“That Shit Is Special”: A Conversation on What It Means to Be Black, Femme, and Friends

After centuries of being forced into the margins, to be Black, femme, and powerful today is a revolutionary act. And it’s through the strength of our community that we’re not only able to fight the good fight side by side, but rest our bones together when that fight takes everything out of us. For me, this community takes many forms, but as I reflected on how I’d like to celebrate Black History Month, it was my friendships that came to the forefront. My connections and the spaces they thrive—our kitchens in Brooklyn, our backyards and stoops, our group chats—are not only my home away from, but an extension of the safest place I know. My Black femme friends have stood in the gap for me, professionally, personally, and through some pretty dumb-ass moments.

Take, for instance, the day I was working from home and saw a rat (not a mouse, a RAT) take his morning stroll through my living room. I didn’t call my landlord or 311 or 911; instead I hit up my group chat and asked who in the entire fuck was home at 1 p.m. on a Friday that could take me and my puppy in until my fiance got home. First they told me how shitty the situation was, which validated my feelings, and then they jumped into action to get me to safer ground. Cut to me and my dog Blanche rolling into Ericka Hart’s house with a bag full of random-ass dog toys and snacks and me in sweatpants and lingerie, because that’s what I had on when he who shall not be named came to visit. I ordered Domino’s pizza and sat on her couch watching telly and scrolling Insta as if I were home while Ericka worked on projects and watered her plants and I remember thinking, Damn, ain’t nobody like a Black femme.

Crystal wearing: Dapper Dan for Gucci vest, Fe Noel blouse, Fe Noel belt in hair; Yaminah wearing: Pyer Moss cape over William Okpo jacket

These bonds run so deep for so many reasons; I don’t think there’s a world in which I could get through my life without them. I could yammer on all day about the hows and the whys, but let me tell you ‘bout my gooodddd friendssssss! Yaminah Mayo is a writer, model, and a force, and while we share Black twitter roundups and memes all day long, we also talk about issues like how much we should be charging brands for social promotion. Where else can you negotiate social content creation AND get a thank you in the form of a Whitney Houston gif?! I’ll tell you where: Black femme sibling circles (as I’ve been known to call them, too intimate to not be fam).

When I produced my first large-scale event on my own, I was in over my head. I was expected to pull whole-ass rabbits out of hats and I didn’t even have a lucky rabbit’s foot to hold onto. But in stepped Kiyanna Stewart, founder of Blk Mkt Vintage, along with her partner Jay. I told them what I needed to make this event a success, and of course, Black women came to my rescue with zero hesitation. Spoiler alert: That event was the best and would have been an entire mess had it not been for Kiy and Jay.

Ericka wearing: Pyer Moss jacket over Telfar crochet top, Fe Noel denim bra; Kiyanna wearing: Pyer Moss coat, Christopher John Rogers dress

Last week, I invited Ericka, Yaminah, and Kiyanna to join me for a photoshoot and discussion about Black femme friendship. We met in a Black-owned space, put on clothing by Black designers, and got our faces beat by a Black makeup artist (hi Tara Lauren!) Below, the photos and conversation that followed.

Crystal: Okay, so we all work in very different fields—entertainment, business, fashion, academia—and we all know that many of these spaces are very white, and very patriarchal, so why is it so important to have a Black femme sibling circle that you can call on?

Pyer Moss cape over William Okpo jacket, Fe Noel pants, Brother Vellies shoes

Yaminah: It’s so important because sometimes Black men and masculine people just don’t have the range! It’s like they think they have a monopoly on oppression. Also, it’s important to know that what you’re going through is valid, like, Okay, yes, that’s totally racist! Yes, that’s totally sexist! No, you’re not being dramatic. It’s good to be affirmed. And whenever I win, I get to share that with y’all what I did, so you all can win too! We use our friendship for business practices, relationship advice, food, style…

Crystal: Yes! I mean, I can hit y’all up for anything. When I need to know if these shoes go with this bag, I can hit y’all up. When there’s a sample sale, I pretty much know everyone’s sizes at this point and can send pictures or just by like, “Bihhhhh! You need these silver overalls, I can’t take a picture but they’re $40. I’m getting em for you!” Or like, me and Kiy were going to a Roaring ’20s-themed party and she hit me up before like, “Chileee I been too busy to buy something, what you got for me?” And of course I was like, “Girl, come get this vintage Dior robe!” So for me, there is just no other connection that resembles and feeds my soul in the way these friendships do.

