Fuck it” and just finally be myself. Four months later, I got
hired at BET.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

When I first started working at BET, I was elated. I had no emotional

attachment to the brand because I had limited exposure to it growing up. I
thought it would be a healthy departure, having scored so many “dream jobs”
that later became nightmares at publications I was dedicated to out of sheer
emotional attachment. I was not under the impression that working at BET
would be any more than a job, a philosophy I now encourage. I am no longer
defined by whatever brand I work for. It’s freeing.
At BET, I was a part of a team of talented creatives who respected each
other and wanted to work together. I am still in awe of the women I met
while working at BET, their limitless potential and skill. At the time, the
CEO was a woman, Debra Lee, and it felt, at first, like a hopeful new start.
Black Girl Magic had started trending across social media, and I was all for
its tangible presence in my life too. I worked for and with people who were
supportive, who advocated for me, and who helped me make my ideas a
reality. It did not stay that way, but initially, it was great.
When I got my job at BET, some people questioned whether I deserved
it based on the Timberland snafu. I was nervous, conscious of the childhood
trauma that told me I was “not Black.” When listicles began to dominate as
an internet content genre, I would click on headlines like “25 Things Black
Mothers Say” and recite a silent prayer that I would recognize even just one
phrase from my mother’s mouth. I needed to find myself somewhere in “60
Things Every Black Girl Knows” as a way of forming a tangible foundation
for my Black identity, one I’d been convinced had been broken in childhood,
and then later by the Twitterverse. This fractured relationship to my Black
identity was a major regret of mine that I did not have the maturity or
wherewithal to deal with at that point in my life, but I have learned to forgive
myself for the mistakes I made as I began to repair that fracture and the
things I wasn’t brave enough to push to change in the fashion industry.
 In every industry, but especially fashion, there is an enormous
difference between visibility and power. There is power in visibility, but it’s
not always a power you can control. Almost every one of my jobs has been
very visible, and in a world ruled by clicks and likes, that seems great, but
there were many, many times where I had no power. This is still true for
many people working in positions across media companies, and it is vital to
understanding how and why mistakes like Timberland-gate shake out in the
public eye. As the Token Black Girl, your face may be on the building
outside, but there will be meetings you are not invited to. Your words might
be changed without your knowledge, and there will be things you agree to
just because you feel you have to. And even when I was working at BET,
with many other Black people, this was still my reality. I was a useful tool
because of how I looked—in this case, photogenic and practiced at being
used as a marketing tool—and that was exploited. It has always been my
default to just put up with things until I get enough power to change them.
Eventually, I thought, I will be the boss, and I will be the one making those
decisions. But it’s a difficult balance to maintain over several years. How
much pain you can withstand should not be the barometer of how successful
you can become. Growing up in predominantly white environments, I was
uniquely equipped to handle those expectations because deference to the
status quo had always been my reality, but I did not expect that kind of
pressure in a Black environment.
It became quickly apparent in my work at BET that white supremacy
was ever present, even in an all-Black setting. For starters, we had an office
Karen, a white woman who would routinely confuse photos of Black
celebrities and even cried, claiming she was being bullied by the other Black
women in the office. I am serious. And because we did not work in a
vacuum, the industry perception of BET as a brand hindered my access to
certain talent and opportunities. I went from having invitations to all the
industry events, parties, and celebrity interviews to having, well, way fewer.
Because of these constraints, we ended up making a lot of concessions in our
content, and still, we were able to produce work that I was extremely proud
of. It might surprise you to find out who and what entities said no to being
featured on BET.com. There are numerous political factors at play in those
decisions, but because I had come from a world of prestige white
entertainment and fashion, I was aware of what celebrities were willing to do
for less than BET offered. I agreed to cover Rihanna’s Fenty Puma launch at
Bloomingdale’s in 2017 and waited for more than three hours for a “group
interview,” only to find out that W Magazine had been given a one-on-one
exclusive. Things like this happened every day. I had seen Black talent work
with publications for sheer exposure, then tell BET they were too busy to
work with us, which is more or less a euphemism for “not interested.” It was
a dizzying reality to straddle, one that I knew was anchored in the fact that
mainstream books or networks that had greater access to white audiences,
big-box advertisers, and the Hollywood powers that be were able to secure
the kind of stories we were not. And we killed it anyway. That is the
scrappiness of the Black community, finding opportunity where there is
denial, opening doors for ourselves and building the best possible product no
matter what.
As for my most useful contribution to the team, I was able to be an
anthropologist of whiteness, filling the office in on pop culture history when
necessary. Upon Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s separation in 2016, I became
extremely useful in my ability to explain the genre of “white mess,” an office
favorite. It felt nice to have this part of me both acknowledged and
celebrated, as opposed to being something I needed to keep secret for fear of
mockery. There were still awkward moments where I outed myself as
ignorant of something that everyone else seemed to know or understand. On a
set in 2020, prepandemic lockdown, when we were still scrubbing down
audio equipment and overusing hand sanitizer, my coworker declared, “It
smells like Fabuloso,” to which I stupidly responded, “What’s Fabuloso?”
This question produced a chorus of laughter from every Black and brown
person within earshot, and—because we were on a BET set—that was
everyone. My neck burned with shame, knowing I had made a faux pas,
inadvertently drawing attention to an experience of Blackness I did not share.
“It’s like a dollar-store cleaner,” my friend offered. OK, so it was a cleaning
product, no big deal. My mom cleaned with something else, and though
everyone laughed at me, I knew I was not going to be socially shunned
because I had never smelled this thing. The rest of the crew volunteered their
memories of cleaning with or smelling Fabuloso, and instead of the door
being closed in my face, I was welcomed over the threshold. Then everyone
just went back to work, difference accepted, public humiliation averted.
Despite this element of acceptance, there were issues at BET I was not
prepared for. I was under the impression that working there would free me
from some of the more harmful beauty standards I had struggled with at
white institutions. And while there was not a collective diet culture at the
office or the idea that there was only one acceptable hair type, anyone who
works on the internet knows that you are beholden, first and always, to
engagement and algorithms, where those beauty standards are constant. I felt
immensely guilty about this, boosting Kardashian bikini photos and stoking
the obsession that people had with the natural hair of women like Michelle
Obama and Beyoncé. At the same time, the world I had just exited was
publishing stories about “Boxer Braids” (read: cornrows) and continuing a
tradition of violent erasure that was really not any more helpful to Black
women than the content I was responsible for.
The public fascination with Beyoncé’s hair is something that has
become borderline parody. In September 2018, Beyoncé appeared on the
cover of American Vogue, and her longtime hairstylist released a behind-the-
scenes video that served as evidence that Beyoncé was indeed appearing
without hair extensions. Stirring up fans and haters like only Beyoncé can, a
debate about what was and was not her natural hair sparked online. Way less
interesting than the conspiracy theory that she faked her pregnancy, but the
conversation was at a fever pitch.
Honestly, who cares? Not a single celebrity alive has not used hair
extensions, and it’s become so commonplace that you can get them on
Amazon and give yourself an at-home makeover. The obsession, however,
with Black women’s hair, how it is done, and what it can do is something that
is foundational to the white supremacy beauty myth. And the natural-hair
debate was always a Chartbeat topper on BET.com.
In Beyoncé’s case, she has the added layer of being a representative for
the Black beauty standard, which is a sticky position to be in. There is a
stereotype that Black hair doesn’t grow and that straightening your hair will
result in irreparable damage, and while, yes, this may be true for mere
mortals, Beyoncé is the daughter of a hairstylist and keeps a glam squad on
call the way people with allergies do EpiPens. In some sick repetition of
history, Beyoncé’s daughter Blue Ivy is now being subjected to the same
overbearing scrutiny. Overall, the hair of the Carter women defies
stereotypes, and the level of fascination that results verges on disturbing.
