And it ain’t me.
I have a very interesting relationship with Vanity Fair magazine. I love it for its size. When it comes in the mailbox, I see myself in the bed with snacks, wearing my reading glasses (if I remember) and devouring almost ALL the articles, sad when I get to the Proust questionnaire because it’s all over then. Sometimes the BF clowns me and he should. It’s not like Vanity Fair ever reached out to me directly. In fact, they bypass me and give me the stories I yearn for: there’s always a political story, a social story, a scandal story that may or may not be historical but still relevant, an art/architecture/fashion story and a bunch of bits that I either swoon over or bypass (I mean who doesn’t read the My Stuff with great detail? I do care what soap other people use - I’m crazy what can I say?).
Yet once I wrote them and told them that their cover (it had a few chocolate and cinnamon girls in it that month) was more diverse than their writing staff (George Wayne may or may not count - depending on the scandalous questions he asks). They neither published my letter nor reached out to me. (On the contrary, Glamour magazine’s Editor in Chief responded to an email I wrote to them and Instyle published one of my commentaries on the endless bashing of Michelle Obama - FLOTUS who can do no right by those who look for only wrong).
So imagine my surprise when they did a spread on the Hamptons and found this black girl (she has a name: Christina Lewis - WSJ Hamptons reporter) in it…looking literary…in a house that’s hers with some of MY favorite flowers. What? Okay she inherited it but that makes it that much more interesting because most times we are just regulated to Martha’s Vineyard. Who knew there chocolate folks with old money in the Hamptons? The last time I went there (I was a guest of course) the only person I saw who looked like they were from my tribe was Russell Simmons himself. And he didn’t even blink at me. Despite us being the only chocolate people on the whole beach. Not even a curious “how did YOU get here” glance. Maybe I was acting wrong. I think I was supposed to BE there and not be there with my big huge old eyes.
Whatevs.
I hatelove you, Vanity Fair. 
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