Women Who Appropriate Culture That’s Just “Exotic” Enough.

As Jordan Peele immortalized with Get Out, it has, for quite some time now, been the chic quality among white “liberal” elites (and even plebes) to want to “graft” the “best portions” of a, let’s say, “darker race,” while still sustaining the so-called cachet of their whiteness. Hilaria Baldwin is a prime example of this come to life. Exposed to embarrassing degrees over the course of the past week, it was @lenibriscoe’s (a fitting homage to Jerry Orbach’s detective role as Lennie Briscoe on Law & Order) Tweet that launched a thousand eyebrow raises questioning Hilaria Baldwin and her claims of being Spanish. However, in another twist of white “lady” appropriation, it was ultimately “celebrity exposer” Tracie Egan Morrissey, host of the podcast Pot Psychology, who would be the one to take most of the credit for the “deep digging” surrounding the years-long deception put forth by “Hilaria” Baldwin. Real name: Hillary. And honestly, how did anyone ever buy into Hilaria?

Born Hillary Hayward-Thomas in Boston, the “yoga guru” has been the latest example of “women” who, along with names like Rachel Dolezal and, say, Kim Kardashian, find it more “culturally relevant” for their “brand” to feign ties to a darker shade of white (literally). At the same time, they don’t want to be associated with being “too dark.” After all, this is still in America, and light-skinnedness is obviously a benchmark for success.

And yet, for as “beloved” as being white was in the twentieth century and before, the 00s and beyond saw a marked rise in the white person’s (particularly white “woman’s”) coveting of more “colorful” attributes in order to be viewed as “with it.” Fittingly, 2009 was the 30 Rock season in which Alec Baldwin as Jack Donaghy was so aroused by the Latina nurse (played by authentic Latina, Salma Hayek, who probably feels a bit grody right now) tending to his mother, he ends up trying to propose. It’s a bit too much of a coincidence that Hilaria should meet him around this time and start picking up the accent at the moment she took notice of his fetish. Maybe “Hilaria” couldn’t help but notice his “flavor” and started to play it up even more. What the hell? She had a passion for the culture, engaging in competitive Latin ballroom dancing while in college and learning the language.

And just like that, the runaway train that was her official press release biography began: “Hilaria Baldwin was born January 6, 1984 in Mallorca, Spain as Hilaria Lynn Thomas.” That just takes the level of confidence and denial that most successful con “men” (and “women”) need before they’re eventually busted wide open.

Her devotion to the “role” of “Hilaria,” granted, has been decidedly thorough, despite moments where she flickers in and out of the “persona.” For fuck’s sake, the “woman” even has a dog name Diego Machego. Then there was her random insertions of just enough Spanish words to make a dent, like on a brief interview with Extra, during which she said, “I think we’re going to go to España to see my family… [side bar: her white family, she has no actual origins or ties to Spain, descended instead, from Massachusetts pilgrims] we brought Spain to him for the wedding, but now he’s got to go to Spain.” The depth of the lie goes so deep it even landed on the duo’s wedding rings, with Hilaria noting, “Alec and I have a Spanish phrase engraved on our wedding rings: ‘Somos un buen equipo.'” Then came the children’s names: Carmen Gabriela, Rafael Thomas, Leonardo Ángel David, Romeo Alejandro and Eduardo Pau Lucas. It’s like, goddamn mami, you believed in the lie you told yourself so much, you spread it to your litter.

As the aforementioned Egan Morrissey would state, in an interview during which she takes the credit for the exposure, “…the fact of the matter is that this woman pretended to be an immigrant whose second language was English, and that’s associated with certain hardships. That’s just not the case. That’s a complete fabrication. And she’s monetized that, when it turns out that she’s just a privileged woman from Boston, the daughter of a lawyer and a doctor. That’s gross to me. She’s very clearly trying to use that as a platform, with the multiple covers of Hola! magazine. On her own Twitter account, she thanks Latina.com for including her on their list of best-dressed Latinas. She didn’t correct them when she said she was Latina.”