After that Vogue appearance and the subsequent tweets, headlines, and think
pieces, I was sure many people thought more about Beyoncé’s hair than
Beyoncé herself does. While Beyoncé is financially blessed enough to afford
the upkeep of her natural hair, the trickle-down effect for the general public is
a pressure to adhere to this standard without the use of hair extensions,
chemicals, or wigs while having neither the time nor the budget to do so. “Is
that your real hair?” or “Why don’t you wear your real hair?” are the kinds of
triggering inquiries that tie shame to Black hair instead of celebration, and if
those are the kinds of things you hear throughout adolescence and even into
adulthood, it will not be easy to extract the feelings of degradation from the
choices you make about your hair. By keeping these conversations alive, the
beast is always fed.
When I was overseeing fashion and beauty at BET in 2016, we reported
on a story where model Winnie Harlow, who rose to fame by embracing her
skin condition, vitiligo, cyberbullied fellow model, Australian-born Duckie
Thot. Thot had appeared in a campaign for jewelry brand Dinosaur Designs
that featured her natural hair. The point of the photos, at least to me, was to
emphasize Thot’s beautiful dark and impossibly even skin tone juxtaposed
against the colorful resin jewelry that is Dinosaur Designs’ signature. To
achieve this, Thot’s natural hair was slicked back off her face and into a
ponytail, as is customary for showcasing jewelry because hair can be a
distraction from the product. Her snub ponytail only seems unusual because
we are so used to looking at Black women with extensions added to their
hair, rather than seeing their hair simply as it is. These images, while
beautiful, sparked criticism from Harlow, who captioned a still from the
campaign on Snapchat with the text “LMFAO! WHAT ARE
THOOOOOSEEEEE cauliflower ass head.”
Now, it doesn’t take much imagination to envision what a cauliflower
looks like and how that might relate to a Black woman’s natural hair. Thot
herself had already expressed her complicated relationship with her own hair.
Earlier in 2016, she posted a now-deleted Instagram post that went viral,
describing a harrowing experience she had on Australia’s Next Top Model
where she was forced to cornrow her own hair even though she didn’t know
how because her stylist didn’t know how either. She wrote, “I was extremely
upset and embarrassed that they ‘didn’t know how’ to cornrow my natural
hair when at the end of the day that’s their job. I sat in front of the mirror
silently crying before my shoot doing my own hair, cameras rolling while all
the other girls had hair stylists . . .” Aside from the blatant discrimination at
play here, which is rife in the fashion industry, the lack of knowledge is a
huge factor for many Black women. In a 2016 interview, Thot tells Teen
Vogue, “Being a black woman, we haven’t really been taught how to take
care of our natural hair—we’ve only been taught how to hide it.” This is
something Black women know intimately. As for Harlow, who has bolstered
her own career as an advocate for anti-bullying, she issued an apology to
Thot and followed up by telling her millions of followers on Instagram, “An
apology has been made.” Years later, her team requested that the BET story
be taken down, and my bosses obliged for reasons I will never understand.
Regardless, it demonstrates the brutality of criticism from within the Black
community over hairstyles, type, and texture, and how that plays a role in
power dynamics.
Almost all Black women in the public eye face a degree of scrutiny for
their choices when it comes to their appearance, and especially their hair,
which makes it difficult to focus on anything else. This eye is even turned to
children. The mixed Kardashian offspring are being watched dutifully by the
public to make sure that every single hair is always laid perfectly in place.
Yes, they are Black and their mothers aren’t, but they are also children and
should be as free as any child to have wild, unkempt hair. The hair watchdogs
are on everyone, from former First Lady Michelle Obama to athletes like
Simone Biles and Gabby Douglas to Real Housewives. Mary Cosby, the sole
Black cast member on The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, was grilled
about her wigs at the show’s 2021 reunion hosted by Andy Cohen. The wigs
did not meet the standard that Twitter wanted, and people dogged her out
because of it, ignoring the fact that, even for a reality TV personality, having
picture-perfect hair is not a contractual requirement. This is my biggest gripe
with the hair criticism: the population of people whose actual job it is to have
perfect hair is minuscule, but somehow, we have decided that perfect hair
must be a requirement for Black women in any and all professions. Any
offhand scroll through a social media feed featuring Black women will no
doubt come with a healthy amount of hair commentary, from praise to
ridicule, but here’s what’s never considered: that person’s capacity to care for
their hair in that exact moment, their actual job, whatever other life pressures
might be weighing on them, and finally, that they might actually like their
hair the way they have done it.
Olympic champion Gabrielle Douglas became a poster child scapegoat
for hair hate while she competed on a global stage at the 2012 Summer
Olympics. Never mind that she was seventeen, making history, and winning
several gold medals, her hair displeased Black people who thought she
looked sloppy and, the worst offense of all, like she was trying to be a white
girl. In 2017, one Twitter user offered, “Gabby Douglas is that black girl with
only white friends and bad weave,” which is a sentiment I recognize, as it’s
been hurled at me often. If you become too hypnotized by white culture, you
begin to unconsciously radiate it, and God help you if that’s in a form of a
messy bun. However, in Gabby’s case and, later, in the case of her successor
and perhaps the greatest gymnast of all time, Simone Biles, their hairstyles
have a practical purpose and must adhere to a strict set of rules, which, like
ballet or school uniforms, were never intended to include Black people. In
fact, the official US gymnastics handbook specifies explicitly, “A neat and
proper athletic appearance should be the overall impression with both warm-
up and competition attire. The dress must be identical for members of the
same team, with some exceptions for squads with both male and female
athletes.” It continues, “Hair long enough to be in the face or touching the
shoulders of the athlete (male or female) should be pulled away neatly from
the face and neck in a ponytail (no longer than six inches), bun, braids, or
similar style. Whatever style, hair is not allowed to touch face, neck, back,
nor shoulders.”
As expressive as one might want to be with their hairstyles, these rules
simply do not allow it. And who knows how their abilities might be hindered
by braided or protective styles? Also, and I cannot emphasize this enough,
people can do their hair how they like. I am embarrassed to even have to
defend this. The fact of the matter is that both women overcame incredible
obstacles to rise to the top of an unthinkably difficult physical sport,
shouldered the hopes and dreams of the country, and exhibited extraordinary
performances of grace and athleticism, all while being sexually victimized by
a doctor they trusted to oversee their health and well-being. And at the end of
the day, both of them have had to make numerous statements defending their
hair. It’s sad.
We must grant Black women the freedom to have messy hair and, at the
same time, to also be fat, skinny, mean, nice, crybabies, or however it is they
are. If I learned anything from that misguided stint as a Victoria’s Secret
Angel, it’s that looking picture-perfect all the time is a full-time job. In fact, it
is someone’s full-time job, but it is probably not your full-time job. And even
if it is your job, women still deserve nights and weekends off and occasions
where we are not judged because our lace isn’t perfectly laid. (Naomi
Campbell suffered that fate when paparazzi shots caught her wigless on
vacation.) It takes an unsustainable amount of time and money to live in
filtered perfection.
In 2020, someone tweeted about me and my sister, “Danielle and Gabby
Prescod had to have grown up extremely privileged the way their hair always
looks.” Skull emoji. And I get it, I do. Hair is important. Several chapters of
this book are dedicated to it. And still, the policing, monitoring, and
judgment of Black hair exclusively serves and reinforces white supremacy. I
know that if I had perfect hair all the time or if I were still weighing my
protein on a food scale, I probably couldn’t have written this book. When I
was younger and had perms, I didn’t want to swim or overexert myself and
get too sweaty. When I was hungry, I was tired and mean. We are missing
out on life by upholding impossible physical standards, and even when we
win gold medals or go on vacation, we can look forward to the opinions of
the meddling public, the flaws of our hair, makeup, or bodies bringing into
question our Blackness. Even at the top of your field, your appearance needs
to be both nonthreatening to white people and pleasing to Black people, and
that is practically impossible. In the grand scheme of things, the money and
time we are dedicating to cosmetic upkeep can be a hindrance to our
progress. Fielding critiques from naysayers can be just as cumbersome and
draining.
