The first time someone told me they loved me and meant it romantically, it was the summer before fifth grade. I had just gotten my very first phone, so you can probably imagine my excitement. I vividly remember giving everyone my phone number, and out of the people that texted me back, Chris** was one of them. He actually waited until school had let out for the summer before he even bothered to use it. I remember us texting constantly (or, at least as much as my text messaging plan allowed), day in, day out, about the most menial things. I can’t exactly recall our conversations but I’m sure they were not the stuff romantic novels are made of. 

The first time he told me he loved me, I was at the dinner table with my family. Face growing hotter and hotter, hands sweaty and clutching that tiny piece of plastic like a lifeline, I cleared my throat, sat up straight, and replied: “Thank u.” I will be the first to admit that it was not one of my finer moments. But I was young and pretty dumb, and the only times anyone had ever said those three little words to me was always in the familial sense. It was hard for someone so naïve to grasp a concept as big and consuming as love. So, when he said it to me, it didn’t register that to him—in his mind—he could’ve possibly meant it. Love was for grown-ups—people who woke up early and went to work, people who paid bills or were able to order meals that weren’t on the kid’s menu. Love wasn’t for a little girl from a small town people had trouble pronouncing. 

I didn’t grow up around many examples of Black love (in the romantic sense). My parents had broken up while I was too little to remember. My grandfather had died on Christmas Eve thirteen years ago, leaving my grandmother behind in a house that felt bigger and bigger every day. My relatives (except for a few) were always these distant, shadowy figures that I had trouble remembering and only saw during the holidays, so I can’t really use them as adequate examples. 

If Beale Street Could Talk was the first depiction of Black love I had seen on screen that actually moved me. The characters’ love wasn’t selfish; it wasn’t malicious. It was urgent, and heavy, and sad. It was pure. It was what I thought Black love was but had rarely seen portrayed on TV. 

Many of us, myself included, have perceptions about what and how love should be. These perceptions usually come from the people around us or the media. Beale Streetdescribes a time when only one of the two is prevalent. In this adaption of the 1974 James Baldwin novel, Beale Street captures the lives of two young Black characters, named Tish and Fonny, struggling to endure in 1970s New York City. These two lifelong friends—and now lovers—must choose a life of love instead of hate when Fonny is wrongfully accused and sent to jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Amid the struggles between their conflicting families, systematic racism, and injustices, these two characters manage to unveil a love between them that is almost sacred. 

Jenkins manages to create an intense film that stems from both its emotional urgency and from the troubles that befall both characters. Trish and Fonny, so painfully young and full of hope and promise, have a relationship that is beautifully captured through the lens of the camera and Tish’s monologues. Although the movie is ultimately a love story, it also deals with many real themes that are still prevalent in our society today: themes of prejudice and oppression, of wrongful imprisonment and police brutality. And through all of this, Jenkins weaves together a story that left me feeling endlessly sad but hopeful at the same time. 

“Every Black person born in America was born on Beale Street,” says the opening quotation of the movie. “Beale Street is our legacy,” and this movie seeks to deal “with the impossibility and the possibility, the absolute necessity, to give expression to this legacy.” I believe that this movie does exactly that. Baldwin’s novel shows an expression of Black love this is not often given life on screen. Like so many other mediums of art, our society’s depiction of Black people and their relationships with others has always been viewed through a skewed lens. 

First, the truth: dating is difficult for many people. For some, it’s hard to find someone you connect with authentically, someone who understands your needs in a relationship, someone you can have a decent conversation with without it trailing off awkwardly. However, for people of color, dating has been proven to be particularly challenging. Let me put this in terms of today’s preferred method (for many) for meeting new people romantically: online dating.

A study conducted at Cornell University in 2018 found that racial bias in dating apps is alive and very real. They found that several mobile dating apps allowed users to narrow down their searches for a partner by race or the system will use an algorithm that pairs up people of the same race together more likely than not. This serves to reinforce the racial biases and divides that continue to cause problems not only in our society but in our communities as well (Source).

Cornell University also found that Black men and women are ten times more likely to message those of a different race than those races are to message them. Algorithms that make up dating apps can also introduce discrimination to users, whether they know it or not. In 2016, a reporter found that the dating app CoffeeMeetsBagelonly showed potential partners of the same, even though these users said that they had no preferences when it came to race (Source).