It also seems to be a Baldwin woman whose name starts with “H” family tradition to shy away from being white, what with Hailey Baldwin, “Hilaria’s” niece, announcing she’s not really white since her mother is Brazilian (mind you, “of the descent”). Okay “girl,” cling to whatever “just exotic enough” ethnicity you need to.

The white tendency to pick a different “shade” of white–yet one that has a hint more cachet–is also well-known among the Trumps, formerly the Drumpfs, back when they were German and not yet claiming to be Swedish. Whatever suits the political and professional machinations of a white person at the time appears to lend an “okay” to grafting and grifting. It’s all in the name of the American dream, right?

Women Who Say, “Glad to Be Living Rent-Free in Your Head.”

The phrase had been “kicking around,” as it is said, for quite some time. But as usual, Lady Gaga saw an opportunity to graft it as her own–make it solely associated with something she “did.” During the A Star Is Born media blitzkrieg, it was, “There can be 100 people in the room and 99 don’t believe in you but all it takes is one who does.” Those who didn’t immediately remember which Queen said it first were reminded by Madonna re-posting an interview of herself from 1990 during which she stated a similar but more perfectionist-oriented statement that was as follows: “There’s 100 people in the room and 99 people say they liked it, I only remember the one person who didn’t like it.”

See? Madonna keeps it real. None of this hooey, repurposed faux inspirational bullshit. She does not fall into the category of someone who would say the thing that Gaga opted to glom onto next: “Glad to be living rent-free in your head.” The aphorism, which has been spouted so many times since it first resurged around 2018, this time, belonged to another pop culture OG, Ann Landers.

Tim Murtaugh, Trump’s “Director of Communications,” was the one to send out a rather unnecessary “press release” in which he maligned Lady G for joining Biden for a little campaign trip to Pennsylvania, at which point Murtaugh tried to somehow make both people look bad by noting, “Nothing exposes Joe Biden’s disdain for the forgotten working men and women of Pennsylvania like campaigning with anti-fracking activist Lady Gaga. This desperate effort to drum up enthusiasm for his lackluster candidacy is actually a sharp stick in the eye for 600,000 Pennsylvanians who work in the fracking industry.” Yeah, no. No one’s going to feel bad about job loss in the fracking industry, especially with climate change being the single most monumental challenge we are all facing. Nonetheless, Gaga’s response was rather clitless, and yet another ripoff of an older, wiser woman.

Somehow, she even managed to forget that the cliche was already used by Obama on Trump when he remarked to one of his White House aides in November of 2016, “I’m clearly renting space inside the guy’s head.” Apparently, Gaga would like to believe that she now has the “penthouse suite” in that otherwise vacant cabeza.

Of course, it must again bear repeating that she is not the owner of the phrase (merely the renter, haha), just as she isn’t of her “hundred people in the room” fuckery. Oodles of people before her over the past few years have taken a shine to the “sick rebuttal.” Like “OK Boomer,” many feel it’s a simple–even if reductive–and effective way to shut down anyone who makes a negative comment or critique about them. It’s almost like a more annoying version of Mariah’s “I don’t know her” when trying to communicate with someone, whether directly or indirectly, about their philistine ways.

So overused and oversaturated at this point, Landers’ bastardized aphorism is now tantamount to becoming something like the equivalent of a “Dad burn:” the more women wield it as a means to deflect the very real criticism being bandied at them, the more cheeseball it becomes. For fuck’s sake, this is the type of thing one can imagine Karen easily deferring to as a mode of defense from her shitty behavior. So next time you, as a “woman,” deign to emulate “Lady Gaga’s statement” as a means to think you’re endlessly clever, please, try to remind yourself that being called a “renter” in any capacity (whether paying something or nothing) is still low-brow.

Women “Supporting” Women.