Almost any content that invited people to weigh in on famous women’s
appearances was sure to be a top performer at BET, so even though I was no
longer a token, I was still forced to endure daily commentary on how Black
women should and should not look. And oftentimes, conflicting messaging
came from within the company. I had bosses who commented on whether
women with certain body types wearing bikinis was “appropriate.” And
nothing was off limits to the virtual BET audience; bodies, romantic
relationships, natural hair, and diets were all laid bare for discerning
spectators to applaud or tear apart at their discretion. Over my four years at
BET, it became increasingly difficult to wade through our commenters’
negativity on Black women’s appearance while also dealing with opinions of
the executive administration. All the while, I internalized these criticisms on
behalf of all Black women and starved myself as both penance and a
preemptive apology. How I looked was really the only element of the
equation I had any control over. I knew if I could just get pretty and skinny
enough, the world would fall more into balance.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Through my tenure at BET.com, I continued to see Dr. Passler and

evangelize his methods and philosophies wherever applicable. I had become
increasingly desperate to lose more and more weight. I was asked to do more
on-camera appearances at work, and with that new responsibility came an
amplified anxiety about how big I might look. Eventually, I started to seek
out more drastic weight loss solutions. I would do constant research on diets
for “work,” and I stumbled upon the concept of HGH shots. I started seeing a
shady doctor on the Upper West Side behind Dr. Passler’s back who would
provide me with HGH and a diet pill called phentermine, which was basically
an extreme appetite suppressant. It’s legal speed.
It was not the first time I had experimented with diet pills. In 2012, one
summer postcollege, one of my best friends and I thought it would be a good
idea to try every over-the-counter option available. We were both high-
profile assistants, her to a film actress and me to a fashion director. Our heart
rates began racing at levels we didn’t like, so we eventually abandoned our
quest. But surely a prescription was something different, right? Except, in
this case, it wasn’t actually my prescription. No good doctor would ever
prescribe me diet pills, and what this doctor did was even shadier. He secured
the pills under other patients’ names at a Florida pharmacy, shipped them to
his office in NYC, crossed out the old name, and just handed over the bottle.
I knew it was crazy to take them, but I could not stop. I was single again, and
I felt, categorically, that the only way I could be loved was if I was very
skinny. Never mind the notion that I was likely scaring men away by toting
around bone broth on first dates. No, the reason I didn’t have a boyfriend was
because I was too fat, definitely.
I was visibly bony, but my five-eight frame still carried 130-ish pounds
well enough, so I appeared healthy and fit to most people. And I was sure I
could lose just ten more pounds. My hair started falling out, thanks to a
combination of stress from work and a lack of nutrition. I stopped getting a
regular period, a symptom of anorexia I reframed as a convenience. Who
needs menstruation anyway? Like stopping for lunch, it just slows you down.
I became irritable, set off by minor nuisances. I was extremely depressed. I
had suicidal ideations. I pushed myself anyway. I was hitting up SoulCycle
two to three times a week, Pilates three times a week, and doubling up on free
workouts whenever they were available. In the meantime, I also worked
constantly, on Slack as soon as my eyes opened in the morning and
answering emails well into the night. I thought work could save me, but I had
become much more jaded about my prospects of bridging the impossible gap
between BET.com and the fashion industry.
In 2018, I participated in a New York Magazine story where editor
Lindsay Peoples Wagner interviewed more than one hundred Black people
working in the fashion industry. I am quoted both anonymously and not, and
although I did not request anonymity, some did. Many were afraid of the kind
of retaliation that being too honest can bring. The story surveyed everyone
from designers to models to actresses to bloggers. It was an honest look at the
more racist tendencies of the industry, and while it was a bombshell when it
dropped in August 2018, not much has changed in the years since. Fashion
has an incredible way of exacting a collective amnesia. Its mere existence is
dependent on a quality of newness and regeneration that carelessly discards
the old and forcefully embraces the new. This was what originally attracted
me to clothing, since I was always trying to discard my old self, but it is
actually one of fashion’s most deeply rooted problems.
Fashion assumes that whatever happened in the past was the past. This
is absolutely critical for ensuring that the industry continues with determined
forward motion, never stopping, always pushing whatever is next or new.
Phrases like “That’s so last season” aren’t meant only to make people feel
self-conscious about their clothing choices, even though that is a useful side
effect. The relentless insistence that everything become new in a constant
cyclical motion is an ideology that buoys the entire industry. It is how people
end up with ninety pairs of black boots. You always need to be acquiring the
newer style, and with each iteration, the one before it becomes just a little
more obsolete, even if it’s still totally wearable. Once people secure all the
things considered “wardrobe staples,” the idea of variety is pushed upon
them. How about a leopard pencil skirt instead? Walk on the wild side. But
don’t forget, you still need the black. It’s a classic.
 Regime changes at magazines and design houses mimic this reverent
dedication to regeneration. When Raf Simons jumps from Jil Sander to Dior
to Calvin Klein, fashion people discuss it with a hyperbolic excitement that
rivals evangelical sermons. The same is true when a magazine gets a new
creative director or editor-in-chief. The idea of change is both better and
bigger than the change itself. In reality, not much changes at all. For example,
if you are the kind of customer who has never shopped from Balenciaga
before, it will not matter to you if Nicolas Ghesquière or Alexander Wang is
steering the ship. You probably didn’t even notice.
This is not a nihilistic or cynical view of the industry. I am someone
who thinks fashion matters very much. I care deeply about creativity and
clothing and how it is made. But the lies of the industry convert people into
puppets and force us to all look at a mirage of paradise rather than the truth.
This is how we come to feel that we can celebrate sixteen magazine covers
featuring Black women in the same month for the first time in history as a
victory, even though that same month, someone is anonymously quoted in
New York Magazine saying, “People don’t want to admit it, but there’s still a
contingency that you have to be the ‘right’ kind of black for fashion to fully
accept you. They all look the same and are sample size . . . darker-skinned
women with a different hair-curl pattern are being ignored. It’s about the
optics. And you think, how authentic is this?”
It is possible to be hopeful for the future, to recognize that change has
occurred, while still being critical of the past.
In 2021, fashion industry website Fashionista published an investigative
story on the rehabilitation of the Dolce & Gabbana brand. For anyone not in
the know, Dolce & Gabbana has been ensconced in scandal for the last six or
seven years, starting with a controversial homophobic statement from
Domenico Dolce about gay families, stretching to cyberbullying of
celebrities, and culminating in a racist advertising campaign that all but got
the brand banned in China. Since then, the luxury heritage label has been
slowly staging a comeback. First Lady Dr. Jill Biden wore Dolce & Gabbana
to a presidential debate in 2020. First Black vice president Kamala Harris
donned the label three times in her first month in office. For fashion people in
the know, that raises eyebrows, but it has become increasingly easy to
explain away these choices. New York Times editor Vanessa Friedman is
quoted in the Fashionista story as saying, “This is a case where maybe we
should do that more instead of leaping to simply call someone out; call them
out and try to understand what’s going on. Engage in that conversation and
keep the conversation going, both so that we don’t forget what happened and
also so that we can use that to move forward as a broader sector.”
Unfortunately, this rhetoric does little to actually stop brands like Dolce &
Gabbana from being racist or exacting their authority over more powerless
people. Conversation is something white people often demand instead of
asking for harsher consequences for racist actions. “What’s going on” at
many brands is simple: racism. The lines for accountability are blurry in this
industry, and the fact remains that people are largely empowered to get away
with bad behavior when they are rich or influential—and in many cases, they
are both.
