somebody that i used to know
she had that ambition, baby
In college, I was so sure I was going to be the “Black Carrie Bradshaw” (and the female Anthony Bourdain) that I made the not-at-all irrational decision to rent an apartment in the cool part of Dallas—45 minutes from the University of North Texas (without traffic), waaay before graduation.
Denton felt too much like the cow town I came from. It was stifling my creativity (...to do my homework).
I was over my UNT student life, thanks to my internship at DailyCandy Dallas. For $50 a pop, I wrote witty 250-word features covering the city's food, shopping, and cultural scene. I. Loved. It.
DailyCandy gave me a taste of the life I craved, inspired by the aforementioned Sex and the City (I bought the book, even), Glamour magazine (I liked Cosmopolitan too, but felt Glamour had more substance), and The Devil Wears Prada-esque movies.
I was going to be a magazine-editing leading lady, living in a dope-ass apartment in New York City—a dream I imagine I shared with a lot of elder millennial women at the time.
I couldn’t have NYC, but I could have East Dallas, at least, so I leapt into performing this editorial version of myself.
I started a blog. I met indie designers, chefs, and women business owners for coffee and cocktails and chatted them up like a real journalist. Being a semester or two from my journalism degree? Please. I had a digital camera around my neck!
Fast forward to the 2020s, and there’s me, panicking at the thought of being clocked as an influencer for photographing a meal I might want to write about. The urgency and sense of authority I felt to get here has been swapped for caring entirely too much about what random people think.
Interesting, isn’t it? The reverse impostor syndrome in my twenties versus whatever this is—maybe a heightened sense of self-awareness? Fear of making a debut on the Influencers in the Wild Instagram account?
I started thinking about my fearless twenties during my solo dinner date at Oakland’s Shewhat Cafe this spring. I brought my journal so I’d keep my nose out of my phone and thought I’d jot down all five of my senses.
The first line I wrote down: “My hands are shaking!”
Despite my initial jitters (which I’m finding are just part of the deal as a solo traveler), the journalism of it all came right back to me. I got quite comfortable documenting my surroundings rather quickly (yes, the honey wine probably helped too).
I wrote what I saw—wooden tables and chairs that were new but felt very 90s (especially paired with the translucent red water cups standing tall on every tabletop—IYKYK), plants galore, wall-clinging tapestries patterned with smiling Black faces, and at every booth, vintage serving trays featuring Eritrean monuments doing double duty as artwork.
I wrote what I heard— “Is this soul food?” I scribbled after eavesdropping on the table next to me: two women commenting that because “okraaaahhh was in everything,” this had to be a soul food place. I chuckled softly as one complained that a recent trip to Japan was exhausting because she, a thirty-something, was surrounded by travelers in their twenties.
“I can honestly understand the sentiment.” I wrote, fully engrossed in their conversation.
The longer I stayed, the more comfortable I became, and my writing, more descriptive. I was like, YES! This is what life was like before I switched my brain to focus on brand writing and marketing.
Who knew that all I had to do was swap my technology to embody that somebody that I used to know?
*Cue the song.*