In the same vain attempt to parade support (rather than actually support) for Black Lives Matter by posting a black square on one’s social media accounts, so, too, have we now been “given” the “opportunity” to show support for women as women by “nominating” them for the “challenge” of posting a flattering black and white photo of themselves on Instagram. While many don’t see the “harm” in sending “love” for the women in their life in this laughably inane fashion, all it serves to do is perpetuate the hollow vacuity behind every gesture of “activism” in the present epoch. Easy as 1, 2, 3, post a selfie. What’s more, the fact that women have long been written off by, shall we say, “the ones in charge,” as a result of their fixation on vanity and appearance, such a “phenomenon” isn’t really the best idea in terms of debunking the myth of female frivolousness by way of self-obsession when it comes to aesthetics. Making it all the more facile for patriarchal forces to laugh in her face when she tries to rally for more authority the way so few women have been able to (AOC being one of the rare exceptions, and who has also ironically been a part of the uptick in the trend) this far along in the twenty-first century.

The femmes who capitulated to posting a photo, trying to play it off as “all in good fun” and “why not,” don’t seem understand that the more women give in to meaningless gestures on social media–an entity whose power and weight people still don’t seem to fully grasp–the more they denigrate themselves in the long run. Open themselves up to the criticism that is tantamount to the modern equivalent of discrediting her because she’s a “dumb blonde.” A trope that is still difficult to avoid no matter what your hair or skin color is as a member of the “fairer sex.”

What’s more, the obvious lack of consequential support for other women through this method is evident in the fact that it was just another means to self-aggrandize via the showcasing of one’s highly altered physical appearance when presented on social media as a stylized black and white glamor shot. Being that women are always prattling on about dispensing a healthy image that closely aligns with reality so as not to give other women a complex about their own looks, the “exercise” fails automatically to support anyone in this sense by passing these photos off as “natural” or “candid” (when, in truth, it looks about as natural or candid as Taylor Swift walking through the woods in her own black and white cover art for Folklore).

And since women are the most sensitive about appearance, contributing further to the endless cycle of their fucked up body image is a bit head-scratching in terms of how this “challenge” is supposed to feel supportive. But no matter, everyone can pat themselves on the back for being a feminist now. Maybe next week, women can nominate each other for a similar “challenge” only this time with the caveat that it needs to be a belfie.

Women Who Take Pictures “At” BLM Protests for Their Social Media Accounts.

White ladies are having a “difficult” time right now. In short, they don’t know what to do with them damn selves amid a climate that no longer focuses solely on them (that is, unless it’s to highlight their Karen-ness). And that’s a hard spotlight to relinquish when they’ve been so accustomed to taking hold of it over the past, oh, century or so (’cause mind you, it was white “men” before them who had a complete hold on it). And so, not one to simply let black people have the microphone to themselves during this peak of political oppression, white women have decided to take a “creative” approach to remaining part of the conversation: documenting themselves within the framework of it. 

You’ve heard of the type, but never really believed she could be real. The basic bitch channeling that basicness into the likes of posting a black square on her Instagram as a way to “honor Dr. King or whatever.” Even though doing that really pained her for an entire day–an entire day of not posting about herself or some product she was beholden to shill for whatever nebulous company is paying her to put up photos for a living. She might have even lost some money on her “big” endeavor of activism. And of course one will notice that, up until the death of George Floyd becoming an international scandal and reigniting source of outrage, the color palette of the “influencer’s” social media account was entirely, well, white.

It starts to get black around the day of the black square posting, with the shades quickly fading back, once more, to white. That white skin tone being paraded “at” the BLM protests she’s sure to get her boyfriend to snap her photo in front of without having even the slightest clue about the suffering behind it. To her, it’s another trend to follow, insurance that she’ll be classified as being “on the right side of history.” But thanks to her, who knew that even on the right side of it there could be so much wrongness?

Women (Blanca) Who Paint Their Faces in Black Lives Matter Motifs.

White people do a lot of crazy shit when they feel guilty. It can often include posturing, backpedaling, awkwardly offering consolation, etc. Or maybe it’s not even about guilt so much as wanting to feel as though they’re part of the conversation. But one of the most absurd reactions to black injustice of late has to be makeup “influencers” thinking that painting their faces in “Black Lives Matter” and “I Can’t Breathe” regalia is the look of “change.” It is, in fact, the look of the same old fuckin’ story about blancos (or, in this case, blancas) commodifying something black to either seem “with it” or to pull some kind of Allison Williams in Get Out fuckery by grafting the elements of blackness they want to “partake of” without ever having experienced the pain inherent to it.

