Raven's Magenta Model
“Face” by Emma Gregory
Raven's Magenta Model
Mikayla Tolliver
Dear Raven,
I hope I have the right address when I send this, but I wanted to try reaching out anyway. I’ve actually always wanted a pen pal, but my mom hasn’t always trusted the mail, so I haven’t been able to do this until now. Anyway, I think handwritten letters are more valuable, and I think you might feel the same. I guess, for the sake of not wasting a stamp, I’ll jump right to it. I wanted to ask you if I’m likable? Like, for real. People are always telling me I’m sweet, kind, occasionally innovative, but that doesn’t mean I’m likable. I was hoping you’d be able to tell me, Raven. Am I the kind of person people look forward to seeing in a crowd?
Dear Raven,
I asked you if I was likable for a reason. I, Madeline Davis, am going to be a fashion model. And as everyone knows, you have to be the most magnetic person in the world for that job. From the moment you walk in, they have to like you: like your body, like your height, like your face, like your voice, like your demeanor…if you miss one of their check boxes, good luck. But I’m not worried.
The people I went to middle school with were always asking me if I was trying to “act white” when I’d show up in this magenta dress and fake pearls around my neck. I started wearing jeans and solid colored t-shirts (mainly white, black, and gray) after that, but I think I’m ready to start living in color again. I hardly see any black models who look like me. Of course, there’s Tyra Banks and Naomi Campbell, but I’m talking about the overall picture. I’m going to the City Modeling agency soon, and I plan to change that.
Dear Raven,
Today I saw the boy with the sky blue sweater and rainbow bead necklace. I used to make that kind of necklace in elementary school from a pile of discarded beads I found in my grandma’s jewelry box. He probably got his technicolor beads from the craft store… No, that’s too nice of me. He probably stole it from his little sister. Maybe got it at a thrift store, wedged between the old plastic toys and the half used coloring books. Nah. If I’m being honest, his girlfriend probably made it for him. He has to have a girlfriend.
I’ve spoken to him all of one time. It was a brief interaction in the vending machine line in the cafeteria. He was standing behind me, coincidentally, and since I believe in fate, I decided I had no choice but to turn around and ask:
“Hey, you’re in my math class, right?”
To say the least, he did not know who I was, and the next opportunity I got, I used the smallest of things to decide I didn’t like him anymore. I mainly just thought he was pretty.
Dear Raven,
My friends, besides you, are great. I have my two best friends, Elise and Ebony. They’re sort of busy filling out college applications and being intelligent, but I really have to admire it. I love this for them because if I can’t be smart, being close to smart people is the next best thing. I love going to their spelling bee competitions and accompanying them on college tours, even if I never intend to go to college (remember, I’m going to be a famous model). They’re busy so they don’t reply to my texts often or reciprocate plans to hang out, which is the reason I decided to reach out to you. Even if it seems like you haven’t had a chance to reply, at least I know you’re listening.
Dear Raven,
I went to City Modeling today. Here’s what they told me: I talk too much, and I have too much of an attitude. Yeah, right! What do they expect me to do? Just sit and stay quiet? No way! If I’m going to do this, and I am, why should I do it as a shell of myself? I don’t think eight-year-old me would be too proud if she saw me walking around as an invisible ghost wearing a dress. She would want me to be bold, wear the most out-there colors, and to not hide the parts of my personality I love most. I’ve decided that I’ll try a new agency. Why limit myself to one if they think they’re going to limit me?
Dear Raven,
I played a personal game of mum today through English class. One of the friends I mentioned, Elise, was trying to get me to make a sound or laugh like I was one of those British soldiers, but I remained silent. I told her ahead of time that I wouldn’t participate in a class where they think the only good representation of black literature is To Kill a Mockingbird. No hate, I just think there’s better forms of representation. Last class, I told our teacher, Mrs. Jenkins, that I think we’d benefit from reading Toni Morrison, but she looked at me with a condescending tight-lipped smile and said “I don’t know about that, Madeline. It might be too intense for your classmates,” which translates to all of my classmates (besides Elise and a handful of others) are too fragile to talk about racism. That’s why I took a vow of silence today. Elise was on my side of course: she also agreed that the book failed as “black literature” and in general, Elise and I hardly disagreed.
I think she found it funny trying to get me to talk. She kept whispering at me while the film version of the book was playing in the front of the classroom. Elise continued to try to get me to talk, but I wouldn’t allow a sound to spill out. I ripped off a chunk of wrinkled notebook paper out of her binder and wrote: CANT SPEAK TODAY.
