the last black girls in hollywood

maaaaan, if this post gets me in trouble, i'm gonna be pissed. i write this in love. the moral of the story being: craved connection with my peers in hollywood and a critique on the spaces we create.

part i

I have a certain vitriol for my work. Or maybe it’s my lack. For every press release that comes out on Deadline, naming the same few actors working with the same few directors. It’s discouraging. It feels like the doors are all shut up, and for those of us that have gotten through before, for some reason, the game has changed yet again.

I was looking at the round up of black and white photos from this year’s Gold Party. The It Party of Oscar season, a night filled with the who’s who of Black Hollywood and the few white folks we deem worthy of a pass. A cookout invitation, if you will, but a little more elitist. And there was this pang, not of jealousy, but instead a deep sadness over how unwelcome I’ve felt in this community for the last five years. All the girls, my age, the ones that just a few years ago were waving hello, having a kiki, talking about how much they adored me and how willing they were to show me the ropes, how to move through these weirdly overwhelming and performative entertainment spaces, posing together in their stunning gowns and beat faces, all to cement that they were once again welcomed in the room where it all happens, I did the same looking over the photos from this years stunning Essence Black Women in Hollywood event. Saw the same faces, in different outfits, smiling and laughing together, a clique that, regardless of how it’s presented to the public, isn’t as much like a homecoming as you’d think.

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I’ve been. Like a fish out of water, blessed to be in space at both. Not without a little fanfare. The Gold Party, where the Williams sisters came to get me themselves, after Jay and Beyoncé told them to tell me to tell the bitchy PR blondes in their Nasty Gal and ill fitting Aritzia blazers at the door that I was indeed supposed to be there¹. Essence Black Women in Hollywood, a personal guest of Aunjanue when she was being honored, adamant that her daughters, her girls were there with her. A selfless act of love on a day meant for centering her and no one else. The Macro parties where they, to this day, misname me constantly and always take their sweet time stewing over whether or not there’s room for a person like me, every single time. The NAACP Image Awards, where I somehow managed to be the only person in my cast not invited, like I didn’t exist at all… even after being nominated, and come the next, nominated again, winning, with no seat at the table for me.

You have to have something to give. Something that makes you worthy of a seat at the table. And even when you’re welcomed into the room once, don’t think for a second there’s any guarantee you’ll be welcomed back again. Because how important are you? Do you have the right team? What’s the follower count? Have you got anything to barter your way in? Who are you, if anybody, forreal? And so… we see the same few, every year and even then, I’m not always sure why the ones who make it in… are there.

And there it goes. The pitting. One against the other. If she’s there, then why the hell am I not worthy of being invited? Contrary to the loving embrace I feel I’ve gotten from older Black women in Hollywood, elders who you can call on when you need them. The ones who keep it real with you and don’t let anyone play in their face, let alone their own.

The real gag is, I say this as if I’ve got the money necessary to show up in a way that looks like I belong. My publicist’s rate $3k retainer to make sure I’m on the list, with a plus one so I don’t feel so crazy and alone, out of my depths when folks inevitably look you up and down trying to either place you or figure out how in the hell you got in. Oh and the stylist, right, because you gotta pull a look and your closet simply won’t do, and neither will your friend’s there are plenty Getty images to prove it. That’s $1500 at minimum, and I’m being cheap. And then there’s hair, because I guess just wearing it out isn’t a vibe, too plain, you’ll risk looking like an assistant. And makeup, because I’ll be damned if my face doesn’t match my neck, and how do I know if the contour I have is too cool or too dark, and then there’s the creasing, and apparently blush is a necessity. That all together is another $800-1K. Plus, you need a black car, to take to you and fro, with the credential. I don’t even know what that costs! I’ve only ever followed the clear instructions… get in the car, he’ll be waiting for you when the night is done. And with what money does a girl like me use to pay for all this? There are no brand deals for a girl with 12.8K followers online, and the contracts you do get, in film and television and theatre have no impetus to pay you what you’re worth. No one cares about the short film you had premiere at Sundance, or the Tony Award you won with that advocacy group, or the NAACP Image Award you won for the other short, or when you were technically nominated for Best Ensemble for the SAG Awards² but not really because they used your face but took out your name, or how you were supposed to recur on a tv show but then only shot the one episode and maybe they’ll bring you back next season so you do your best to connect with folks genuinely, not all schmoozey, give me a job but instead like a human, who loves their job and would love a chance to finish out their arc. No one cares about that little Bachelor podcast you did that kinda blew up the franchise, whoops. Or how you played a Williams sister in an Academy Award winning film.

No one cares to build community with you, you’ve got no name for yourself. You’re an invisible Black girl in Hollywood, you’re not on the short list.