I remember entering the beauty supply shop
at four years old
and eyeing the “Just For Me” home relaxer box
with the picture of a black girl about my age.
She looked just like me, except her hair was silky straight.
“Please, please buy this for me!” I begged my grandmother,
and eventually she did.
Despite the burn of chemicals on my scalp
and the smell of sulfur that filled the room,
I was entranced at the prospect of having straight hair.
It was beautiful, it was celebrated,
and I, with my kinky coils, felt inadequate.
Over the years, I spent thousands of dollars at salons
getting my hair relaxed and straightened,
and thousands more on weaves and extensions
to make my hair appear fuller and longer.
I didn’t realize it then, but I was gripped by insecurity
at the tender age of four, and it stayed with me into adulthood.
To be born black in America is to be born into a world
that makes you feel inferior before you can even take your first step.
It is to be under constant mental and spiritual attack.
It was not only our bodies that were taken during slavery,
but our identities as well.
And we were striped of anything that might have given us context
to who we were prior to our abduction.
This erasure and forced assimilation has yet to cease.
From the time we are young, every inch of us is scrutinized.
We are told that our hair doesn’t grow, and that it’s too course.
Our noses are too wide, our lips are too big,
and our skin is too dark.
I used to look in the mirror for hours thinking
how much more beautiful I would be if my eyes were blue or green,
if my nose was a little smaller, or if my lips were a little smaller,
if my hair grew a little bit longer.
Magazines where I would only see two or three black models
amid dozens of white models,
made me feel like there was something inherently wrong with me.
Something that needed to be changed
because I didn’t fit into society’s narrow margins of beauty.
A society dominated by white privilege that refuses, time and time again,
to see people of color as equal.
A society that profits at the expense of its most vulnerable citizens,
by destroying their self esteem.
This is the society we live in.
This is the industry I work in.
This is the fashion industry.
Growing up, it was my dream to be a model.
Raised by a single father,
I relied heavily on media for a sense of identity and confidence.
I would flip through magazines wondering how everyone and everything in them
looked so perfect, down to the glossy pages themselves.
I cat walked the hallways of my middle school.
I practiced poses in the mirror.
I obsessed over modeling shows on television.
And when I turned eighteen, I attended an open-call casting
at a local agency in my hometown, Seattle, Washington.
The following year, I decided to move to New York and pursue modeling full-time.
Now, I wasn’t disillusioned by some romantic idea of the industry.
I did my research.
And almost every agency
never had more than four or five black girls on their board.
The odds were against me, but I was determined.
I figured that once I got a contract, the industry would open up for me.
But at every turn, I was met with resistance.
I had white agents with no knowledge of black hair care
run their fingers through my hair
and tell me, “We already have a girl with your look.”
Translation:
All black girls look the same.
Or, “We don’t think there’s room for you on our board.”
Translation:
We’re at the maximum capacity for the number of black models
we’d like to represent.
But the most excruciatingly painful, “We just don’t know what to do with you.”
What I now see as an admission to their own incompetence
felt like yet another attack.
As if representing me would be some extraordinary challenge,
simply because of the color of my skin.
When I did get signed,
my welcome speech went something like this:
“You probably won’t make it to the cover of any magazines,
but we might be able to make you a little bit of cash.
We’ll push for you when one of our other black models is unavailable.”
And when I made the decision to wear my hair natural last year,
“What are you doing with your hair? You need to do something with that.
Clients will never book you like that,” was the response I got from my agency.
Casting directors would ask me, “Where are you from?”
to which I would respond, “Seattle.”
And then, “where are your parents from?” to which I would respond, “Seattle.”
(Laughter)
I was met with looks of confusion, as if it were impossible to conceptualize
that black beauty exists right here in America.
If they were really bold, they would ask me,
“But like, what’s your ethnicity? Where are your people from?”
and I would say,
“Well, my people were kidnapped, and brought here as slaves
and had their identities erased, so I don’t really know.”
And I wouldn’t get a great response.
(Laughter)
They would say to me, “You’re so beautiful, you must be mixed.”
What may have been intended as a compliment,
felt like an attempt to rationalize the source of my beauty.
