As a proud member of Bougie Black Girls of America, I thoroughly enjoy a night filled with a random salmon dish, an Olivia Pope sized glass of Merlot, and Netflix/HBO Go programming. This is when I’m at my best. Laptop in its rightful place, edges neatly laid underneath my scarf, and an inbox void of nonsense. Zen.
Also like many others, the news of Issa Rae’s Insecure premiering on HBO last month was like music to my ears. I LOVE Sex and the City but let’s be real, my problems span far beyond living in a “midtown” apartment (which was actually nestled in the West Village) and blowing $2,000 on shoes instead of rent. Carrie and crew were awesome, but they hardly represented my reality. Fast forward to 2012 and the birth of Lena Dunham’s Girls. Like Tyra for Tiffany, I rooted for this show. I completely related to Marnie’s should’ve-been-over-years-ago relationship and justttt when I thought I could look past the obvious lack of diversity in casting (sorry, Donald Glover’s appearance as a republican with an affinity for white women didn’t count), Lena began to open her mouth and spew her problematic, borderline (understatement) racist social commentary. Good news: I was bummed about this around the time the show started to go to shit.
I was introduced to Issa a lot later than the rest of the world, mostly because I’ve never been into webseries or anything of that sort. I bought her book, Adventures of Awkward Black Girl, and stopped halfway in because I do not and have never related to the “I’m not like thoseeee Black girls, I talk different and don’t watch reality tv” variety. Like Mama Chaka, I’d like to believe that I am every Black woman. The kitchen beautician. The bougie one who no longer eats can veggies. The one who got kicked out because she punched someone in the face. To summarize, my incense can turn into a Colt 45 real quick. I was sad when I didn’t immediately love Issa the person, however, I didn’t let it deter me from supporting the show…and I’m really glad it didn’t.
If you haven’t, I encourage you to learn all about Molly, the dangers of broken pussy, and the meaning of “Bare Bears.” I can, at very least, guarantee that you’ll relate to a small part of every episode. In addition to laughs and group chat material, Insecure has made me consider a lot of my personal insecurities and the ways in which I deal with them. Remember when B-Rabbit battled Poppa Doc? That is how I deal with the things I’m not so proud of. Here’s a refresher:
I am white,
I am a fucking bum,
I do live in a trailer with my moms.
Over the years my insecurities have manifested in different ways. As of late, they’ve taken shape in the form of long stares in a full-length mirror and tensing up whenever anxiety begins to rear its ugly head. I’m not proud of these things, but they are mine and as much as I try to pretend like they don’t exist- they completely shape my views of the world and my place in it. The month of November is especially taxing for me, as it usually brings about feelings on where I should be considering the upcoming anniversary of my post-demise. That’s a bit morbid but, context clues. Tugging at my small pudge after having made it through November 2014 may seem a bit trivial to some but hey, this is my truth. Insecure is defined as “not confident or assured; uncertain and anxious” and the way my anxiety is set up, I manage to experience these feelings much faster and more frequently than others. Two plus two sometimes equals six, and if I told you about all the IG snooping I had to do to reach that conclusion, you’d call me a stalker.
I ask more questions than necessary. I tense up when I feel uncomfortable. I feel the need to let people know whenever I feel uncomfortable. I start feeling uncomfortable about whether or not I’ve made them uncomfortable. I try to make sense of words unspoken. Then, I find myself drowning in a puddle of questions and conclusions; all of which I’ve created internally…
…still wondering why this anxious life chose me.
If you are anything like what I’ve described above, give yourself a break. Our insecurities are like sprinkles atop a soft serve ice cream cone in the dead of summer: to some they complete the experience, to others they completely ruin it. I’ve sidestepped my own nervousness to tell you that insecurities are something none of us are exempt from, and to give you a little Issa in the mirrior-esque rap/pep talk of my own:
you gonna be a L or nah?
will you write in hell or nah?
the streets need these posts? yes.
so dust off the keyboard and be the mothafuckin best.