“Dating platforms have the opportunity to disrupt particular social structures, but you lose those benefits when you have design features that allow you to remove people who are different than you.”

—Jevan Hutson, Co-Author of “Debiasing Desire: Addressing Bias & Discrimination on Intimate Platforms” 

In the years 2009 to 2014, the dating app OkCupid conducted a study of its platform that revealed racial bias between its users. This study revealed that while Latina, Asian, and white women had a higher return rate of affection, Black women experienced a fraction of that percentage. Most of the messages Black women received over dating apps were less than chivalrous. Many of the messages ranged from slightly offensive to egregious stereotyping, as well as hyper-sexualization and “the policing of our appearance.” 

Black women are also forced to meet the expectations that other people have for them. We’re already expected to be overbearing, lazy, angry. But we must also be the caregivers, the “Jezebels,” prudish but yet overtly sexual all at once. We’re expected to laugh in the face of insults, laugh when being reduced to objects, to food (ex. chocolate). When being called “exotic” or being told “I don’t like Black women, but I’d date you,” we’re supposed to take it and smile because, it’s not a compliment unless you’re getting insulted, right? Why can’t you just learn how to take a joke?

Instead of addressing these microaggressions and outright forms of racism, we teach women that it’s their fault. Instead of fixing the screwed-up views this society has about sex, love, and gender, women are taught how to be better women, so that they may one day land a partner. Dating apps exposed that we live in an inherently racist (and sexist) society that continues to thrive off of stereotypes and archetypes that give minorities a bad light.

There are also biases that exist within a race, as well. Black women have been discouraged from dating Black men because of the labels we (as in the Black community) unfortunately brand them with. The media presents us with a misconstrued perception of Black men. In many of the films I’ve watched, Black men are always portrayed as criminals, thugs, men that are lesser than their white counterparts. Because of this, Black women are always told to stay away from Black men for some reason or another. This is obviously wrong, but it’s deeply ingrained in our society. 

It’s obviously okay to have preferences for what you look for in a partner—there’s nothing wrong with knowing what you want for yourself. But there is a very thin line between having specific interests, and then engaging in sexual racism. What I loved about If Beale Street Could Talk is the it not only depicted a form of love that is so rarely shown in the media, but it also gave me hope that love can overcome.Our stories (much like Fonny and Tish’s) have always been here. We’re just not used to seeing it. We’re not used to seeing Black people on screen getting good things. This movie taught me that throughout every hardship each one of us faces, whether you’re a minority or not, there’s always been and always will be love and community to fall back on. We’re never truly alone.

** Let’s use a pseudonym because on the off chance that in some alternate universe he stumbles across this blog, I will probably never live it down. I would like to avoid that possibility as much as possible. 

In 2015 at University of California, Los Angeles, fraternity Sigma Phi Epsilon and sorority Alpha Phi thought it would be a “fun” idea to co-host a party they called “Kanye Western.” The theme of this party, as members of the Greek organizations have stated, was to celebrate popular culture. How were they to blame for the fact that several students in attendance painted their faces black and dressed in “gangsta” clothes? It could’ve happened at anyone’s party…right? 

A few hours into this party, actual Black students showed up and proceeded to tell everyone in attendance how offensive the theme and costumes were. After the incident, UCLA released a statement that mentioned that while students are free to celebrate certain themes of popular culture, they must be conscious of the pain that members of that community may feel. In short: “just because you can do something, does not mean you should” (Source).

Almost like a premonition, Dear White People graced theaters in October 2014, (nearly a year before this incident happened) and only a few short months after a similar issue like this occurred at a different campus. In a similar fashion, a horde white students threw an actual blackface party (as in the theme was literally blackface) and were caught on camera doing so.*** Dear White People, a movie that focused on escalating racial tensions between Blacks and whites at a university, probably couldn’t have come at a better time. The climax of the film occurs when an organization comes up with a blackface theme for their party. The Black students show up to the party and crash it, much like how the UCLA students did.

Cultural appropriation is a bit of a sensitive topic, and most people would instead choose to ignore that it exists or not bother talking about it at all. (I am not one of those people). I honestly believe that it is a big problem—and it needs to be corrected.

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

― James Baldwin

WHAT IS CULTRUAL APPROPRIATION?