Kiyanna: Yes! There is something in particular about being affirmed and celebrated by people who share your experience. This (points to the group) is reliable, I can rely on these folks for their opinions. You’ve been through the same or you will be going through the same and that’s what makes these relationships unique.

Pyer Moss jacket over Telfar crochet top, Fe Noel denim bra, Dapper Dan for Gucci pants, Brother Vellies shoes, Ericka’s own necklace

Ericka: It’s the familiarity, too. Like, Yaminah, you are an honorary queer person,* and as queer femmes, It’s nice to be able to talk about my relationship without having to explain it, or to talk about cultural things like, “No, I don’t want to see that movie, because it’s super straight, I want to see a film with queer influence!” So it’s great to be able to bounce those things off of people who not only look like me, but also navigate the world in similar ways that I do. Also, I don’t have to say much! Like in the group chat when we’re being messy, I can drop a name or situation and y’all will be like, “Yeah, no, we don’t fuck with that either!” and I’m like, Okay, so I’m not losing my mind! It’s just so important to be validated by your people.

(*Ed. note: Kiyanna, Erica and myself are queer and Yaminah is not, but she is one of the bombest allies.)

Dapper Dan for Gucci pants and vest, Fe Noel blouse, Fe Noel belt in hair, Brother Vellies shoes

Crystal: I think there is an added layer of magic with this group in particular, where I just feel so blessed—and I’ve told y’all I’m just so emotional these days so I might cry—but it’s just such a blessing to be able to look to people and not just exchange ideas but also actively think: How can I support the things that you do? How can I pay you and also get you paid for the services and talents that you share, in a world in which we are rarely adequately paid for all the magic that we create on this earth?

Like, I don’t know very many groups who can be like, “Oh, you need a venue? I have a friend who owns their own beautiful-ass vintage shop!” Or like, “Okay, I don’t know shit about academia and I still have questions around sexual education, let me hit up Ericka who is a whole-ass professor at an Ivy league!” Like, that shit is special. Andy Barnard said on The Office: “I wish there was a way to know we were in the good old days before we left them,” and whewwww that just hit so close to home for me, as I sit and look at us at this very moment. I know I will be talking to my babies about their aunties and the way you all have shaped the trajectory of my life. We will look back at pictures from this shoot and call them the good old days and maybe these pictures will live on in a place like Blk Mkt Vintage and someone else will be able to see how dope Black femmes were!

Ericka: And this shoot is so special. Look at the people that are working with us on this shoot! There’s a Black femme photographer and a Black femme stylist and a Black makeup artist and I’m taking pictures without even looking at myself in the mirror because I trust Black femmes. On any other shoot I’d be in the bathroom trying to fix things, but y’all are like, “You like fire!” So I get excited and I’m just like, Okay let’s do this, cause the truth is, some of these people will have you out here looking a mess—shades all wrong, angles all fucked up—but I’ve had nothing but trust today.

Pyer Moss coat, Christopher John Rogers dress

Kiyanna: I’m appreciative to be a part of this shoot—it also feels like an extra affirmation that it’s taking place here in the store. When Jay and I were thinking about opening this space, we knew it would be so much more than just a place where transactions took place. We wanted to make a space where community could be found and a place where you don’t have to look far to see yourself.

On this day, no matter where I turned or who I was talking to, I saw myself. And for that I will always be grateful. To know these people is to know that I have an army at the ready (and bail money, if ever needed) and an extra closet full of fly shit. To know them is to be surrounded by a bunch of fools who make me laugh until my sides hurt. To know them is to love them, and it’s my greatest honor to call them my people.

Big thank you to Ericka, Kiy, and Yaminah for dropping everything to shoot this editorial. Y’all are more than I knew I could have in a friendship and the pinnacle of what it means to have a sibling circle.

In Which My Mom Ranks My Best and Worst Tattoos

I got my first tattoo on February 19, 2000, a week after my 18th birthday. Tattooing was illegal in South Carolina at the time, where I lived, so I knew I’d need to drive 90 miles north to North Carolina to get it. My dad was on board, but I had to beg and plead with my mom—it never occurred to me to go against her wishes. When she finally agreed, my dad drove me to a trailer right on the North Carolina/South Carolina border with metal siding and a neon sign that said, “Closest tats to SC!”