If I was mixed, it would all make sense.
I was told that I shouldn’t work
for publications like “Essence” and “Ebony” magazine
because if I got labeled an “urban” model, fashion would close its doors to me.
Although I am black, to be labeled black is to be stripped of value
and pigeonholed into a world of subsidiary work.
I had my face painted grey
by makeup artists who were reluctant to even touch my skin.
And I had my hair burned and ripped from my scalp
to the point where I had to cut it off and start over.
Should I speak up in protest,
I was immediately knocked back down into my place.
“Another angry black girl,” they’d assume –
to which there was no response.
How do you counter a stereotype so embedded in the collective American psyche
that it’s the first response whenever a black girl has a differing opinion?
When I didn’t have the stature in the industry that I have now,
I was afraid to speak up
because I didn’t want to get marked as “difficult to work with.”
My livelihood was on the line, so I had to shut up and take it.
I was told that I shouldn’t complain because at least I was working,
which was rare for a black girl,
and there were hundreds of other black girls waiting to take my place.
I was the token one who made it in the door,
while it remained closed for all others.
I had to live within the confines of trite stereotypes
that compressed me into a tiny box.
I felt completely powerless.
I felt like everything had been taken away from me.
My identity, my autonomy, my ability to stand up for myself,
and any sense of who I was before I got into the industry,
it had all been taken away.
But that all changed last summer
when Alton Sterling was murdered by police.
I went home and wrote a letter to the fashion industry,
emphasizing the duty that media has
to help change the perception of black people.
No longer could I remain silent.
It is the same lack of value for black lives
that causes black models to be excluded from the fashion industry,
that causes black men and women to be gunned down in the street.
That same day, my first Calvin Klein campaign came out.
And there I stood, photographed with my nostrils wide
and my hair defying gravity in all of its natural glory.
I wrote about how proud I was
to create imagery that represented a new kind of beauty.
After reading my letter,
the chief marketing director of Calvin Klein brought me back
for another shoot,
walked up to me as I was getting my makeup done,
and told me that her two bi-racial daughters read my letter,
and they felt so beautiful and so proud.
I was moved and immediately brought to tears.
Everyday,
I receive messages from young women of color via social media,
thanking me for representing
what they’ve been so desperately waiting to see.
Someone who looks like them.
For them, I represent hope.
I represent the proof that they can follow their dreams
despite what they’ve been told, and they can feel beautiful
and comfortable with who they are, free of insecurity.
Despite the grave injustices we face as black women,
we can, and have, and will continue to rise out of the ashes,
and become examples of resilience, drive and excellence.
I like to call this, “Black Girl Magic.”
And with this magic, we are creating our own publications.
We are creating our own television shows.
We are creating our own narrative.
So, where do we go from here? How do we move forward?
Let’s start with inclusion.
Inclusion doesn’t just mean one token black model.
I don’t want to be hired so that I can fill an HR box.
I want to be hired for my unique contributions to the industry.
Instead of forcing my beauty into your preexisting box
and asking me to change,
expand your definition of beauty to be inclusive.
Change in the fashion industry isn’t just about making it easier
for models of color.
It’s about using our collective voice
to reshape the way we think about ourselves
and the way we think about one another.
It’s about raising the self-esteem of our sons and daughters,
who look to models as examples of who and what they can be.
It’s about eradicating the phobias surrounding cultures other than our own,
which is needed now more than ever.
We must examine the historical pretenses that have led us to this place
and make conscious efforts to counteract them.
The fashion industry does not only reflect beauty standards;
it’s a reflection of the current state of our democracy.
Do not simply say, “Black Lives Matter.”
Make a black model the face of your campaign
and not just next to or secondary to a white model.
Put a model in a hijab on the cover of American Vogue.
Put a Latina model on a billboard in Times Square.
Make an Asian model your brand ambassador.
As creators of media,
we have a responsibility to re-humanize the systematically dehumanized,
and create a society where each of us can be recognized, represented
and celebrated across the board, so we can take pride in who we are
and where we come from.
Thank you.
(Applause)
”
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