I was not completely aware of how damaging and degrading cultural appropriation was until I had seen Dear White People. Cultural appropriation is, quite simply, “the act of taking or using things from a culture that is not your own, especially without showing that you understand or respect this culture” (Source). Those of a more dominant group typically do the appropriation. And while this definition may seem crystal clear, the line between embracing/appreciating a culture (ex. eating food from another culture, borrowing artistic styles) and appropriating a culture (ex. Blackface, wearing Native American headdresses, commercializing) is often blurry for most people. Let me break it down for you. 

Let’s consider Elvis Presley, a man who was dubbed the “King of Rock and Roll.” In several interviews, Presley had stated that he was inspired by the music style of Black artists (who were also singing Rock and Roll) that had come before him. He admitted that the genre was around a long time before he even began making a name for himself (Source). Now this instance could be considered him embracing a genre of music that was heavily influenced by Black culture. This is appreciation. But it gets worse. 

Many people accuse Presley of being an appropriator because he made Rock and Roll more palatable for the white majority by repackaging it and slapping his name all over it. This pushed Blacks out of the Rock and Roll scene, and by the 1970s, the genre was almost entirely white. As the Cambridge History of American Music has previously said, “It seems that many Americans wanted black music without the black people in it.”

Another prime example is the famed Coachella music festival that has been around since October 1999. Since then, Coachella has made a name for itself by having an attention-grabbing list of performing artists and managing to draw in over 300,000 people annually. It’s also pretty infamous for being a mating ground for the ignorant to culturally appropriate for Instagram likes. For many who attend this festival, the feathered headdress is merely an accessory to catch the eye of other attendees. However, for Native Americans, these feathers are “presented as symbols of honor and respect and have to be earned” (Source).

These themes even tie into social media. The Kardashians are no strangers to trying out hairstyles that may be a bit…culturally sensitive. For instance, let’s take Kim Kardashian being spotted at the MTV Movie & TV Awards wearing Fulani Braids, a type of protective hairstyle that Black women typically wear. Kim faced severe backlash for this choice of hairstyle because, while Kim may be praised for this hairstyle and seen as “innovative,” Black women wearing this hairstyle have gotten passed over for jobs, told they look unkept and unprofessional, and have even been told that they couldn’t wear braids while attending school. 

In Dear White People, the movie characters describe what it is like for an entire culture to be warped, profited from, and made disposable. For the white people that wore blackface—both in the movie and in real life—they were able to remove their “costumes” at the end of the night. They were able to enjoy the perks of what comes with being Black while being able to remove themselves from the stigmas that encompass Blacks entirely (such as being profiled, wrongfully stereotyped, etc.). There’s always been a double standard when it comes to race. 

CULTURAL APPROPRIATION VS. CULTURAL ASSIMILATION 

I figured this would be as good of a time as any to discuss the differences between appropriation and assimilation. Cultural assimilation is when those of a minority group adopt certain aspects of the dominant’s culture to survive in a new environment. This means that, despite what Whoopi Goldberg has said on The View, Black women straightening their hair and wearing weaves is very different than their counterparts wearing braids or Bantu knots.

We live in a world today where Black women have continuously been mocked and put down for their natural hair, have been called “nappy-headed-hoes” (a comment that was directed at the Rutgers University women’s basketball team), and made examples of in their place of employment. Thus, we have been conditioned to believe that our natural hair, which seems beautiful to us, is “bad” when not straightened and can be seen as unattractive. Annah Anti-Palindrome, a white woman who used to wear dreadlocks, observed that:

“Without any regard to personal qualifications, even with an incarceration record and no college education, I was often given responsibilities [at work] that put me in positions of authority over my co-workers of color. Despite my… appearance, I enjoyed a level of tolerance from authority figures and society at large that can only be attributed to my whiteness.”

—Annah Anti-Palindrome, Everyday Feminism (Source)

So, to be afforded the same decencies as our counterparts, Black women began straightening their hair and wearing weaves to school or work. We live in a society where white hair is seen as the ideal, where a white woman with the same hairstyle can still be afforded more luxuries than their Black coworker. Coco, a character from Dear White People, is seen throughout the movie wearing weaves/straightening her hair. She does this because she knows that in a society that looks down at natural hair, the one thing that she can control is by changing her hair. She conforms to a societal beauty standard that oppresses her for the sake of having a more comfortable life. So how can we be blamed for wanting to hide? For trying to find new ways to survive?  