I arrived with my design in hand: a crown that looked dangerously similar to the Hallmark logo (in that it was the Hallmark logo) with “Princess” written in a bold cursive font found on Microsoft Word underneath it. A biker put me in a chair and told me if I twitched or moved, he’d leave me with ½ a tattoo and make me pay for the whole thing. Paul, my dad, chuckled the entire time. I left feeling like a grown-ass woman—a Queen if you will—even though I was sporting a tattoo that said otherwise.

In hindsight, my parents are the fucking coolest. A lot of my friends hid their first tattoos until they flew the coop, and there I was, crossing state lines with my dad to get mine done. And yet, 20 tattoos later, my mom is still shocked every time I get a new one. Curious to see where she stands on all my body art today, I asked for her honest appraisals of some of my best and worst tattoos. Below, meet the inimitable Lydia Delores Anderson, first of her name, thrower of precision shade, holder of the hottest of takes. If you know my mom, you know she’s never short on absurd anecdotes or quotes or general advice that is either life-changing or makes zero sense.

1. The aforementioned PRINCESS tramp stamp, age 18

Mom and I are having a text convo about my tats. I remind her that she told me when I was 18 that I ran the risk of being paralyzed if the tattoo needle went into my spine. (1. Lydia is not a doctor and 2. that risk is literally not a possibility!) When I ask her what she thinks about it she says she’s fine with it now, because you can’t see it with clothes on and that it represented who I was at that time. Can’t tell if that’s shade or not, but here we are….

2. The crucifix tattoo on my ankle, age 22

Obviously me and every other elder millennial has this tattoo after seeing early-aughts haute gal Nicole Richie with her version. I switched mine up a bit and got my family’s names all tattooed around my ankle like links on a chain. Lyds of course likes this one the most because “it has my name on it.” My mom is vain and ridiculous.

3. “The World is Mine” Scarface tattoo between my shoulder blades, age 23

I really hate this tattoo. It’s of the “The World is Mine” sculpture in the film Scarface and it’s my least favorite of the whole lot. I still don’t know why I got it. I think I had this convoluted idea that it was to celebrate my Italian heritage, but spoiler alert, Tony was Cuban and the movie was violent and I’m an idiot. Also, the hand on this tattoo looks like it belongs to the Crypt Keeper and the globe is not the least bit geographically accurate. Like not even a little bit. Not a spoiler alert, because everyone saw this one coming: Mama HATES this tattoo. Also she has jokes! “Not a fan, and the world isn’t yours, it’s ours.”

4. “Stay Woke” on the top of my left wrist, age 34

I mean, this phrase really resonated with me when I got it, but then got ran into the ground, so I’m now thinking about getting it covered up. I’ve never asked my mom about this one, so I’m intrigued to see what she has to say! She is nothing if not a political junkie and believer in creating a better world for black folks, so I think she might be down for this one. (Three minutes pass, enough time for her to craft a sweet and shady response.) Yup, as I thought: She loves this one because of the social justice significance, but says she’d love it more if I had none of the rest.

5. My weird tribal-ish hand tat, age 35

I dunno, I can take or leave this guy. I got it when I was on vacation in Utah. All of my friends went to Colorado for the day to check out the legal weed and, as a non-smoker, I had to find something to occupy my time. An hour later I ended up with this. I don’t dislike it, per se, I just don’t care about it. Lydia does not mince words: “No, definitely not. You didn’t tell me you were getting it and I thought it would hinder you from getting a job.” My mom thinks I’m an investment banker or a hand model, you guys. Also, she double-replies to let me know that she’s just waiting patiently through this exercise so that I can show her my knuckle tattoos and she can then unleash the fury of 1000 tongues on me.

6. Alfred E. Newman of Mad magazine, age 33

I got this as an ode to my Dad. He loves Mad magazine and always wanted this tattoo but Mama Anderson forbade him. So I decided to get it for two reasons: 1. To honor him by getting something inked that meant so much to him, and also have him hand write this phrase that he said every morning before I left for school: “Don’t take any wooden nickels” and 2. To get under my Mom’s skin, lol. It didn’t work because she really, really loves this one. She loves how much it means to my dad and how much pain I went through to honor him in that way. That said, I know she’s a little annoyed that she loves it so much.

7. “High Life” tattooed across my knuckles, age 37

I joke a lot about my mom being a shade queen, but she has always given me the freedom to express myself both in how I speak and how I present myself visually. My parents let me wear whatever I wanted growing up—no matter how kooky—and let me be my truest self (including speaking exclusively in an English accent for weeks when I was seven). So while the tattoos annoy her, she never gives me too much grief about them.

