It’s been awhile, I know. I’ve been away for good reason — I was finishing up my latest novel (it’s done, praise Him. Now I can clean my house and wax my entire body). More on that later, though.
Guys, I woke up yesterday sparkly-eyed and happy over meeting my writing deadline, but went to bed HEATED. I was having a conversation with a person — a black person — about the Golden Globes. We were doing what we always do after award shows; dissecting the looks with a healthy blend of thoughtful criticism and high bitchery. When we got to Kerry Washington, I told the truth. Which was that I LIVE for her, but that I feel that her stylist needs to ask herself some very important questions. Like, why does she always dress that stunning woman like she’s a maiden aunt (no shade, I’m a maiden aunt) who has approximately five minutes to pull herself together before fleeing the country? I mean, her kitchen was sticking out in the back. The dress looked like a comforter. My friend recoiled in horror when I said this.
My Friend: You need to revoke your black woman card.
My Friend: You’re being the worst kind of black woman right now. We have to support each other, boost each other.
Me: Why should she be held to a different standard than Emma Stone? Why tip-toe around her just because she’s black? It implies that we’re some delicate sub-species of human that needs to be handled with kid gloves. Like we’re not on the same playing field, so we shouldn’t be judged in the same way. Kerry Washington is a fucking superstar. She looked nuts. I’m calling it out.
She had no response to this. Incidentally, I also didn’t love Lupita’s hair. Not because it was an afro, as my friend implied (she said this was a bougie response. I am bougie, but it’s unrelated). I just felt like all that hair overwhelms her itty-bitty, impeccably tiny little face. I didn’t like the robust fro for the same reason I’d hate a weave down to her ass. It’s too much hair for her! I’M NOT A NAUGHTY BLACK WOMAN. I’m a queeny armchair critic who slings equal-opportunity style judgment. Making allowances for black stars feels like saying, “Oh she’s black and a step behind anyway, so let’s all pretend not to notice the awkward length of that frock.” Please.
What do you think?
Love you mean it,