I loved that jacket. I wore it until the ninth grade when my mom finally made me throw it out because it had holes and tears, and because women were stopping my mom and me in the street to offer me their own secondhand clothing. They thought we were too poor to afford a decent, clean girl’s jacket. My mom was mortified. I, on the other hand, was just trying to find my style. I wanted to be a tomboy. I wasn’t really a tomboy, but my best friend at the time was a pretty, skinny, black Puerto Rican girl with a big butt who was super girlie. It didn’t really make sense to compete with her, so I went in a different direction. That direction was dressing like a wayward hobo. In my twenties I realized I no longer wanted to dress like a hobo lumberjack, so I invested in a new feminine look. I wore denim miniskirts with jewel-bedazzled pockets, peasant blouses, and white socks with pink Converse sneakers that I bought for five dollars on eBay. Most of my new clothes were pink because I thought the color made me seem more dainty and brightened my dark skin. Also, I wore shades all the time. Day or night, rain or shine. And I’d coordinate the colors to match my shirts. I still borrowed my mom’s shirts, but I unbuttoned them so I could show off my bra because I was very sexy. Duh. Clearly I was still trying to find my style.
When I started going to premieres for Precious, I shopped for dresses at Torrid, a plus-size clothing store. I bought prom dresses. For the Sundance Film Festival, which is cool and casual, I chose a bubble-gum-pink tube dress with pockets in the skirt, a black shrug, and black knee boots. I walked the carpet by myself, clutching an oversize Gucci purse that Sarah, the film’s producer, had given me. For Cannes, I found a black dress with a ton of ruffles. I paired it with another shrug, a fake pearl necklace I borrowed from Mom, and kitten heels. I blended in that night and my entire outfit cost $120!
For a Cannes press conference with the actors in the film, I was told that the dress code was “casual.” That was a lie. Every waking moment at Cannes is black-tie, but I didn’t know that. I wore the only heels I could walk in, a pair of brown wedges, and a green floral-print dress that I thought was too short, so I put on jean capris underneath. If you think that sounds bad, keep in mind that I had to stand between Mariah Carey and Paula Patton for every picture. There! Now you know it wasn’t just bad, it was a nightmare. But the day wasn’t all horrible. Later I met Debbie Harry while wearing a T-shirt with her face on it. Fashion WIN!
Photo Op You DON’T know pressure until you’ve had to stand directly in between Paula Patton and Mariah Carey in clothes you bought from a mall and Payless shoes. What do you know about the struggle?! I’m a fucking SURVIVOR!
? Getty Images
At both the Sundance and Cannes premieres, I was scared to death. Paula and Mariah were both so pretty, and both had an entire team of people to make sure they looked good. Stylists, assistants, hairstylists, makeup artists, publicists. I had none of those people. I didn’t have any money to pay for all that.
But I was the face of our film. I played the title character, so I had to show up no matter how inappropriate my outfit. At Sundance, my costar Mo’Nique kindly had her hair and makeup artist prepare me for the premiere, but the rest of the time I made myself up even though I had no clue how. I felt like a contest winner—in a bad way. Like I didn’t really belong on the red carpets, but I’d sold the most raffle tickets, so the powers that be were allowing me to feel fancy for a night, but in the morning I’d have to go back to working the phones at the call center . . . or something.
When Precious was picked up for distribution by Lionsgate, I’d already won a few awards and was on the verge of being nominated for more. The company hired a stylist to dress me for the rest of the awards season and paid for hair and makeup as well. I finally had a team to make sure I looked presentable the next time I had to stand next to Mariah! The stylist, Linda, and her assistant met me at my hotel in LA. They brought a ton of clothes to my room, and I tried everything on. Linda didn’t know me and didn’t really know my style. I figured that was fine, because I didn’t really know my style yet, either. (I still missed my Perry Ellis jacket!)
Linda asked me what I’d seen in magazines that I liked. She asked what I wanted to look like, what kind of dresses I liked, what colors I wanted to wear. I didn’t know how to answer any of those questions. I’d never opened a magazine and thought, I want to look like this! The closest I’d ever come was watching Moesha as a teenager and wishing I could dress like Moesha’s best friend, Kim. She was a big girl, and so was I, but she always had a boyfriend, so I figured that I should dress like her. Somehow I knew that saying this to Linda—saying “Moesha’s best friend” to a woman whose other clients included Cameron Diaz and Helen Hunt—was the wrong answer. So I said the only thing I knew for sure: “I don’t need a dress that will stand out. I’ll do that anyway. I just want to look like I belong.”
She seemed optimistic that I’d fit in. She suggested that I start buying magazines and paying attention to fashion trends and saving pictures of dresses that I liked. So, yes, this is the story of what it’s like to choose a dress for a glamorous award ceremony. You’re probably thinking, How hard could that be? Sounds like the most fun part! Hold ON. Not so fast. Have you forgotten about the Fashion Police? Have you forgotten about the blogs and the fashion reporters? Have you forgotten the Denim Debacle that Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears wore to the American Music Awards in 2001? I haven’t. I had a discussion about that outfit at a dinner party last night. The world hasn’t forgotten and it never will. What’s worse is that I thought those outfits were dope. That’s right. I would’ve been all the way onboard with that decision. This is why it was dangerous for me to flip through magazines for trends and dresses I liked.
I didn’t know it then, but my personal fashion icon was and is Lena Dunham. I’ve been in the same room as Lena about eight times, and I’ve only really had one conversation with her. It was the day after the 2014 Emmys. At the show I’d worn this beautiful, flowing, orange Octavio Carlin dress that took a team of red-carpet scientists to tug and straighten (my bra made an appearance in every picture). Before the Emmys even started, I’d ripped the skirt and broken my makeup compact. I was looking around for a place I could stash my heels, already feeling like a contest winner, when I saw Lena. She was across the room wearing a collared blouse with capped sleeves tucked into a huge, poofy, pink Giambattista Valli skirt. I overheard someone nearby state her opinion of the outfit, but it wasn’t my opinion, so it was wrong and really not worth repeating. In that instant I knew I had found my hero.