That said, while I was sitting in the tattoo chair for this one, I knew she was going to be pissed. We always have a tattoo agreement that stretches and shifts after every new bit of ink. First it was, “Okay, get ‘em as long as they are on your back and can be covered with clothes,” then it was, “It’s fine as long as your sleeves can cover the ones on your arms,” and so on and so forth until we reached: “For the love of god, Crystal, please, please, please no face, neck, or knuckle tattoos.”

Cut to my hand tats. I got my High Life tattoo in New Orleans and was actually scared to tell her, so I did what any self-respecting kid would do: I posted it on Instagram and waited for the call…..but alas, no call came. What did come was a video that my sister took the moment mom found out: You can see the utter confusion and dread overcome my mom’s face and hear my sister cackling in the background while my mom shrieks, “Is this real? This isn’t real! Why the hell would she do that?!” Then you see her reach for her phone to give me more than a piece of her mind. Sounds awful, but is truly hilarious.

Which is to say: Lydia says she hates this one, not because of the words but because I look like I just got out of the clink (her words): “I mean, Christina, you need to grow up and do better. Gal, why would you do that? You know what…I know what the issue is! You have too much money. That’s the problem.” (My mom calls me Christina sometimes and that is NOT my name. Never has been.)

I know she means well and isn’t being mean—she’s just old school and southern and thinks the tattoo is unladylike, but surely she knows I’m not a “lady” by now.

I wanna thank Lydia a.k.a. Mama a.k.a. Lyds for being so sweet and amazing and down to walk down memory lane with me on this. I shall repay her by never getting a face tattoo. But also, like, never say never, ammirite?

My Botox Journey: From “Conflicted” to “Frozen Like a Lake in January”

My 37th birthday came and went this year, but the fine lines it brought with it never left. The new wrinkles mostly set up camp on my forehead, stretching from eyebrow to eyebrow in shallow grooves, sloping slightly downward to the right. I’m sure they developed over time, but they seemed to appear suddenly, impossibly, on one specific morning. And then I never didn’t notice them again.

In my twenties and early thirties, I never thought much about Botox. If people want it, I thought, they should get it. Of course, I assumed I’d never be one of them, leaning heavily on the “black don’t crack” ethos. My mom, after all, is 60, and has a wrinkle, like, maybe on her kneecap. So when they showed up on me, I wasn’t just annoyed, I was surprised. And for the first time in my life, I considered paying to change my face. But I couldn’t stop thinking about who I’d be betraying if I did.

The Tricky Business of Needs Versus Wants

If you follow me on Instagram, then you know I have a mantra: “If you need it, take it.” I started it for National Mental Health Awareness month, referring to my need for taking antidepressants, and the expression took off. People started virtually high-fiving me by posting their own “If you need it take it” photos and videos, and it was fantastic and perfect and everything I want my social media presence to be. And in the months since, I’ve started to apply “If you need it, take it” to other parts of my life: time off, downtime, me time, to name a few.

It’s made me consider what it means to “need” something, outside of what is medically necessary. Do I need to take my meds? Some may say no, but I know I do, because they balance me chemically and allow me to live fully. Do I need to clean my house? Maybe not. But if I didn’t, a) Kiesh would move out, and b) I’d end up on Hoarders within six months and I’m not trying to have everybody in my business. But do I need Botox? It’s hard to say yes, even subjectively. But I doneed to feel good about myself both mentally and physically, and liking what I see in the mirror is a component of that.

Still, something about the idea made me feel false. I’m Crystal—kooky, footloose and fancy free Crystal. Crystal who talks to people on Instagram Live in a dirty T-shirt with a head scarf on. Crystal who gets DMs from people thanking her for “being real.” Would I be betraying them by letting Dr. Wexler fill my forehead with Botox? Would I be betraying myself by giving into something that is so clearly superficial? Or how about my partner, who loves everything about my face and tells me a million times a day that I’m the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen?

I didn’t know the answers, but some part of me wanted to press on anyway. Call it conditioning or vanity or anxiety about aging, I’m sure it’s all three. I just couldn’t get the idea out of my head, so I decided to honor that persistence instead.

Pre-Botox Jitters

I hit up my resident skincare Yoda, Harling Ross, for recommendations, and she sends me Dr. Patricia Wexler (Harling hasn’t gotten Botox, she’s merely a walking skincare encyclopedia). One Google search and I know Dr. Wexler is the real damn deal—an expert in the field—which makes me nervous. Some part of me thinks getting Botox in a strip mall would make it feel less official or something, and this is not that. I make an appointment.