It is too convenient for a magazine to say, “This is the way we are
now,” touting a more inclusive cover feature without looking carefully at a
past track record of exclusion or downright racism. It’s why it ultimately
didn’t matter that I was the one with the byline for the Timberland story; it
was content on the Elle website, an institution that has not examined its racist
practices, and it was their responsibility to be aware and conscious enough to
avoid putting out harmful content. The same goes for the people the media
chooses to feature and promote. Should we ignore the racism of a plantation
wedding because the couple looks great? If that’s the case, then shouldn’t we
also ignore someone’s race if they look great? That’s not what happens. The
double standard is an issue. The double standard is racism.
In January 2019, CR Fashion Book, a quarterly magazine founded by
former Vogue Paris editor-in-chief Carine Roitfeld, celebrated Martin Luther
King Jr.’s birthday on its Instagram page. They captioned a photo of Dr. King
to commemorate his legacy and contributions to the world. A few hours later,
they followed that up with a post celebrating the birthday of Carrie
Bradshaw, the fictional protagonist from HBO’s 1990s drama Sex and the
City. As a person who does not exist, it’s worth noting that Carrie Bradshaw
cannot have a birthday. But, more importantly, just a few hours after exalting
the accomplishments of one of the most influential civil rights leaders of our
lifetime, it was a bit strange to see “Happy Birthday, Carrie Bradshaw.” I
posted a series of Instagram stories pointing out the incongruence of
celebrating the birthday of a fictional character on the same day as an actual
hero, a martyr. I had a moderate following in the twenty thousand range then,
and it rallied enough of them that they made comments on CR Fashion
Book’s original post. Instagram allows users to block or limit the comments
under photos, so the CR Fashion Book team was able to step in and moderate
(and selectively edit out) the anger, but the next day, I got a phone call.
I took the call in the women’s bathroom at BET since I was sharing an
office. On the other end, the digital director for CR Fashion Book told me that
I needed to take my post down (no matter that it would delete in mere hours
anyway since Instagram stories live for only twenty-four hours) and that my
“attack” on CR Fashion Book was “unfair” because, “as a content person,” I
should understand that they “cannot spend the whole day talking about
MLK,” which, honestly, is kind of the point of the day. I was shaking, trying
to defend myself without resorting to screaming. I told the person that as a
“content person” I guessed I could understand that, theoretically, but I still, to
this day, cannot wrap my head around any defense for posting a birthday
message to a person who does not exist on the national holiday dedicated to
the birthday of someone who actually did exist and changed countless lives
for the better. This person suggested that I was “lucky” that I now had a job
at BET so I could spend entire days on social media worried about
celebrating Dr. King.
We ended at an impasse, and I was insulted and furious. I refused to
take the post down, and he refused to admit any wrongdoing. In January
2021, after a year of discussions about the fashion industry’s responsibility in
fighting racism, CR Fashion Book neglected to post about Martin Luther
King Jr. on his birthday. Instead, they put up an image from a fashion
editorial, a photo of a model seated at a table with her hands folded, and
captioned it, “Praying for more weekend,” which is a strange choice of words
because Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday is a federal holiday that gives most
office workers a Monday off, thus making it a long weekend. As far as I
know, and because my sister worked there at one point, CR Fashion Book
doesn’t have the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday in their vacation calendar,
but regardless, as a brand that made some public declarations regarding their
dedication to combating racism, the post seemed like a backward step, not a
forward one.
That kind of flippant dismissal is a kind of gaslighting the industry as a
whole is guilty of. People think I am “crazy” when I point out instances like
this—that it seems petty and small to be harping on an Instagram photo. But,
in my opinion, honoring Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday is really the least
an institution can do. It demonstrates to its Black employees that it is a
priority for a company to recognize and celebrate Black leaders in a
meaningful way. And if there is going to be an acknowledgment of his
birthday and life, I think it should be respectful. At the very least, he’s earned
the right not to share his day with someone who was never even born to begin
with.
I worked at BET, and because of that, I was insulated from having to
deal with this sort of racism on a daily basis, but BET was just a Black island
in a white sea. I still had to engage with the wider industry. I began to see
how limited I was in the reporting I was able to do when fashion shows did
not have any Black models or luxury fragrance companies wouldn’t hire
Black actresses as ambassadors. I could not do my job without the industry
first addressing the inherent racism present in to whom it grants access. My
refusal to put up with that constant gaslighting—conditions I had been
subjected to for decades at the hands of white supremacy—helped me find
the strength to decide I had had enough with it all.
 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I get asked a lot about how I got “cured” from my eating disorder. I did
eventually stop seeing Dr. Passler and start eating. But the truth is I am not
really “cured.” What I am is in recovery. I was forced to change. Having an
eating disorder, in my experience, is the kind of addiction you have to work
on challenging daily. Hourly, sometimes. And it is also one of those
fundamental issues from which all others can stem. By refusing to feed
myself and acknowledge my appetites, I was communicating to the world
that I was without need, that I would voluntarily subsist on nothing, and that
would be fine for me. Through observing my eating habits, I can finally
understand the circumstances that led me to adopt the language of oppressive
systems and wield them over myself and others. I did not have a way of
valuing myself that allowed for understanding, caring, or nourishing. By
denying these basic needs, I was able to extend that denial to other areas of
my life.
I still do not eat in the way I imagine a healthy person does, but I try my
best to respond to my body when it is asking for food or rest. I have worked
on dismantling my phobias of foods such as pasta, rice, and bagels, and can
eat them now with little to no guilt. This might seem like a petty victory to
some, but the extreme degree to which I cherished and protected my disorder
is legendary. There was a point, not long ago, when eating rice was
something I was sure I could never do again.
My first real break with dieting came when I turned thirty, with no
marriage prospects in sight, and decided to pursue freezing my eggs as an
insurance policy. When the time is right, in the future, I figured I could have
a family and mitigate some fertility anxiety as I aged. I went on the IVF
drugs and had no idea what to expect. I promised myself I would not diet
during the two weeks I was under treatment because I didn’t know what my
body was going to need. I was hungry every single second. I ate so much
food, and the combination of suspending my restrictive diet with the hormone
therapy made me gain about twelve pounds in two weeks.
During hormone treatment, you also can’t exercise—at all. I tried
because I assumed they meant no exercise for people who never really
exercised, not me. The first day after I started fertility hormones, I went to
SoulCycle, and it was a very bad idea. Thirty minutes in, I felt extreme
cramping. I should have left, but instead, I shamefully rode “in the saddle”
for the remainder of class. Afterward, I was worried I had upended my
ovaries somehow. I didn’t make that mistake again.
After my egg retrieval, which is full surgery, I felt out of it in my body.
My lower stomach was enlarged because I’d been artificially plumping up
my ovaries. Most people hope to get an embryo implanted after all that, but I
got nothing, just a bunch of weight gain and some surety that, maybe one
day, I would have a baby. At that point, I just didn’t have the energy to go
back to sipping bone broth for every meal. I paid one last visit to my Central
Park West pill pusher and one last visit to Dr. Passler, who suggested a strict
protein-and-vegetable program, and then quit going at all.
Over the next few months, I slowly gained upward of thirty pounds.
During the pandemic, I gained fifteen more. Who knows what the number is
now because, at the behest of my therapist, I finally stopped weighing myself.
Initially, it was an absolute nightmare. I had to keep giving up garments I
loved because, without carefully managing my calorie intake, a lot of my
clothes no longer fit. This was and still is the worst part of recovering. I have
spent years and thousands of dollars crafting my wardrobe and, by extension,
who I was because of my clothes, and suddenly, it was all gone. I had to
mourn the loss of my clothes, of my body, of my carefully crafted self-image,
all in a very short time. I was letting go of everything I thought had been
protecting me since childhood, all the armor I spent decades amassing. At a
certain point, the loss became less and less important to me since living life
actually became easier.
