Lena’s skirt was so big and fluffy! I imagined what it might feel like to sit on it in one of those hard theater chairs. Maybe it was like sitting on pillows or, even better, marshmallows. It was at least four kinds of pink. Her hair was freshly bleached blonde, and she made me think of a baby sitting on a cloud of cotton candy. She looked fearless. Confident. If she felt like a contest winner, she didn’t show it. She didn’t seem positive that she belonged there, either, but her attitude said, “Fuck you! I’m here, and this is my skirt, bitches!” It was magic, and ever since, I’ve gotten a thrill from seeing her on a red carpet.
Here’s the thing. Lena doesn’t just have confidence. Confidence is easier than what I see in Lena. I see something that says, “I know what I am and what I’m worth, and if you don’t like it, you don’t exist. Also, my skirt is PINK!” It’s not confidence. It’s privilege. Now usually a black girl talking about a white girl having privilege is a commentary on race and class. Not this time. This time I’m just talking about dresses. Lena seems to have granted herself immunity from all of the bad shit, stress, and worry that accompanies a red carpet. It’s like she wakes up and checks her calendar, and says, “Gee! The Golden Globes are this weekend. I wanna wear . . . YELLOW!” And somehow a yellow dress shows up, and come that weekend, she’s on the carpet in a yellow dress thinking, Fuck, yeah! YELLOW! while somewhere in the background I’m sweating with one heel in my hand, trying to find my seat, and hoping that my dress photographed well so that those bitches on Fashion Police don’t talk shit about me.
Before I found Lena for my style guru, I didn’t really know what I wanted to wear. But my stylist Linda knew, and she had the ability to pull out some really fancy dresses that my prom dresses could never compete with. So I let her make most of my fashion decisions for me. I thought that most of the dresses I wore were really pretty, but I can’t say that I wore anything that was my style. Eventually, I found a stylist who specialized in plus-size style. Marcy Guevara-Prete is a beautiful, plus-size girlie girl who believes that every woman, regardless of size, should feel special all the time. She wears clothes I want to wear. Dresses with tulip skirts that fly out when she spins around. Cute leather boots with a matching leather vest and big pretty jewelry. She understands my plus-size body and helps me dress it in clothing that I’d actually pick out for myself.
I like to think red carpets are like that ’90s TV show American Gladiators. The show matched amateur athletes against professional bodybuilders with names like Nitro, Turbo, and Hawk in games of strength and agility. I am the amateur athlete. The red carpet is the test of agility. Cameron Diaz is Nitro, Penelope Cruz is Turbo, and Jennifer Lopez is Hawk (obviously). Armed with my stylist Marcy, my confidence, and the ability to quickly pick it up when it falls, I run as fast as I can through the gauntlet of actors, interviewers, and photographers—straight to the prize. The prize is the bottle of champagne I’m going to allow myself to drink on my way to my seat.
Now I don’t actually know Lena or what she’s thinking on the red carpet. I could be completely wrong about her. After all, people look at me and see a beacon of self-confidence even though I’m nervous and feel like a freak a lot of the time and worry that Giuliana Rancic and Billy Bush can smell my fear. I get out of that SUV, I step onto the red carpet, and I’m standing in line behind the Amy Adamses, the Jennifer Lawrences, and the Kate Hudsons. They’re all so beautiful, with unimpressed faces and hand-sewn dresses that I could never fit into and will never be sexy enough to pull off. None of them are sweating. My confidence falls and crashes at my feet, and I wish I’d had one more drink before getting in the car. I never understand addiction more than when I’m on a red carpet. I just want to be numb.
But just when I’m thinking, Never again! and I am afraid I’ll have a panic attack, I see Lena. She’s wearing something that I wouldn’t choose for myself, but it’s a pretty color and she’s smiling. She looks happy. She’s like a lighthouse. She becomes my beacon of confidence. She’s talented, and she’s there because she’s earned it. Like me. They don’t give out tickets at Chuck E. Cheese’s to award shows. I’m invited because I do good work and I choose cool projects. Seeing her reminds me of that. I remember to feel pretty, talented, and at home on the red carpet in my big, flowing, soon-to-be-ripped dress. By the way, when I became a director, I truly did wear a Biggie shirt, paired with an African-print skirt, every single day. There’s nothing more fashion-forward than being the fucking BOSS!
8
A Door of One’s Own
Why do you hate me?
Because you’re ugly.
—Welcome to the Dollhouse
I’M NOT A HUGE FAN of Christmas the way most people are. People love it for all the lights and pretty decorations and family time filled with old traditions. Jesus or Kwanzaa-God, whoever that might be. Christmas is for families, but as you know by now, my family is very small. My mom has a ton of siblings, but they all live in the South. My father . . . well, you know, his family’s in Africa, and he’s not invited to our nontraditional, nonholiday holidays for the time being. No. I’m not a big fan of Christmas. It just reminds me of what I don’t have anymore.
When Ahmed and I were kids, and my parents were still married to each other, Christmas was pretty amazing. I’d start begging my mom to put up our plastic tree in the living room next to the terrace sometime around Halloween. About a week before Christmas, the tree would finally go up, and my mom, brother, and I would decorate it together while my dad was out driving his cab. Late at night, around 2 a.m., my dad would pick up my brother and me, and take us to see the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. Ahmed and I would fight over who got to sit up front. Ahmed always won. The city was quiet and the tree was beautiful. My dad would make an empty promise to take us skating during the daytime, and then we’d get back in the car, and he’d drive us to White Castle for tiny burgers and onion rings (onion rings were a delicacy to me as a child).
The weekend before Christmas, my dad would drive us all to a mall so that my mom could buy us Christmas gifts. Believing in Santa Claus was for other families. Sometimes I’d help my mom wrap the gifts. We were in on what we were getting so it wasn’t a big deal.