“Why?” Elise mouthed, rolling her eyes with a smile. I knew she was bored without me and my classroom remarks. When we broke into small groups for reading discussion, I continued to keep my mouth shut. My other friend Ebony came bounding over too, after finding a chance to escape her group.
“Is someone paying you to be quiet?” Ebony asked.
“No. I’m just sick of this stupid class!” I yelped, losing my own game.
Everyone laughed.
Dear Raven,
Tell me more about you. Wait. Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who pours the milk before the cereal. Weird. Criminal, even. Tell me what you like to do with your time. Do you go see matinee movies at noon? Do you talk to yourself when you’ve spent the past hour doing something so mundane you start picking at your nail polish? Do you read a familiar book backwards from time to time? How about milkshakes? You prefer the strawberry ones too, right?
Dear Raven,
I failed my English research paper. Elise didn’t. Ebony didn’t either.
At least I didn’t fail the class, but I failed my other classes. I failed all of high school. Failed to live up to my parents' expectations. Perhaps I graduated, but it hardly felt like a victory next to my friends’ A’s.
To celebrate their graduations, Ebony’s parents took her on an European cruise, while Elise’s parents got her a car.
Mine pretended not to see me.
Dear Raven,
It’s been a couple weeks now, and my parents still won’t speak to me about this mess. This mess, meaning my inability to graduate from high school with all A’s. My mom’s a grant writer, and my dad’s a teacher, so something as trivial as high school seems easy for them. Good for them, but that couldn’t be me. It just sounds so boring, working in an office all day, but since that’s all they know, I guess they’d put a lot of worth into these kinds of things. Whatever. It’s just how it is for now, and to be honest, I’m not too sure I can do anything about it…high school that is. It's too late now. I’ll be moving forward with what it is that I’ve been dreaming of, rather than what I was told to dream of.
Dear Raven,
There’s this older lady who wanders around town, walking her two favorite dogs. She brings them out at 6:30 a.m., bundled up in her corduroy coat and rain boots. The dogs are low to the ground fluffy creatures forced to trot against their will. The lady, who goes by the name Malorie, often talks to the dogs in a series of jumbled mumbles. Seeing her had become part of my day. One morning I was waiting for the city bus (to get to the next modeling place), and I saw Malorie meandering down the street, dogs in tow. It was then, out of nowhere, that I heard the most obnoxious, strange noise, so I turned around and said “bless you” (out of politeness, not because I’m religious) because I was sure it was a sneeze. Well, it turned out it was the dog barking. Not a sneeze. I don’t think I’ve ever ran onto the bus faster.
Dear Raven,
I went to a new modeling agency. They told me they were confused by my “grunge look”…What is this, 2014? The confusing part is nothing about my pink jeans and lime green t-shirt and sky-blue platform boots were suggesting “grunge.” The man telling me this leaned in as his young assistant most likely whispered, “I think her outfit is a little different from grunge,” because he refocused on me and said “Not grunge. More…childish.” Well my heart just about dropped through the stage I was standing on, and I had to hold myself back from snapping at him. “Childish?” I echoed.
“Yes, it’s absolutely hideous. Why would you wear that?” this stodge, 47 year old man asked, his nose stuck up in the air.
“This? This is creative and exciting,” I corrected him, narrowing my eyes with contempt.
“To who?”
“To me,” I retorted.
“Then if you seem to be so self-directed, I think it might be best for you not to work with us.”
I was starting to experience hate for the first time.
“Good. I didn’t want to work with you anyway,” I spat, forcing out the lie.
I stormed off the stage and took the back exit before bursting into tears. I suddenly felt super ashamed of my outfit and couldn’t wait to tear it off and retreat into sweatpants. For some reason, in the back of my head, I was already developing a plan to return to a new modeling agency, as if I were an addict who enjoyed suffering.
Dear Raven,
I saw the boy with the light-blue sweater and bead necklace again. I was walking down the street with my headphones on. It had just finished raining, and the sun was beginning to peep out again.
“Hey! You’re Madeline right? We went to school together,” sweater boy called.
He said it like it was years ago rather than a couple months ago.
“Yeah?” I asked, pulling my headphones off, slowly. He was jogging to catch up to me from across the street.
“Oh cool. So is it true? Are you actually a model?” he asked.