WHAT CAN WE DO ABOUT IT?

I believe that there is no shortage of education to go around, so awareness of our actions is the simplest and most precise route to take. I want to say that yes, it is totally okay to embrace and explore cultures that are different from your own—this isn’t the problem. It becomes a problem when the stories of those people are stolen and degraded. It becomes a problem when you profit, and the minority continues to suffer.

Commercialization also seems to be a natural consequence of cultural appropriation. Many celebrities (ex. The Kardashians) have been praised for apparently whipping these cultural aspects out of thin air (ex. braids) and getting credit for making them fashionable or trendy. However, the minority group that has been rocking this hairstyle for centuries continues to be ridiculed and remain disadvantaged. They profit while we are told to “get over it.”

I think, like with all things, it is most important to know our place. While there are many things we can do, there are just as many things that we shouldn’t do. The media has provided us with plenty of examples of fashion statements and cultural “blending” gone wrong. Many forms of cultural appropriation are built from stigmas and stereotypes of that minority. To turn a blind eye to these examples—those that tell us right from wrong—is to be willfully ignorant. I’m not saying that I haven’t made the mistake of culturally appropriating in the past because I’m human and imperfect, but where I am different from many people is that I have learned from my mistake. And I never did it again. 

What I liked so much about Dear White People is that it acknowledged that ugliness that comes with feeling like an “other.” It took those seemingly lonely feelings and turned them into empowering ones. By the end of the movie, Coco realized that her natural hair was beautiful and that she had no reason to be ashamed of something that was a part of her. I have friends who are ashamed of their natural hair and who believe that if they reveal that part of themselves, they will be seen as lesser. Coming to terms with who we are and our culture is sometimes a struggle. I have had braids in since I was old enough to get them because the idea of wearing my natural hair is…scary. And it shouldn’t be.

*** PSA: Not only is blackface an egregious form of cultural appropriation, it is also—dare I say—mighty racist. Thankfully, blackface is not that common nowadays. Instead, techonology and media have provided people with plenty of opportunities of appropriating Black identity without painting their faces. So…thanks for that?

Jordan Peele, my friends, has done it again. With his sophomore movie, Us, Peele has managed to painstakingly and artistically craft another horror film that leaves viewers with more questions than answers. I’m just going to say it right now: Us was a giant mindfuck. But I have also never felt more engaged or invested in a character’s well-being while watching a horror movie since Peele’s first film, Get Out. In all honesty, I’m pretty sure I know why.

Watching this particular movie genre has always been a different kind of experience for me. I usually spend my time being absolutely scared out of my mind (still trying to ease my way into horror movies) or being extremely frustrated: why don’t Black characters ever live to see the end credits? Why are Blacks forced to meet Freddy Krueger’s glove of butter knives before their counterparts? How come we are never able to overcome the insurmountable odds, much like white actors in films? Because I have yet to find a satisfying answer to these questions, watching horror films has always left a sour taste in my mouth.

“No way. I’ve seen this movie. The black dude dies first.”

– Professor Harry Phineas Block (Orlando Jones), Evolution 

Black characters—much like women in horror films—rarely ever make it to the end of the movie. Black and female roles in horror are also egregiously underrepresented. There have been very few horror movies that have cast Black actors as main characters/protagonists. Because of Hollywood’s refusal to abandon this horror movie trope even today, they are left to scramble for lesser roles such as the “witty friend.”

It is no surprise that the horror genre, much like every other movie genre, is severely whitewashed. Viewers of this believed genre all know who is typically the first to die: yes, that beloved, witty friend. Horror films typically knock off characters in order of importance—that minor character such as the “witty friend” probably doesn’t contribute to the plot of the movie that much. As such, these minor personas are often killed quickly and quietly before the film progresses too much.  

The mortality rate for Blacks in film is unsurprisingly high. While it has been made evident that not every Black character has been killed first, they typically only last long enough to “either crack plenty of comic-relief jokes” or “awkwardly stand around in the background” while their white counterparts save the day (Source). This isn’t to say that minorities are purposely being placed into roles where the directors deem them expendable.

Before horror films became a praised genre, there were few opportunities for fresh, Black actors to get their foot in the door in Hollywood. Most of the roles they had were nameless or anonymous where they were forced to lie wait in the background. In the world of horror, apparently dying isn’t the worst fate a character can meet—being “ignored” is. 