Like some sort of freaky seesaw, as I became heavier, other, more
harmful weight started to lift. I could relinquish control of my schedule and
relax all the things I was constantly hiding. I started becoming more honest in
general and worked on appreciating my body for what it could do and not
how it looked. This sounds cliché, but it was happening and it was useful. I
also started to become a nicer person in general. Without the distraction of
hunger, my fuse wasn’t so short. I was able to be more patient, forgiving, and
understanding. The more toxic parts of the industry I was working in started
to reveal themselves, which, in my opinion, is all related to my personal
healing.
As a part of my initial eating disorder recovery, I decided to take a more
behind-the-scenes role at BET and drastically reduced projects that would
require me to appear in photos or videos. That visibility would have added a
layer of stress that was completely avoidable. As often happens in corporate
America, BET had a change in leadership, and the new team signed me up to
host a regular video show, which would have meant on-camera appearances
several times a week. I refused, but the power struggle with the new team
was the beginning of the end of my time there. Eventually, I quit my job at
BET. In my last two years there, it became clear to me that I had to move on.
It was disturbing to witness the blatant exploitation of Black creatives—
especially Black women—in the form of overworking, denial of employment
benefits, and an unusually abusive office culture. I also no longer wanted to
be complicit in the constant monitoring of Black women’s looks and
behavior. I had finally begun to understand my own autonomy and that it was
my responsibility to care for myself and advocate for my needs.
In college, I took a Western feminism course, and our reading prompted
a discussion about whether the class would be OK switching bodies with
someone else. Years later, when I was watching the show Fleabag, the main
character and her sister attended a feminist lecture and the speaker asked if
anyone would like to swap their body out for another. And just like Fleabag,
I flushed with shame when I chose wrong in my class. The answer was
unanimously no. Unsurprisingly, my answer was “Hell yes!” I was positively
exhilarated by the question, thinking Wow, oh my God, I have been waiting
my whole life to walk around in Gisele’s body. The other ladies in my class
spoke sentimentally, admiring all the things their bodies have done for them
or allowed them to do. They said they knew their bodies and had protective
stewardships over them. They did not want to abandon or trade them in for
another. I, on the other hand, had spent so many years dissociating from my
body, furious at all the times it let me down with how it looked, that I never
considered how it had been useful to me, even generous, considering the
repeated abuse I had subjected it to. It had never occurred to me that I could
like my body. Not once.
In therapy, I practice a lot of “self-compassion” and “self-kindness,”
which I resisted at first. I was convinced that the concept of speaking nicely
to and about myself would dull my senses and make me too soft for the
world. The meanness I had built up served as a shield, a protection, and a
fuel. I thought it was a necessary aspect of my life and that without it I
wouldn’t be able to generate success. And I was certain that without
consistent self-regulated negativity, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from
eating. Acknowledging that I want to eat, even acknowledging that I am
hungry, is still a challenge. I had been shaped to believe in the ideals of
capitalism: laziness is your fault, poverty is your fault, obesity is your fault.
And I assumed I could just work my way out of any undesirable
circumstances to find salvation.
While I wish I could have been presented with an alternative way of
thinking sooner, the reality is I am a woman, and I have repeatedly been
shown that people will assess your value based on how you look first and
what you can do second.
People outside the industry insist that it is “getting better” and that we
should celebrate the progress instead of focusing on the negative past.
Hopeful changes in the past few years push the right messaging forward, yet I
can confirm from directly inside the belly of the beast that real change is slow
going.
When I finally decided to stare straight into the face of my eating
disorder, I had to confront exactly why I have such advanced insecurities
about weight, and a lot of it had to do with my genuine love of clothing.
Twice a year, every year, my job requires that I sit through dozens of fashion
shows and watch the clothing of the upcoming season be presented on size-
zero teenagers. Without saying a word, designers are presenting their vision
of how exactly they want their clothing to look and, by extension, how they
want women to look. No designer would declare that they want to make
women feel bad, but without necessarily meaning to, they do. As late as
2012, actress Melissa McCarthy exposed designers for refusing to dress her
for the Oscars, stating to Redbook, “I asked five or six designers, very high-
level ones who make lots of dresses for people, and they all said no.” By
keeping runways and ad campaigns and, frankly, sample sizes that way,
fashion people perpetuate the old standards that have been in existence for
decades, damaging generation after generation of women as we fail to ascend
to the impossible beauty example of an underdeveloped girl.
All the onus for this culture is not on designers. Many factors contribute
to models being cast the way they are: financial restraints, lack of resources,
the way samples are produced, and so on. These are real obstacles. But just
about every part of working in fashion is difficult. The industry needs to
examine the extensive damage it has done to people’s self-esteem, taking
responsibility for our roles in amplifying archaic and harmful beauty
standards. There is certainly no lack of research directly linking glamorized
imagery to body dissatisfaction among women. We can’t pretend we don’t
know. We can’t pretend it doesn’t affect the women working in the industry
too.
There’s another sector of optimists who believe that social media has
done a lot of the work the industry could not, that it has provided people who
exist outside the typical spectrum of beauty and fashion with the ability to
reach millions. And they are partially right. Social media does give people the
ability to find others like them. Entire communities are built online. The
internet has helped me become more comfortable with myself. It’s shown me
other Black Harry Potter fans or horse girls or ballerinas, when, growing up, I
thought I was alone. It has helped me find other Token Black Girls. Social
media offers us the ability to connect within micro-communities and provides
us with unprecedented tools for visibility.
The flip side is that apps like Instagram and TikTok rely on algorithms
that eventually begin to mimic the larger world, and those algorithms enforce
the exact same problematic beauty standards to a remixed beat. So while you
may see a fat model or a girl with a skin condition seemingly “making it,”
their success is relative. Women are trolled on a daily basis by people who
seek to shame them for how they look, the decision to edit or not edit a photo,
and what they are covering up or showing off. It is a minefield of criticism
and negativity no matter what you look like, but just like literally anything
else, it is especially difficult for plus-size women and women of color.
Instagram has established a newer but still pervasive beauty ideal. The
body of the typical Instagram model is curvier than that of a traditional
model, with an emphasis on a smaller waist and bigger hips. A big butt and
boobs are preferred. Plump lips are also a weirdly specific prerequisite. Being
ethnically ambiguous or mixed race will allow you to thrive in multiple
markets, but in general, a fairer skin tone will serve better. Youth is key, so
having wrinkles or sagging skin—any sign of visible age—won’t be
lucrative. According to the algorithm, it would be advisable to have children
when you’re around age twenty-five so you can gracefully transition into the
fashionable Instagram mom market.
 Social media has essentially updated and remixed the rules that have
been nailed to the giant wooden doors of society by the fashion and beauty
industries. Overtly feminine features, youth, and wealth are all important
signifiers we have been trained to seek out and desire, while characteristics
that women of color, particularly Black women, have endured criticism over
for centuries, like hips, lips, and a round butt, are all of a sudden regaled as
the most attractive assets a woman can possess—just not on Black women. In
other words, I am supposed to just toss out years of trauma about my body
and facial features, years of shame over wearing hair extensions and wigs, all
because another aesthetic—one that comes more naturally to me—is now
popular on Instagram. Imagine all the time I spent in the mirror as a child
practicing how to suck my lips in, just to have people pay money for them as
an adult! I would like that time back. And white women are the ones
benefiting the most from the new system, just as they do in the traditional
beauty structure. Black female influencers are paid less, if at all, when being
contracted by brands, even if they naturally possess the desirable physical
qualities that attract followers.
