I’d Never Not Choose (being a black girl)

Reflections on marginality, on blackness, and formidable fashion.

Happy International Women’s Day! Go tell a woman in your life that you love her for me. Speaking of, I think a majority of my readers are women, and I’ve been feeling incredibly grateful for the reception to this newsletter, from friends and strangers near and far. My community is small but mighty. It’s thankfully how things have always been.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my last serious bout of blogging—back in the Tumblr days, and even before that, on Blogger. Those were glorious times, full of mischief, fashion, and boyband entanglements (sorry, we don’t kiss and tell at H.H. HQ). It was an era of connection, where a lovingly ragtag community of personalities formed, and genuine friendships were made across the globe.

But there was another side to it—one that was harder to name at the time. Tokenization. Internalized racism. A platform riddled with microaggressions, where any girl who didn’t fit the Eurocentric mold of “fashion” and “culture” was often met with scrutiny or outright disdain.

When you write and talk about fashion, your eye is always turned inward. From how clothes fit to the contents of your closet to what your current style muse looks like in comparison to you—it’s a constant negotiation of self.

From a young age, I was often told my interests were “very white.” But I was never lost on the fact that I would always be moving through the world in my Black body, nor did I desire to live as anyone else. I received the scorned “Oreo” label—Black on the outside, white within. And yet, my body was never seen as white enough. I wasn’t built like my peers. I didn’t have the coveted thigh gap. My hair didn’t fall straight past my shoulders. There isn’t a single part of me that doesn’t lean into a curve or a curl. That, too, is how things have always been.

One memory in particular stays with me; unfortunately etched into my brain. A friend and I had worn the exact same outfit—piece for piece. Which sounds ridiculous I know, but this was the era of Eleanor Calder, so I promise, this wasn’t even that unusual. She was showered with praise; endless compliments on how great she looked. And she did look great, I would know. We were wearing the same thing, after all.

The internet, however, had no such praise for me (and in the age of external validation, I was not prepared for this lackluster reception, sue me). Instead, I got an anonymous message: You look ghetto.

I wish I had asked them to elaborate. Instead, I avoided my inbox for a week before mustering the courage to delete it altogether. It’s something I do more often now—when I’m faced with stupidity, I ask for clarification. “I look ghetto?” In what way? Surely not the 2012 business-casual Zara blouse. Not the brown corduroy Topshop circle skirt. Not the green bomber jacket, right? Nah, the comment wasn’t ever really about the clothes I chose to post, but about the body I take residence in. In color, shape, and size, I was what this anon found ghetto.

For the sake of curiosity, I looked up the definition of ghetto—just to be sure it hadn’t changed overnight. It hasn’t. As a noun: “A poor urban area occupied primarily by a minority group or groups.” As an adjective: “Resembling or characteristic of a ghetto or its inhabitants (especially with relation to African American culture).” Mhmm, microaggressions baked into the Webster definition, we love that.

17-year-old me was probably secretly devastated. And I don’t fault her for that. Words don’t exist in a vacuum; they carry weight, history, aggression—what is said is often just as important as what is left unsaid. The actions of the masses highlight their mindsets too. A mediocre white girl gets eight years on the runway. A Black girl is lucky to get two.

Looking back, I don’t even think the outfit was particularly groundbreaking. Arguably, it was mid. If someone had said that, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. I mean, someone literally ran a whole Tumblr dedicated to shit-talking my friends and I. That kind of comment would have been light work. Even if they had said it didn’t fit me well, I could have chalked it up to a socially inept remark. But ghetto? That was never about the outfit.

See, Black women are scrutinized in ways others will never quite understand. Our style, our bodies, our presence—everything is up for debate, for judgment. Even in spaces we’ve shaped, we’re often an afterthought, a token, a trend. But knowing all of this, I’d still never trade being a Black woman for anything. The way we move, create, influence—effortlessly, endlessly—is unmatched. We carry the weight, but we also set the standard.

And this is why moments like Doechii at Paris Fashion Week feel so damn affirming. Decked out in Schiaparelli, Acne, and Tom Ford, she wasn’t just in the room—she was the moment. It’s the kind of presence that demands attention, whether they’re ready to give it or not.

The joy of living Black is that you can rock your boho braids at noon, and pull up to the function in a knee-length buss-down at 8 pm, without missing a beat. Because that’s the thing—Black women don’t just follow trends, we are the trends. And yet, time and time again, the industry tries to act like we’re the understudy, the exception, the ‘moment’ rather than the foundation. They’re quick to reduce our style to ‘ghetto’ or ‘too much’—until a white girl copies it, slaps a rebrand on it, and gets praised for her ‘effortlessly cool’ taste.

But there’s no denying it anymore. Doechii in Paris is proof of that. Black women have always had the range—to shapeshift, to redefine, to set the standard before anyone even realizes there was one. We make the rules. We break them. And we show up looking better every time.

So when I see a Black woman winning, I don’t just root for her. I bet on her. Because time and history have proven that when a Black woman decides to take up space, the world has no choice but to pay attention.