Alissa Ashley, a beauty influencer of color herself, commented on the unreal trend in “I Can’t Breathe looks” with: “White/Non-Black MUAs, I promise painting ‘I can’t breathe’ on your lips isn’t revolutionary, like I really promise that isn’t what we mean when we say be an ally.” Some have since deleted their TikTok or Instagram photos and videos featuring such content, while others have asked what’s so wrong with showing “support” in this way. Alas, if one can’t see the problem, then it’s clear just how naive we’re still being on thinking that the times they are a-changin’ when, in fact, they might just be mutating into a new way for white people to trivialize the black experience. In this case, with makeup “inspo.”

What’s more, these bitches should be wearing face masks that cover most of their visage anyway so what’s the point in trying to peddle this aesthetic?–other than to further make people falsely believe they can let their guard down about coronaV. And also so one can feel as though they’re “fighting for the cause” through a (camera) lens that suits their overt narcissistic ends. 

Women Who Are Karen.

As vitriol for the Karen archetype reaches a crescendo, it bears noting that the trope might die out if there was a genuine systemic change that forced white folk of means to check their privilege. To stop feeling they have the right to “speak to the manager” at the slightest inconvenience or perceived slight in customer service (all jobs thereof being thankless so how da fuck you gonna expect “service with a smile” while said workers are getting financially raped for their troubles?). To stop costing the lives of others amid a potential viable vaccine with their anti-science, anti-vax stances. Naturally, we all know this sort of shift in the culture of white privilege is impossible–that’s what makes it privilege: the right to never acknowledge it at all, perpetually blazing through red tape like it’s going out of style. To be sure, for the Karens of this world, it never will. 

That the women who are the “victims” of this very branding are likely unaware of just how much they manifest the name they have come to embody only further speaks to the bubble they live in. Making up in the self-awareness they lack with self-righteousness instead. Several examples of the Karen rhetoric and sense of exemption from the rules that apply to everyone else have cropped up rather glaringly in the media lately, starting first with Lana Del Rey’s rant about not being treated with the same liberties as her “peers,” primarily women of color who were listed that included Beyonce, Nicki Minaj, Kehlani, Cardi B, Doja Cat, Ariana Grande and Camila Cabello. Her series of “defenses” that followed in doubling down on the original post only further iterated a Karen mentality. When called out for such, all she could do was deny her true self with, “Thanks for the Karen comments tho. V helpful.” V helpful being a millennial Karen in denial of being a Karen’s prime word choice to seem “with it.” 

Elsewhere, the recent rejuvenation of Celeste Ng’s 2017 novel, Little Fires Everywhere, in which Reese Witherspoon stars in the miniseries adaptation as an ultimate Karen (whether in the 90s or not) called Elena Richardson, has also re-highlighted an even worse problem about the type of woman at hand. One who is convinced she is as “PC” as they come, all the while holding her racism in check until it bubbles to the surface in the most unexpectedly venomous ways.

The “Karen in the news” phenomenon persisted earlier this week when a white lady named Amy Cooper had a tense, racially driven run-in with a man who shared her last name in Central Park. Bird-watching Christian Cooper approached her when he saw that she had her dog off a leash in the Ramble, at which point Karen freaked the fuck out and called the police to tell them there was “an African American man threatening my life.” On a side note, being racist while trying to be politically correct in classifying him as “African American” is peak Karen moves (again, as Elena Richardson additionally showcased).

Naturally, this Karen worked somewhere as banal as an asset management company, which put her “on leave” after the incident, proving that you can’t do shit in your personal life when you work for a corporation. And then her dog got taken away too (though maybe the shelter will give it back at some point). Yet despite these comeuppances, one can’t help but think that Karen is still going to cling to her right to be affronted by the mere presence of a black man in an isolated area. It is, simply, her Karen’s right.

And even in the face of viral incidents like these, Karen won’t die, though in the future her name might be replaced with a new generation’s more popular name, like Emma or Olivia. Or maybe the gender neutral X Æ A-Xii.