My brain wandered to the perhaps false post I’d shared on Instagram claiming that I’d been offered a spot at a top agency already. Yes, it’s a lie. Get over it. I personally see it as a means of manifesting rather than a full on lie. It’s not a lie if it’s bound to happen.
“Yeah, kind of,” I uttered.
“Yeah, that’s real cool. You get into parties and clubs for free now? I heard that’s what the top models do because my sister watches that one show where—”
“Yes,” I blurted.
I hated that I was lying, but it came so easy.
“Nice,” he said, his eyes suggesting he was imagining some elaborate party.
“Do you want to hang out sometime?” I heard myself ask.
I almost instantly regretted it. I don’t even know why I said it. He got this weird look on his face as if I’d just asked him what year it was.
“What? Oh… yeah, sorry, I don’t date black girls.”
I froze, feeling a mixture of insufferable emotions. One in which I wanted to become physical and throw something at him.
“What?” I asked, but I sounded like a field mouse, nothing like my strong internal monologue. I started to wish I was a field mouse running far, far away from the evil barn cat. At least I could hide that way.
“Yeah… sorry,” he said as if it was harder for him to say than for me to hear.
I brushed past him before freezing and turning back around to face him.
“Don’t you literally have Black Lives Matter in your Instagram bio?” I asked, holding him in a verbal chokehold.
“What? Oh, yeah. I mean, just because I don’t want people to die, doesn’t mean I want to date them.”
With that, he walked away like it was nothing, hands deep in his jeans’ pockets. I stood there, alone on the corner of the sidewalk, gingerly looking around to see if anyone had heard. I was the only one.
Dear Raven,
I haven’t heard from Elise or Ebony in months. I know it’s because they’re in college living amazing lives like I knew they always would, and I’m out here pursuing my silly little dream. I thought about texting them, but I’m afraid I’ve become a burden. Have I? Perhaps you can reply back and let me know.
Dear Raven,
The good news is SourHEART modeling agency has taken me on. I should mention it’s quite conditional though. They said it’s between this other girl, Chloe, who has the same amount of modeling practice as a penguin, and myself. The thing is, she really is quite gorgeous. She has long black hair and is super tall. She’s a girl with beautiful dark eye makeup and an alluring smile. They said they’ll choose one of us, and whoever wins gets to walk the quarterly fashion show, which is a dream come true. I don’t mind Chloe so much. She’s good at walking the runway, but I know that I have had more experience and that I want it, no, need it more. She goes to this local art school, and her parents are super rich, but when she walks the runway, you can tell the passion isn’t there. I’m already feeling weird towards SourHEART because they said if I’m chosen, I’ll have to do my own curly natural hair because they don’t have any stylists who know how to do it. While the comment didn’t sit right with me in the moment, only now am I realizing how weird it was. The thing is, I was so close to my dream, to being in a fashion show, that doing my own hair seemed like a small price to pay.
Dear Raven,
Today I dressed in my favorite purple, pink, and blue get-up before skipping down to the studio. Today they were going to tell us if Chloe or I got the spot, but first I wanted to call Elise to tell her about how close I was. For some reason, I thought better of it, my fingers levitating above my phone. Instead, I went to the cafe and bought myself a chai tea, making sure to walk with a spring in my step. If I’m being honest with you, Raven, I was feeling confident. I was smiling and walking as if I’d already been handed the offer. I guess I should tell you how hard this next bit is to tell you. As soon as I walked into the studio of SourHEART, there was this certain energy I never noticed until it was too late. Why didn’t I hear Chloe squealing into the phone to her boyfriend, or notice the way the stylists averted their eyes.
“Hi!” I chirped when I saw the manager, Miss Cindy.
Miss Cindy arched her slim eyebrows and gave a quick look to her assistant.
“Hello, Madeline,” she said in a tone of indifference.
I smiled at her, waiting to hear the golden words. Instead, what I heard was made of rust.
“We regret to inform you, Madeline, but you haven’t been selected.”
It was then that I felt all the eyes, mocking eyes, on my back. Chloe’s little snicker, Miss Cindy’s pout of pity, the staff’s shy eyes. A second later, movement continued and everyone was back on their merry way. Everyone except for me who remained still.
“Wait,” I called out, feebly. “A-are you sure? I think I could really—”
“Madeline, I think you might want to find a new passion,” Miss Cindy told me before disappearing behind a code-blocked door.