BlackHorrorMovies.com found that out of 1,500 appearances of Black characters in over 1,000 scary movies, the mortality rate was found to be around 45%. This equates to about one out of every two movies. In the sub-genre of horror that gets its delight out of particularly bloody deaths (think Halloween or Saw), Black characters who have a large enough role where they have both a name and a speaking part are more likely to die than not. In the Friday the 13thmovie series, 16 out 19 Black characters were killed (Source). Like I said before, the casting directors aren’t purposely (I hope) putting Blacks into these expendable roles. However, because roles of the protagonist are so often given to white actors, Blacks are left with supporting parts that aren’t allotted much screen time in this horror-stricken world. 

Despite these seemingly impossible odds, there is one character who has repeatedly outsmarted death and landed herself on top (even if it means throwing her friends to the killers). Brenda Meeks, played by Regina Hall, is possibly the funniest and most lively character I have ever seen in any movie. Brenda has been dodging scary killers with knives and creepy little girls in white dresses since 2000 when the first Scary Movie came out. Sure, is the reason she only lasts so long because her best friend is a white girl and she, along with the Wayans brothers, are only meant to serve as the comic relief? Probably. But that isn’t to say that Brenda doesn’t have her own personality.

One of my favorite things about her is that she’s a realist—she knows that it’s not possible for everyone to make it. But you can be damn sure she’s going to try her best to make sure that she does. She’s also not afraid to speak her mind. I’m not saying that everythingthat comes out of her mouth is particularly nice, but you can always count on her to be 100% real with viewers and her friends. 

What is the most surprising thing about Brenda’s character, however, is that she manages to live through the first four Scary Movies. In terms of horror movies (though this one is more satirical), this is unheard of for Black characters. After doing a thorough search of how and when Black characters have died in movies, I have compiled a list that could explain Brenda’s longevity. You can also use these points to determine whether or not your favorite Black character will live to see the end of the movie. Said Black actor has a chance of surviving if:

1. Their main companion in the film is white 
2. The movie features an all-Black cast (ex. Leprechaun: Back 2 tha Hood)
3. The movie has a sequel (chances on they will die later on in successive movies) (Source)

These aren’t necessarily hard and fast rules, but I found that they explain and help me better understand when my favorite token minority will be killed off. Even though these token minorities may not get much screen time, they are still subjected to some poor stereotyping. For instance, there a typically a few roles that Blacks are usually seen frequenting in horror films. The Mythical Negro is an archetype that I have seen frequently within this genre. This character can be found giving advice to the protagonists and warning them about the potential dangers they are bound to face. Their death is used to drive the plot line, as the character is seen as valued and forces the protagonist to work that much harder to defeat the villain within the film (think Dick Hallorann in The Shining).

Sometimes the Black characters are forced into roles where they must be the voice of reason. They’re constantly reminding their castmates to “not investigate the creepy sound coming from the basement” or to “maybe get off the ground because running is faster than crawling.” They usually end up dying, too. 

What I love about Jordan Peele’s movies is that he forces me to be personally invested in the wellbeing of his characters. He manages to do this by curating scripts that portray the Black experience in a horror film. These movies are even more frightening and terrifying to me because now I can relate to these characters. It is too easy to envision myself in their shoes. To me, the most shocking and eye-opening part of a horror movie isn’t even the plot itself. It’s when, after sitting in a dark theater for almost two hours and watching the credits roll up the screen, I’ve realized that the beloved, witty and knowledgable Black person didn’t die…Isn’t that the most frightening thing of all? 

I can still remember how I felt the first time I watched Get Out. I had felt fear; I had felt laughter and pain and understanding. But what I mostly felt was this inexplicable sense of gratitude. All because someone had finally gotten it right. Jordan Peele had finally captured what it feels like to live in a Black body and know that it truly doesn’t belong to you. He captured what it feels like to live in America where society picks away at Black bodies and decides what parts are more “agreeable” than others.

“The black man in America is the most copied man on this planet, bar none. Everybody wanna be a nigga, but nobody wanna be a nigga.”

