The flattery of participation has worn off. Still, I keep taking the diversity jobs, either because I’m hopeful, foolish, or broke
I think it started in 2017, or 2016, the year identity stuck to our ambitions. In a litany of newly profitable labels, I had a full deck: Latina, woman, poor, trans. I was part of the think-piece boom, and everyone had a story to sell. Plucked from Tumblr by a new crop of feminist media, I was assigned the futile task of representation. People called me “brave”. I wrote personal essays, bravely. I modeled for magazines, bravely. At first I was happy to share, even proud of my participation in this anti-Trumpian effort of branding. It felt urgent, because it was. We learn about ourselves through images, and the inclusion of marginalized people was a beginning.
I played along. The personal was political, and monetizable. “Doors” had been “opened” – we had no clue what we’d let out. I didn’t intend to step before a camera, but it happens if you’re at enough parties. These were the decadent years, when everything required a “launch”. Every look, tweet and interaction was an audition. Casting directors circled dance floors searching for their next It girl.
Devan Diaz is a writer from Jackson Heights, New York
An earlier version of this essay originally appeared in CR Fashion Book