My mind went to the last time I was angry: blue-sweater boy. I thought he’d disappointed me and ripped my heart out, but I was wrong. He meant nothing compared to this. No anger or hurt did.
I was frozen, looking all around me at what was supposed to be mine. Even the thought of Malorie and her funny dogs was no relief. My dream: shut down once again before it could even begin. My mouth fell open as if there was anything left to say. The tears began to pour, like the waterfall of passion I once felt waking up every morning. Suddenly, I felt empty and repulsed. I felt violent with emotion, and all I wanted to do was scream so every person in the world would hear me and know that my dream had slowly been ground into dust.
Dear Raven,
I just wish the way I saw myself was the way the world saw me.
Dear Raven,
Sorry for not writing in a while. I’ve been busy. That’s a lie. I’ve actually been up to nothing. I guess I figured if I sat down for long enough, the answer would just fall and hit the top of my head, therefore leaving me with a new mind that could outsmart everyone. I’ll just tell you about today: I left my parents’ house around 6:00 a.m. to go to the cafe and pick up a drink that could potentially drip life back into me. After picking up my coffee, I decided to walk outside for a bit. Overcast once again, but I didn't mind it so much. Malorie was there, walking those dogs before she came up to me and said:
“Now Madeline, don’t you look darling!”
Her words sort of shocked me and I stared at her for a moment, flabbergasted.
“Thank you,” I replied, politely, yet taken aback.
She nodded with a broad smile.
“Absolutely. I’ve always loved your outfits!”
“Oh. Really?” I asked, fighting off the shock and accepting the compliment.
“Oh, yes! I always look forward to them.”
“You do?”
It occurred to me that I’d never once spoken to her. In fact, I hadn’t even known she knew my name. I figured she just saw me as another passerby in her routine, if she even noticed me. It shocked me to think that she’d seen me, let alone my outfits.
She muttered something to her dog who was now mooching off a pedestrian trying to eat a muffin. “Cut it out, Cooper!” she warned the dog, yanking on his leash.
She turned to redirect her attention to me.
“Yes. My favorite is this fun magenta dress you wear. It’s always been quite stunning in my mind.”
I blinked a couple times, looking down at the dress before allowing myself to smile. I thanked her before walking back home.
Dear Raven,
I was going to ask that whole question about likeability again. I think I like myself, but I was curious if that matters if no one else does. I mean, how am I supposed to get a job if the people selecting me for it never like me? Is it because I’m too intense? Too dramatic? Too much? I mean, I can’t even get a response back from you. All I’ve ever done is be myself and stick by myself. At the end of the day, that’s all I really have. Just a little girl standing in a magenta dress wondering if her dreams were too big.
Dear Raven,
I think I just want peace. I want to wake up in the morning without my heart beating as a stand in for my alarm clock. I want to wake up and experience the morning with serenity. Maybe drink some tea, read a book, and breathe. Then when afternoon comes, I want to be able to start feeling colorful. I like my leggings and t-shirt, but I want to see something else in the mirror. And when the night comes, I want to be proud of how my day went, not reflecting on what went wrong and all my grudges. I want to be happy with myself, without begging for validation. I want to feel peace. I want to be ok. I want to be myself again.
Dear Raven,
I know it’s been a couple years, and I told myself I’d quit writing to you. A good friend of mine helped me realize something that I wanted to share with you, though. She told me about the importance of never pushing myself to the point beyond recognition. That fighting too hard for what’s not yours will end in suffering every single time. She told me about myself and how there’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with my dreams. And that the only thing that’s wrong is thinking otherwise. She taught me I should never let go, even when someone else has snatched it from my hand; that instead of chasing that person, go find it in someone else’s hand or, better yet, my own.
That friend turns out to be me. I think I thought you’d be everything I ended up being for myself: someone who listened to and supported me, but I realized I became that for myself. With that being true, I’ve always loved writing to you. Something told me you might write back one day if I kept writing to you, but I think that’s why I stopped. Now, I don’t need a response anymore.
I’m happy to tell you I started my own modeling agency. One where the stylists can actually do everyone’s hair, and you don’t have to be a certain size or have a certain face to work here. I made my own dream exist instead of putting it in the hands of others. Yes, I thought I was done with this forever, but last year I was reflecting on everything and something sort of ignited inside me. There was never anything wrong with my dream. The only wrong thing I did was give up on it when I knew I wasn’t ready to yet. I never will be. And I never will.
Sincerely,
Madeline Davis