Just as I starved myself for years to achieve the ideal body I saw on
television and in magazines, women are spending enormous sums of money
and suffering great personal pain for silicone butt injections, liposuction,
breast augmentation, and various facial fillers in order to achieve the kind of
look that is celebrated on social media. As with wigs, the more white women
began to talk about these beauty measures, the more they became normalized
and accepted. Now it’s almost a fun game to try to guess who has natural
curves or otherwise. It breaks my heart that women feel the pressure to
surgically change their bodies, and to me, the struggle with this
preoccupation and my struggle with food are the same fight. In both cases,
women are taught that our bodies must be fixed and that, if given the power
to do so, we should use it. We already know what that kind of thinking can
lead to. It is the duty of the media, armed with extensive knowledge, to
combat the ways this system hurts people and make sure representation and
inclusion are not simply buzzwords, to ask more about why things are still
the way they are, instead of simply accepting the rules as law and waiting for
people to heal themselves as we continue selling them our poison.
There is hardly a taboo surrounding surgery among certain
communities. It has developed into a cute bonding occasion for women—and
sometimes men too! The same was true for my bizarre and restrictive eating
habits. I knew I could be honest with certain people, like other fashion
people, fellow former dancers, and strangely enough, male wrestlers. There
was an understanding of the struggle and the necessity to protect the regimen.
For the plastics people, the impetus to share their new procedures with like-
minded friends and colleagues is irresistible. That is also a form of bonding, a
connection formed by recognizing a shared commitment to youthful skin, a
snatched figure, and minimal wrinkles at whatever cost. And then there are
those who protect the secrets of their surgery at all costs. These people are the
Kardashians.
After fifteen years of working in this business, I can tell you that you
can stop all your questioning and wondering. If it looks too good to be true, it
probably is. Many of your favorite leading men and women have had
multiple things done to their faces and bodies. We shouldn’t shame them for
that; they are just as much players and pawns in this game as we are. We also
shouldn’t pretend that things are real when they are fake, and this goes for
everyone. Do not say you “did a lot of squats” when you very well know that
you underwent four fat transfers. It is just as damaging as people who claim
they eat whatever they want and simply “work out a ton” when they are
measuring their avocado slices and haven’t had sugar since their tenth
birthday. Do not claim you got your lips from obscure genetic heritage when
you know very well they are full of Juvéderm.
Honesty, as hard as it is, will save us from this fresh hell we’re cooking
in as we airbrush everything on pages, then on big screens, then small ones,
then even smaller ones, for the rabid consumption of the unassuming public.
You’d think we would be smarter by now, knowing all that we know, but for
the most part, we believe what we’re told, even if what we’re told is an
offensive, bald-faced lie that defies all logic. We have to start telling people
the truth. It is simply the only responsible thing to do.
Coming to terms with my own ability to be honest has been sickeningly
difficult. I’ve tried my best in these pages because the only way to start is
with yourself. I have spent years hiding the parts of myself I knew were ugly
on the inside, just as much as I have spent concealing my outer flaws. If it
still feels like I’m hiding something, the truth is:

I wear Spanx with almost everything.

I am, despite a hefty amount of inner work, disappointed in myself when
I have to go up a jean size.
 I have said awful fatphobic things, and I am guilty of spreading
fatphobia.
I am never satisfied with my reflection.
I always think I am doing everything wrong.
I can’t do my own hair, and I like to wear it messy.
I can’t jump double Dutch.
I have never seen the movies The Players Club or Brown Sugar, and I
don’t care to.
I fantasize regularly about living in a Nancy Meyers film, even though
there are no Black characters.

All these things make me who I am. We are all a mess of contradictions,
and we feel them crashing together as we move through the world. It is not
enough to simply declare insecurities without trying to figure out their source
because—I promise you—they will keep coming back up. We have to learn
to live with them, and to make space for others to do the same.
 AFTERWORD

I look back at my life and worry that so many of my personal relationships

have failed because there was always something huge missing. That missing
thing was me—me being my actual self instead of a fake robot who just
wants to please everyone. I was always hiding something, always trying to
dress up and disguise parts of me that were not likable. For a long time, that
had to do with my Blackness. I felt that I could outperform racism,
assimilate, and ignore it away. Then, predictably, there were Black people
who thought I “acted white” and was a snob. I’m not exactly a snob, not in
the ways I used to be, even though I’ve spent a lot of time admiring and
acquiring nice things. That quality has nothing to do with wanting to be
white. I have examined my relationship to white supremacy, and I can
confidently separate my proclivity for luxuries from the influence of
whiteness. Some will argue that capitalism and white supremacy are two
heads of the same monster, and while I hear and honor that analysis, I still
want to sleep on high-thread-count sheets.
Though it should be obvious by now, it still must be said: being Black is
not a monolith. There is no rule book dictating how to show up as Black in
the world. Over time, I have learned to accept the parts of my Blackness that
are unique, to understand it’s OK that my experience is different from the
next Black person’s, just as theirs is different from the next, and so on. And
since I was brainwashed to think it could only be one way, it took a lot of
work to get here. I have to forgive myself for denying the parts of me I
thought would be rejected by my own community and, equally, the ones I
thought would be rejected by white people. The complexities of race in
America are not limited to a single experience, and it’s my hope that we can
craft a world where the media rallies in an effort to show that we can have
many Black experiences.
In 2017, I made a public pledge to read only books about or by Black
people, as I had become all too aware that the things I found entertaining
were too influenced by whiteness, and it had been that way for all thirty years
of my life. I had to relearn history. Despite a lifetime of education that cost
upward of six figures, there were so many things I still did not know. And
since I spent a good amount of my academic energy studying up on fashion,
beauty, and models, I ended up with little knowledge about the cancer of
systemic racism, even though it was something that was affecting me
directly. But as I got closer and closer to my professional goals, everything
else mattered less. I don’t want another generation of kids growing up being
served garbage about how kinky hair is bad and a big butt makes you a slut.
Blackness is so demonized that we end up on an endless quest just trying to
prove our humanity. And still, white people end up caring more about bees
and dolphins and being vegan than they do about Black lives. They are
desensitized repeatedly by the media and, from birth, affirmed by the notion
that they are special, entitled, and perfect.
Black women deserve a place in the beauty canon. It sickens me how
normalized it is in this industry to have entire stories that do not include any
mention of Black women. Runways with no Black models. Casting calls that
say “no ethnics.” It happens all the time. Yes, still. And this is because white
women control the lion’s share of content, and white men control the lion’s
share of the money. They are responsible for the casting and the hiring and do
not see the value in making sure that Black women are, at the very least,
appreciated.
Returning briefly to the Doll Test, in 2010, CNN attempted to re-create
the study, surveying children of varying racial backgrounds instead of just
Black children. The results were the same as in 1940, suggesting that, though
schools are desegregated, racist biases still encourage children as young as
four to see Black as bad and white as good. University of Chicago professor
Margaret Beale Spencer consulted with CNN, serving as the lead researcher
on the project. She published her conclusions, finding that “white children, as
a whole, responded with a high rate of what researchers call ‘white bias,’
identifying the color of their own skin with positive attributes and darker skin
with negative attributes. All kids, on the one hand, are exposed to the
stereotypes. What’s really significant is that white children are learning or
maintaining those stereotypes much more strongly than the African-
American children.”
And what happens to white children? They grow up to be white adults,
consciously or unconsciously living in the way that makes them the most
comfortable, always at the expense of someone Black. A four-year-old child
is not a full-blown racist yet, but as we are all living under the system of
racism, you can bet that bias and prejudice are baking. People, white people
specifically, are extremely quick to declare themselves “not racist.” It’s a
reflexive reaction to the accurate suggestion that they are racist. The funny
thing is it doesn’t matter who is racist and who isn’t because the world is
absolutely racist. If, for example, a population of people are drinking a
contaminated water supply for generations, it would be reasonable to predict
that this population would be sick. Their children would be sick. Their
children’s children would be sick. How can someone be “not racist” and have
grown up reading books like those in the Sweet Valley High series or Rain
without question or complaint? How can someone emerge “not racist” when
they don’t think anything of the headline: “Meghan Markle: Straight Out of
Compton”? Magazines still exist to tell white women that they are the best
and the most beautiful. It is not possible to emerge from a contaminated
world with your thoughts completely unaffected.
