“I’m a star!” I yelled back.
I only half believed my own statement. It was still an insane notion that I was anybody’s star. But as long as Lee had said it first, it started to feel like the truth.
“That’s right, kid! I have a ton of things to discuss with you, so come over and meet me at my apartment.”
“When?”
“Right now! Get over here.”
I truly lived for these moments during what seemed like a forever-long wait for that film to come out. I was on a train headed over to his apartment in less than ten minutes.
The entire way to Lee’s, I was super excited that a fashion bigwig I’d never heard of wanted to put me on the cover of this exclusive magazine. I fantasized about how fun my Vogue photo shoot would be. I imagined myself dressed as a mermaid lounging in an empty claw-foot tub, a long string of pearls hanging around my neck and twirled around the fingers of my left hand. My smiling face would be resting on the back of my right hand while my elbow would perch on the edge of the tub. My hair would be blowing up and away from my face for that Ariel/Beyoncé look. My purple and turquoise tail fins would caress the edge of the tub. The floor and the walls would be gold, and a beautiful red-satin shower curtain would be pulled open to reveal the wonder that is me. ME! Large diamonds would be strewn about the floor. Why on the floor? Because I’d be so rich that I’d be careless with my things.
By the time I got to Lee’s building, I had come up with the perfect headline for my cover. At this point, I’d been at Lee’s place so often that I just waved to security as I entered the elevator. On the way up, I saw it all forming above my head in big letters. The headline would read: “Gabourey Sidibe. You Should’ve Been Nicer to Her,” and then Vogue in smaller letters under my name or, ya know, wherever they could fit it.
Often I would get off the elevator at Lee’s floor to the sound of his disco music pumping through his closed door, or I’d hear him yelling excitedly to someone about one of his films. This time I heard a big voice over speakerphone shrieking, “That fat bitch is going on the cover!” The words were coming from Lee’s apartment, and they sliced right through my fantasy. I froze where I was.
“You hear me, Lee? I’m putting that fat bitch right on the cover of Vogue. I love her. That black bitch WILL be on the cover!” André yelled.
“YES!!!! She is EVERYTHING!” Lee screeched in agreement.
“I don’t care what I have to do, I’m putting that fat bitch on the cover!”
They cackled together and made plans for me and my fat ass and the cover. Not the cover of just any magazine, but Vogue. I stood silently. I was sneaking in on a conversation I wasn’t meant to hear about sneaking into a world I wasn’t meant to be a part of. Not feeling horrible, but no longer feeling super excited, I waited for it to be over.
I’d been called a fat bitch before. I’d been called a fat black bitch before. But this was different. André loved me in the film, loved my performance, and wanted to put me on the cover of his magazine. But I was still a fat bitch. A fat black bitch.
I knew what I looked like. I had mirrors in my home. I’d seen myself in pictures. I wasn’t in the dark about it. I just assumed at the time that if I could display a talent worthy of praise, if I could prove that I was worthy of attention, that I wasn’t just who you thought I was . . . I guess I thought I wouldn’t be fat anymore. That may seem silly. I know that now. But at the time I thought that if I could just get the world to see me the way I saw myself then my body wouldn’t be the thing you walked away thinking about. I wouldn’t be that fat girl. I wouldn’t be that dark-skinned girl. I’d be Gabby. I’d be human.
I thought that starring in a movie would change that. Shouldn’t it? Wouldn’t being on the cover of a magazine change that? But how could it if the very person putting me on the cover was the person calling me a fat black bitch behind my back? They’d all be nice to my face, but it was dawning on me that they’d still have their private opinions, that I was still too fat and still too black. The world wasn’t different just because I’d made a movie.
I was different. Maybe that needed to be enough.
Lee and André finished their conversation, and I got back on the elevator and went down to ask security to buzz me up as if I’d just gotten there. A big part of me wanted a redo, to have missed hearing what I’d now never forget. Once I was in Lee’s apartment, he greeted me excitedly. He told me that André had just called and that they were both so excited about what would become of me.
“Can you just DIE?! Can you believe it? YOU! On the cover of Vogue! I’m gagging.” He was just as excited as before. He didn’t say anything about André calling me a fat black bitch, and I didn’t say anything about hearing him do it. Lee hadn’t called me a fat bitch, but he hadn’t defended me. Though I wasn’t sure what he could’ve said to defend me. I am fat and black, and often I refer to myself as a bitch. Where’s the lie? How do you defend that? He preferred to celebrate.
“YES! I’m gagging! I’m so excited!” I answered.
I wasn’t sure if I should admit to what I heard. And if I did, I wasn’t sure I was allowed to feel offended anymore. Yes, André had called me a fat bitch a bunch (like one hundred times), but he’d also said he’d make me a cover girl. He’d said I was a star. How could I be offended? I should be grateful. There were plenty of fat black bitches out there who’d never be on the cover of a magazine. Also, André is a large black man in a position of power. How many times had he endured being called a fat black bitch? Both behind his back and to his face? More than enough, I’m sure. Maybe enough not only to turn that insult into a compliment but also enough to give it as a compliment as well. And wasn’t it a compliment? What would it have meant to him to put me on the cover of Vogue? From one fat black bitch to another? Would that have been a win for him?
Perhaps I had to change my idea of what an insult sounds like. Was this insult the best compliment I could ever garner from the fashion industry (which would eventually call me and my body a “joke”)? Had my eavesdropping helped me to stumble on an important message? One that said I should love the hate. Is this how you become a celebrity? Don’t be offended. Be glad they know who you are.