To my surprise, Wexler Dermatology is a proper doctor’s office, not the sprawling wellness complex I imagine it to be, which almost makes me feel worse. I ride the elevator with a very pregnant woman en route to her OBGYN and a man with a brace on his knee. The urgency of their conditions confronts me with the banality of mine. When I get to the office and am sent back to Dr. Wexler’s exam room, I look around. I wait. I twitch. I second guess, spiral, Google if you can die from Botox. Then in walks Dr. Wexler.

The Part With the Needles

Dr. Wexler has fire engine red hair, cut into a bob. She has on stacked heels and a DVF-style wrap dress and is as lovely as a person can be. My shoulders drop 10%. She asks me if I’m a fainter, which damn near makes me faint. When I say no, she looks at me like my own Italian grandmother and says, “Did you eat today? If you didn’t, I’m going to give you some OJ and crackers.” Of course I haven’t, I’m fucking nervous. She calls in her assistant and they feed me like the infant I am. (Know that I got Botox with a pile of cracker crumbs on my pants and an OJ mustache.)

As I snack, Dr. Wexler asks me why I want (need?) Botox. After I explain the reasons I’ve already explained to you, she agrees with some of my points and tells me I am a good candidate for Botox in my forehead area. I feel somewhat validated, but am mostly offended she didn’t take one look at me and scream, “You’re a perfectly symmetrical human specimen, what are you doing here?! I cannot work on you, your skin should be donated to science!”

Cut to me getting a slap of goo on my head. It’s supposed to make this process a lot less painful. The goo sets for 10 minutes. Dr. Wex (we’re friends now, I’m sure she doesn’t mind the nickname) opens the door and shouts, “Don’t look at the needles!” So of course I look directly at them, and they’re not too scary, but I close my eyes anyway and they plop two sand bag balls in my hands to squeeze during the process.

Dr. Wexler says if I hum really loudly, the needle will almost feel like acupuncture. Lies, all lies! I cannot believe my new friend Wex has deceived me so early on in our relationship. Although in her and the needles’ defense, I am a big fucking baby. Anyway, I get to humming like a damned clown and Dr. Wexler gets to making magic. It takes all of 10 minutes (less, I’m sure, had I sat still as requested). When we’re all done, Dr. Wexler tells me I’m a baby (the lie detector determines that is the truth) but that next time (next time?!) will be easier because I’ll know what to expect.

The After Party

I was surprised to learn through this whole process that Botox results are not immediate. After the appointment, my face looks exactly the same—the lines on my forehead are still there and she tells me it will take four to 14 days for the Botox to do what it does. She gives me a sweet hug, tells me to keep my head straight for four hours (!!!), and sends me on my way. I can’t say that I don’t look in every mirror or glass surface after I leave the procedure, but also can’t say that I don’t usually do this anyway. My forehead feels slightly like somebody took a flyswatter to it.

When I get home, I take another hundred looks in the mirror and notice nothing. I return to my need-vs-want conundrum and wonder if I’ve made a good decision. I decide that yes, yes I have.

Cut to two weeks later: I wake up one morning and discover my forehead is frozen like a lake in January. I try to squint, furrow, look surprised, but nothing, just a placid lake of skin and I cannot lie, I’m not mad at it. I’m half-black and half-Italian; I’ll never ever NOT be expressive, so I’m not the least bit worried about this lack of movement. But when Kiesh proposes a week later, and I’m done crying and saying yes and taking it all in while a photographer captures the moment, I think: Holy fuck! What if I look bored as all hell in my photos? But luckily the amount of tears and smiles made up for it.

A month later, the Botox has settled and my forehead is smooth and wrinkle-free—even at my most surprised. And I’m settled, too: I love it. To me, I look like myself again. And I still feel like I’ve made a good decision—not because I needed the change, but because I wanted it. I spend so much of my life doing things because I need to: showering, eating, taking meds, cleaning my house, walking my dog, going to my therapist, brushing my teeth, grocery shopping, that what I really needed, right now, was to do something I wanted. So yes, I think I’ll be hitting up my bestie Dr. Wexler every now and again. Because while I believe that “if you need it, take it,” I’ve also decided that in the right circumstance, “if you want it, do it” can be just as important.