I should not have to work to change any of this on my own, especially
since, as the doll study shows, white bias is largely responsible for the way
the world is interpreted. I should, instead, be joined by my sisters of any race
who have ever felt invalidated, who know exactly what a crushing rejection
based on your looks can do to self-esteem. But just like when Stu ridiculed
me at that dinner party as my white friends and colleagues looked on, I do not
feel joined by the white people I grew up with.
As I get older, I reflect more about the way my life has developed and
the ways it will continue to develop. I still have many white friends who do
not have any close friends of any other race. I see it when I am at their
weddings, baby showers, and birthdays. Aside from their domestic help, their
children will likely not interact with a person of another race, either, thus
leaving the cycle free to continue. Eventually, these people’s kids will meet a
little Black child and inevitably make them feel inferior about their skin, hair,
body, or something else. I worry about this often. That’s why having
conversations about race and racism matter to me. If you are not consuming
media that is actively antiracist, you can be sure that it is somehow racially
biased in favor of white people, and these issues will continue to be
problematic for future generations unless that is changed.
After a lot of podcasts, retreats, and therapy, I’ve learned if we’re ever
going to get anywhere, we have to shed shame. The shame I felt about being
Black and then the subsequent shame I felt about not being Black enough
were both a hindrance to me. I needed a safe environment to feel like myself,
and I got that for a fleeting moment when I decided to work at an all-Black
company.
When I made the decision to leave behind traditional fashion
publications, I was afraid I was disappointing people, but I had no more fight
left in me. It had been squashed by years of suppressing anger over injustices,
enduring racist interactions, and being forced to smile through it all. I was
burned out. And all that had bled from work into my personal life. Leaving
felt a bit like giving up, but that turned out to be some old, racist thinking.
White media gives you legitimacy. Anyone who pretends otherwise is lying.
The prestige of the New York Times and Vogue excites people.
In her memoir, Negroland, Margo Jefferson recalls how she felt when
the publication Ebony was founded: “A separate world of Negro beauty and
glamour did exist when Ebony arrived. I studied its cream, beige, tan, buff,
brown, and sepia models. My favorite was Dorothea Towles . . . I admired
her, I envied her, but I didn’t worship her as I worshipped Suzy Parker. She
was in Ebony, not Vogue. My white friends didn’t know who she was. Diana
Vreeland didn’t have to know or care.” Brand recognition and legacy are
hugely important, especially when the entire world is governed by white
supremacy. I have always taken a perverse pleasure in occupying a space that
I know was never meant for me, knowing that my presence probably pisses
people off. This is why I go to all my high school reunions, so all the old
white ladies of Greenwich can see my face and know that even though they
think they are very, very special, we all came from the same place. This is
also why I felt like I was giving up when I went to work at a Black brand—
but even there, I was presented with a new set of challenges. At BET, it was
more difficult than ever to secure Black talent, who were swayed by the
allure of the white media. I had to work to get invites to things I had been
going to for years. Once I started working for a Black brand, the fashion
industry decided I was irrelevant. That also stung, but honestly, it is still
easier than having to break bread with actual racists.
Even though that feeling of exclusion was difficult to stomach after
decades of hard work, it’s more difficult knowing that people with extremely
racist pasts are drooled over by fashion media. It’s more convenient for them
to just forget, to rely on that collective amnesia, to let beautiful and rich
people apologize and chalk racism up to youth, stupidity, or substance abuse
and just say, “Let’s move on.” But this is a continued affront to employees of
color. Imagine the corruption in excluding Black media from access to talent
and events, while the racists have several seats at the table and millions of
fans. It’s absolutely exhausting to work in that system. Black content creators
and models are paid less, are worth less, and are made to know that by
brands. They are seen as inferior and made to understand that. The messaging
to them becomes “we need you, but we don’t want you. The racists, though—
we both need and want them.”
There are white friends of mine who do not watch Black television
programs that I love, like Insecure or Atlanta. This fact feels less stressful to
me now that my world is bigger and I have a circle I can discuss Black things
with. I also have a wide social media network. I can, for the most part, choose
what to engage with. But in 2021, HBO Max is resurrecting the white
emporiums of Sex and the City and Friends (a cultural touchstone from
which I cannot seem to escape) so we can have Republican lawmakers push
litigation around banning Critical Race Theory, while they continue to watch
“classic” programs without any people of color.
It is absolutely critical that we improve our media literacy, that we start
to train ourselves to read messages conveyed to us, whether overt or not.
Understand what it means that the press attacks Meghan Markle and praises
Kate Middleton. Combat your own biases constantly. Diversify what you
watch and consume, especially if you are white. Do not feel threatened if
Black women are celebrating themselves; join in. If something feels off, say
something. Do not make it a handful of people’s job to be constantly fighting
this fight. They will get tired. They will lose. Reinforcements are necessary.
Early in 2020, a video went viral featuring a little Black girl who was
four years old. She is getting her hair done as her hairdresser records the
process on her phone. The little girl turns to the camera when she catches a
glimpse of her reflection, and says, “I am so ugly.” The hairdresser tells the
little girl that she is beautiful, and that she should never say that about
herself. The girl starts crying, as do, I’m sure, all the viewers. She is a baby.
It’s hard to even comprehend how she came to understand the concept of
ugliness, much less to see herself as ugly, but that is a critical time in a Black
girl’s development, where an idea like that can stick. For me, the idea that I
was fat stuck, and I spent a lifetime running from it. What if we could be
taught to love ourselves the same way Jessica Wakefield from Sweet Valley
High looked in the mirror and knew she looked perfect?
One of the tools I use in therapy is to look at a photo of my younger
self, age three or four, and try to say the things the voice in my head says:
“You are fat.” “You are unlovable.” “No one wants you.” “You are stupid.”
“You can’t do anything right.” “Fix yourself.” Honestly, it’s incredibly
powerful. You would never say those things to a child, and if you would, then
perhaps don’t have kids. It brought a lot of clarity to realize I am always
going to be that same little girl, and every time a new trigger comes up, I
have to show up for her the way a loving parent might. I try to show up for
her and for all the other girls who can’t show up for themselves yet.
Of course, the other thing I want is for everyone to stop putting so much
pressure on looks in general, but considering I sat in coronavirus quarantine
crying about my manicure and my lack of eyelash extensions, I realize that
the battle is going to be tough. I am still infected by the disease that requires
me to look a certain way at all times in order to accept myself. I know I am
still in the belly of the perfection beast, even if I have begun to pry open its
jaws. In this culture, it is not enough to have working bodies and healthy
lungs and teeth. We instead become consumed with how we can make these
things perfect, as opposed to just being grateful that we have them at all.
Even as I say this, I know that, because of racism, it will always be a
more difficult climb for Black women. I know Black women will always be
under scrutiny for how they look, no matter how good they are at what they
do, from both inside and outside the Black community. You can say all the
right things and go to all the right schools and win all the right awards, but
until people (and subsequently, the media) are retrained in the way that they
examine and evaluate Black women, we will continuously be subjected to a
demoralizing kind of patrol that tells us we need to outperform, outdress, and
outshine—and it still will never be enough. How are we supposed to accept
ourselves if the obstacles to progress are constant and at the hands of the
enormous vehicle driven primarily by the press?
My questions are directed to the people I know have the power to
influence who and what is represented in the media. Are you interested in
making these things worse or better? Do you see how no representation and
negative representation can have the same result? Are you willing to
acknowledge the ways you benefit from this system, even if you are not a
direct participant? Are you willing to acknowledge that mistakes have been
made, and even if they have nothing to do with you, they still have
everything to do with the way the world is structured today? Dignify me by
saying you understand that things might be harder for me, and that you
understand how you might be guilty of making them harder. I shouldn’t have
to beg anyone to have to see these issues, but since I know how ignored they
are, I felt compelled to write this book.