— Paul Mooney

When you’re a Black person living in America, there are certain horrors you become well-accustomed to. You become familiar with people side-eyeing you when you walk by them. Become familiar with having to alter the pitch of your voice when you speak to appear less aggressive. Become familiar with being the only person in a room who looks like you. Sometimes you become intimate with other forms of people’s racism—more accepted, less noticeable forms. They’re called microaggressions—and they’re so small most times you don’t even think about them. A change of tone here, an insensitively framed question there. What’s the harm, right?

Jordan Peele’s Get Out is frighteningly familiar. A photographer named Chris (played by Daniel Kaluuya) decides to join his girlfriend Rose on an upstate trip to meet her parents, Missy and Dean. Chris has some reservations and anxieties when meeting her parents because, well…he’s Black. And her parents don’t know. But, after they meet, it seems he was worried about nothing. Sure, they seem to be overcompensating with their weird comments about Black people (“By the way, I would have voted for Obama a third term if I could”) and their maid and groundskeeper seem to have some issues (to say the least), but they say nothing personally offensive. 

SPOILERS, I GUESS

Here’s when Rose’s family begins to get a bit problematic. They’re not actually “down with Black people.” In actuality, they run an operation that transplants the brains of white people into Black bodies. The original hosts’ consciousnesses remain in “the sunken place,” where they are unable to speak or control their bodies. 

America is notorious for its fetishization of Black culture and Black features. However, instead of being praised for them, we are ridiculed. Big butts and lips are distasteful on a Black body but put them on someone white and they’re glorified (read: Kardashians). Natural Black hair is ugly and untamed and shouldn’t be allowed in the workplace. But, on a white person, it’s acceptable—preferred, even. White people get credit for popularizing features and trends that Black people have always had. We live in a world where white is right. Anything that deviates from this is seen as ghetto, and only gets a stamp of approval after it has been made “respectable” by someone white. 

Peele uses Get Out to depict the horrifying reality of how white people are allowed to pick and choose which parts of our existence they prefer daily. He shows how being enraptured with Black bodies and their culture is not the same as valuing their life. In the film, there is a scene where Dean, Rose’s father, is holding a silent auction. During the auction, he is seen selling Chris to the highest bidder. A blind man in the back silently raises his Bingo card. Later in the movie, after Chris has been captured and the transplant is about to commence, the man explains why he bid on him in the first place. “What I want is so much deeper: Your eye, man. I want those things you see through.” 

Get Out also properly shows how American society understands Black people. They believe that because they aren’t being outwardly offensive, they’re not actually being racist. Not once in the movie does a white person spew a racist comment. There are no Confederate flags blowing in the wind or mentions of the KKK. These people love everything about Chris. They love everything about Black people. That’s the problem. 

The problem exists when we are no longer seen as people. We are seen as objects to own and cultivate because as people, we don’t know any better. We are only granted actual, human value once someone tells us we are worth something. We are dehumanized. This is actually the premise behind Get Out. The Black people in the movie are favored for their athleticism, their looks. They are favored for their talent (i.e. Chris’ eyes are seen as analogous to his photography skills) and their skin. But, the Black people in the film aren’t actually seen as humans until there’s a white person deeming them so. Until there’s a white brain in a Black body controlling their every move and thought. 

When you’re a Black person living in America, you get used to your culture being stolen from you and warped for easier consumption by the public. You get used to being told your dialect is “ghetto” or “trashy” until you hear it being utilized in the next white rapper’s album. You get used to your long, embellished nails being called gaudy before white Instagram influencers decide otherwise. You get used to your entire existence being hijacked.

This heightened sense of fascination with Black bodies and our culture is not new, however. It’s been happening to us for hundreds of years. When portraying Black people in comedy acts and skits, white men would parade around in blackface. When slavers were looking to thicken their wallets, they would inspect the athleticism and physical fitness of a slave because they knew these areas would be big selling points. Solange noted that although over 200 Black artists have performed at the Grammy Awards, only three have won Album of the Year in the last twenty years (Source).

Peele does a fantastic job at showing the true experience of a Black person living in modern-day America. Sure, every form of racism isn’t this outlandish show. Sometimes, it’s slight—it’s internal. It still makes us feel like animals in a petting zoo. It says that we’re spectacles, not actual people. I’m writing this to let everyone know that we are actual people. Actual people whose worth doesn’t get to be determined by an outside group of people who have no true understanding of what it means to be Black. No one gets to pick and choose what parts of me they like and should be whitewashed. I’m a whole person—and I’m not going anywhere.