She removes her wig, her eyelashes, her makeup, never breaking eye contact with the reflection of her natural self. It’s an intimate, powerful moment television doesn’t often show: A black woman removing all the elements white supremacy tells her she has to wear to be beautiful, successful, powerful. And let’s not forget that that wasn’t just Annalise taking it off: It was Davis, too—Davis, who remains brave in a world where a New York Times critic can get away with calling her ‘less classically beautiful.

—Kayla Kumari Upadhyaya

(via happinessruns…)

Actually, it was Davis’s idea, according to a tweet I saw being shared around Tumblr.

At the same time, the Carefree Black Girl is more than just image and representation, it is practice and embodied performance as well. As with many modes of visual production via social media such as selfies or mirror pics, the CFBG often involves the performative act of taking or posing for a picture. The selfies most often involve hair, makeup, or styling choices that the subject sees as deviating from normative images of black women. I have encountered Carefree Black Girl images that feature naturally or un-naturally textured hair that is dyed purple, or pink, CFBGs with braids or locs past their waists, or with springy joyful teen weenie afros. These stylistic choices as well as the decision on the part of black girl users to label them as carefree involve a performance of self that is both created and fantastically imagined.

Images of CFBGs frequently include those of singer Solange Knowles, Janelle Monae, and various black models in outfits and poses that communicate their comfort in their bodies and happiness being where and who they are. When a black woman labels an image of herself or another black woman as #carefree it is not merely a comment on an image that could be described as looking cheerful, but a radical act of the owning the state of being and becoming free. She is enacting, reenacting, and embodying an affective state that was never supposed to be hers. Queer scholars such as Jose Munoz have argued that aesthetic productions play an important role in imagining hope for the future of marginalized populations. The circulation and production of images of Carefree Black Girls creates an inhabitable present that looks towards a future in which they are recognized as fully human.

—The Radical Performance of the Carefree Black Girl

(via the dopest ethiopienne)

Femininity in general is seen as frivolous. People often say feminine people are doing “the most”, meaning that to don a dress, heels, lipstick, and big hair is artifice, fake, and a distraction. But I knew even as a teenager that my femininity was more than just adornments; they were extensions of me, enabling me to express myself and my identity. My body, my clothes, and my makeup are on purpose, just as I am on purpose.

–Janet Mock, Redefining Realness

(via queering the game of life)

So three Black women in maybe two thousand pages of women’s magazines and all of them biracial or racially ambiguous, so they could be Indian or Puerto Rican or something. Not one of them is dark. Not one of them looks like me, so I can’t get clues for makeup from these magazines. Look, this article tells you to pinch your cheeks for color because all their readers are supposed to have cheeks you can pinch for color. This tells you about different hair products for everyone—and everyone means blondes, brunettes, and redheads. I am none of those. And this tells you about the best conditioners—for straight, wavy and curly. No kinky. See what they mean by curly? My hair could never do that. This tells you about matching your eye color and eye shadow—blue, green, and hazel eyes. But my eyes are black so I can’t know what shadow works for me. This says that this pink lipstick is universal, but they mean universal if you are white because I would look like a golliwog if I tried that shade of pink. Oh look, here is some progress. An advertisement for foundation. There are seven different shades for white skin and one generic chocolate shade, but that is progress. Now let’s talk about what is racially skewed. Do you see why a magazine like Essence exists?

excerpted from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s Americanah (2013)

(via BriyanaD)

I came to Femme as defiance through a big booty that declined to be tucked under; through bountiful breasts that refused to hide; through insolent hair that can kink, and curl, and bead up, and lay straight all in one day; through my golden skin, against her caramel skin, against her chocolate skin, against her creamy skin; through rainbows of sweaters, dresses, and shoes; through my insubordinate body, defying subordination, incapable of assimilation, and tired, so tired of degradation; through flesh and curves and chafed thighs, which learned from my grandma how Johnson’s Baby Powder can cure the chub rub; through Toni Morrison and Nella Larsen and Audre Lorde, and Jewelle Gomez who, sometimes unwittingly, captured volumes of Black Femme lessons in their words; through Billie Holiday who wore white gardenias while battling her inner darkness; through my gay boyfriend who hummed show tunes and knew all the lyrics to “Baby Got Back,” which he sang to me with genuine admiration; through shedding shame instead of shedding pounds; and through learning that growing comfortable in my skin means finding comfort in her brownness.

—“I Came to Femme Through Fat and Black” from Hot & Heavy: Fierce Fat Girls on Life, Love and Fashion

(via Queering the Game of Life)

I actually need this on everything. I haven’t identified with a quote so thoroughly in a minute. I went through so much to get to the “effortless” femme look I feel so comfortable with now. I remember wearing oversized sweatshirts in the 5th grade to try to hide that I was already a B-cup. I remember being scolded by a teacher in 7th grade that my shirt was “too revealing,” even though it was perfectly within the school’s dress code–I was just already a C-cup by then. I remember walking around the streets of Chicago, of New Brunswick, sometimes even of DC and trying to move my hips as little as possible so that I might look less  worthy of being bothered. I remember getting ready with my girlfriends before junior prom and having to just sit there while they helped one another with their makeup; my mother didn’t wear any, so I had no clue how to dress up a brown face. And lord, don’t even get me started on the hair struggles.

My mother is a woman of color and size who has spent her entire life hiding in three-quarter length shirts and capris. I remember being surprised that I could pull off cute, pull of girly, that I could be all that I am and still be femme. I am flesh and curves and thighs that rub together. I am also jewelry, colors, fabrics that flow and move, and things that smell pretty. I am all these things together, and it feels like home.

I love living in a majority Black city

…even if we’re holding onto that majority by the skin of our teeth. Last weekend, I had to deal with the fact that I had run out of eyeshadow primer while I was home for Christmas, and I can’t be wearing eyeshadow with no primer. #wedontplaythat

So, armed with Bobbi Brown’s Makeup Manual (Christmas gift from my aunt) and a crisp $100 bill (Christmas gift from my grandma), I was contemplating trekking allllllll the way to the Sephora in Georgetown to search for eyeshadow primer and a couple of other goodies, when I decided to let the ease of the Metro take me to Target instead. Sephora and its promise of facial makeup that would actually match my skin tone could wait–all I needed was eyeshadow primer anyway, right?

So to Target I went. After grumbling that the eyeshadow primer that I normally get from Target was out of stock, and the next lowest price-option was fifteen WHOLE dollars, I turned a corner and was greeted with a miraculous sight–the Target in Columbia Heights carries Iman’s makeup line and had a whole section of shelving dedicated to CoverGirl’s Queen collection, instead of the one or two shelves I’ve seen in stores in Jersey. Never in my life have I had the privilege of being able to walk into a generic store and walk out with blush and bronzer designed for my skin tone. I could even have gotten foundation if I hadn’t already spent $42 on foundation at Sephora in September.  My mom was shocked when I told her.

Living in a city populate mostly by people that look like me means that my hair and cosmetic concerns are actually catered to as a legitimate part of the market, and it’s awesome.