Although I will shallowly admit that knowing women are paying
thousands for the lips and butt I was teased about for years does give me a
punitive sense of justice, I don’t want to see anyone become a human
pincushion. Whatever cocktail you’re made from is made for you, and only
you. And it’s the media’s job to accurately reflect the world we live in, not
distort it. That’s why I try my best, with whatever little power I have, to
shake up and break up toxic beauty standards and encourage people to be
more influenced by abilities than aesthetics.
I might never be satisfied with what I see in the mirror. But I post
photos of myself, and even if I see a roll I don’t like, I don’t edit it out. I go
on dates, and I don’t wear any makeup. Now I like the parts of myself most
that have nothing to do with how I look, and I make caring for myself a
priority. This has made me a gentler person overall, one who no longer
accepts abuse or abuses others. It is something I have to work on all the time.
I have to constantly pull myself out of barbarous spirals of self-criticism,
which is why I am adamant about encouraging everyone to take a step back
and look at the way this environment endangers us. Let’s account for the
harms that have been done to us. And let’s share in the collective
responsibility of correcting them.
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing this book was challenging and at some times super lonely, but I did
not do it alone! And so now I have to let everyone know how much they
meant to me and this process. Nothing really will ever feel good enough, but
I will try my best!
Firstly, I have to thank Mommy and Daddy, and yes I still say Mommy
and Daddy, because I am forever their child and that’s what I call them.
Thank you, Mommy and Daddy, for providing me with safety and love. Your
endless support has allowed me to develop in ways that I hope make you
proud. I also hope that this wasn’t too difficult for you to read and know that
I wouldn’t change anything. You gave me the absolute best life, and I am so
grateful that you love me the way you do. I always say that the world would
be a better place if more people had parents like you.
To Gabby, I am the luckiest person to have you as my sister, my soul
mate. I know I would not be the person I am without you. Thank you for
being my sounding board as I was writing this book and for living the Token
Black Girl life with me. I guess I was never just THE ONE, was I? Thank
you for being there.
To my extended family (Uncle Lewis and Aunt Louise, Uncle Warren
and Aunt Shelly, and Uncle Ronald and Renee), thank you for your support. I
always had a very robust and Black cheering section so thank you for always
making the time and showing up.
To Jessica, my literary agent (who I have still never met in person!),
thank you so much for your tireless work in bringing this book from proposal
and rough pages to finished product. Thank you for answering all my
questions about contracts and terminology with patience and clarity and for
your belief that this could be a real book! I am so grateful that you are the
agent who made all of this happen.
To Laura, my editor (who I have also never met in person!), thank you
for taking a chance on me and buying this book. Thank you for your vision
and commitment to making this dream come to life for me. Thank you for
making me feel heard.
To Camille, my other editor (who I have also never met in person!
Writing a pandemic book is definitely weird!), thank you for your questions
and your honesty and how hard you worked to help me express myself in a
way that is honest and authentic. I am so grateful to have worked with you,
and I’m sorry I hit you with ninety-six thousand words at first.
To everyone at Little A who is working so hard on this project who I
have only seen via a screen, thank you and I hope I can consensually hug you
and tell you in person very soon!
To Taylor, thank you for giving me a chance to be your intern when I
was all of nineteen and keeping me! You gave me such a meaningful
example to follow. You always advocated for me and I saw that. I am forever
grateful for your friendship and love.
To Shiona, I know how hard it was for you, and I am in awe, always, of
your strength and tenacity. Thank you for taking me in when I was so lost
and broken and for your leadership and courage. I am also lucky to call you a
friend.
To Leah, I never thought I could do this, but somehow you always
believed. Without your advice, I never would have written anything ever.
You helped me find my voice. I am sorry for all the things I kept from you
and for what I didn’t know how to say, but I am always thinking about how I
didn’t know how to put the accent mark in the right place in Céline and you
hired me anyway.
To my former bosses Jermaine, Damian, and Meggan, thank you for
letting me do work that I found fun and fulfilling and creating an
environment where creativity was fostered and nurtured. Thank you for your
guidance and supervision.
To my Elle 2.0 team (Sally, Natalie, Justine, Kate, Julie), apologies for
airing out all our dirty laundry and also for bailing when it just got too hard.
This is still the most special team I have ever worked on, and I am so proud
of all of us. No one else will ever really understand like y’all. I loved our
years together and the work that we did. And I am so happy that everyone is
blossoming personally and a professionally like I knew you would. I love to
watch you all shine.
To my BET/219 ladies (Brook, Ashlee, Iyana, Jaz, Tira, Shalaeya,
Tweety, Lainey, Essie, Jocelyn), wow, we really really really went through
something together. I am so so so thankful to have had the privilege of
working with you, and I am so honored to be in this company of women. You
are all brilliant and so strong, and though everything did not go as I wanted,
we all still made it work anyways. I thank you for your support and positivity
and friendship. Thank you for everything.
I always say NO INDUSTRY FRIENDS! But I have so many and I
appreciate all the laughs and the love over the years. Thank you for ditching
drinks for SoulCycle classes and letting me count my almonds and cry and
rant about Chartbeat. Thank you for the connections and opportunities and
endless style inspiration. You know who you are, but I am listing you anyway
because I know you know how nice it is to read your name in print and
mastheads are just over. (Sue, Winnie, Amelia, Mercedes, Chrissy, Nikki,
Julia, Tiffany, Yash, Ron, Laron, Kevin, Aurora, Blair, Emily Schumann,
Marta, Charlotte, Alex Gobo, Nate, Nadia, Federica, Gabby Katz, Martha,
Glenny, Christy, Christyanna, Tashon, Matt Kays, Stephanie Strauss, Chase
Weideman, Savannah, Strugatz, Brendan, Arianna, KNC, Solange Franklin
Reed, Tamu, Tyler Joe, Travis Paul Martin, Sandrine, Ade, Ayanna, Devan,
Bianca, Brooke Devard, Nicolette, Serena, Justin, Rebecca Ramsey, Kathy,
Garrett, Will, Abby, Sergio, Serena, Angel, Dren, Coco, Breezy, Alyssa,
Kendall, Simone, Barbara.)
To my CSH girls (Eli, Gen, Molly, Liz Franco, Maggie Connors), thank
you for being my friends for so long! I really love you and I mean it.
Sustaining connections over this many years and life changes is difficult, and
I can’t thank you enough for being in my life.
To Katie Schloss (girls who went to school in Greenwich know that a
Katie must be followed by a last name, because if not . . . which one??), I
couldn’t have done this book without you. Your consistent belief in me and
your eternal optimism helped me tremendously. You went so out of your way
to push me to try to connect me with people who gave me good advice, and I
can’t even believe your stamina for it, but I am so grateful.
To all my teachers and therapists, thank you. As you can see, I have
grown a lot, but it is only because I had some critical help.
And lastly, to Harry Potter Prescod, because Mariah Carey thanked
every dog she’s ever owned at the end of her book so it normalized it for me.
Harry, an angel, thank you for trotting alongside me on punishing runs when
I didn’t know where we were going. Thank you for conspiratorially eating all
the things I was not going to eat. And thank you for your protection and your
affection, even when I smothered you. If I ever do get a tattoo, it will be for
you.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2021 Scarlet Raven

Danielle Prescod is a fifteen-year veteran of the beauty and fashion industry

and graduate of NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study. A lifelong
fashion obsessive, she was most recently the style director of BET.com. With
Chrissy Rutherford, Danielle cofounded 2BG Consulting, which aids fashion
and beauty brands and influencers on their anti-racism journeys. She
dedicates her time to researching how feminism and social justice intersect
with pop culture. An avid reader and writer, Danielle also loves TikTok, the
arts, staying active, horseback riding, and exercising at any hour of the day.