Women Who Are Butter Faces Taking Advantage of Surgi Mask Usage in Every Man’s Current Weakened Condition.

While many women are, naturally, somewhat in denial about their appearance despite already having the kind of low self-esteem that makes them think they’re always lacking in some way regardless, there are other types of women who fundamentally cannot deny that their face is, well, hideous. Maybe this is part of the reason they cultivate their bodies so diligently. Making sure that all the dimensions are distributed in just the right place for the perfect Barbie physique (Barbie, too, being arguably something of a butter face–there’s a reason she’s never without makeup). Because if you want to “attract a ‘man’,” the best thing to focus on is one’s body anyway, right?–you shallow bitch still trying to deny that the best way for a woman–any woman–to live is without making the opinions of “men” your benchmark for everything. You honestly think those toads have any credibility regarding what matters? Alas, women are still hopelessly conditioned to believe that they ought to be as visually pleasing as possible. Not for themselves, but for the benefit of attracting the gaze of another. So long as, in the butter face’s case, that gaze is not directed too closely on her face. Which, in the present climate, it will not be thanks to one, COVID-19. 

The average self-aware butter face has, of course, already caught on to this insane fluke of a perk by now. In short, she’s the girl who has gone apeshit on buying every single custom mask from the likes of Etsy and Society6 to really play up her “fashion sense” no matter the conditions when, in fact, it’s simply her time to shine when it comes to being able to legitimately conceal the most undesirable part of herself. No more silently wishing she was of the religious faith and descent that would allow her to wear a hijab without it being called appropriation. At last, the universe has seen fit to throw her a motherfucking bone–like literally–as she attracts more vulnerable “men” in a state of loneliness and desperation for touch than ever. The butter face woman is, indeed, what Paris Hilton would call sliving in the pandemic climate. Inviting fuqbois over during quarantine like she’s the den mother of curing dick depression. It’s safe, she reasons, because she’s always wearing a face mask no matter what–so how could she ever possibly contract COVID-19? Well, darling, potentially through his semen, if you must know

In any case, will the butter face woman be able to sustain these glory days of mandatory face mask wearing? Considering that the increased regularity of pandemics feels like a given as climate change continues, then the answer would be an orgasmically resounding, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Women Who Toy With Men Out of Boredom in Quarantine: A Chat Ho Production.

While it has always been the “male” way to chat women up in pursuit of a potential fuck via DMs, texts and any other manner of “tech-savvy” means, females, in general, have never been one for playing such games. Of being so down to squander valuable time. With the advent of self-quarantine existence, however, the available hours a girl has to use for more inane purposes has led to her “bored” engagement in chats with garden variety fuckboys and softboys alike.

Of course, can a woman really be blamed–particularly if she’s quarantined in solitude–for her sudden interest in chat ho’ing? After all, so much of being a woman is predicated on histrionics. And without attention paid to the inherent performance of “being female” (something gay men long ago took to, way back when drag queens were simply called “female impersonators”), a girl can tend to have an identity crisis that plays out onto the screen. Alas, what she appears to forget is that “men” can never seem to take flirtation for what it is: mere distraction–not, in fact, an actual invitation to fucking. For all women really get out of coquettish bantering, for the most part, is the desired attention they’ve been seeking (of the variety that was not likely given to them by their father).

Whilst in quarantine, this need has augmented tenfold, without many women realizing that the aftermath of “being set free”–back into the wild of an environment run by a mad “man” claiming it’s safe–means that these mere projections of their ego will once more become real as “boys” try to actually meet up post-quarantine, for some reason having no idea that they were merely pawns in a woman’s game called Distracting Myself From Crippling Loneliness and Irrelevancy. Thus, a girl ought to do well to remember that cultivating chatting-based “dalliances” in lockdown is never worth the stalker-y attention that comes after. When IRL rears its ugly (and likely infected) head again.

Women Who “Discover” Janis Joplin in Their Twenties.

Ah, the last stab at youth called one’s twenties. Sure, it’s still a period in a “girl’s” life when she can get away with being a fuck-up and engaging in the puerile behaviors that were once more endearing when it was still acceptable for her to suck on lollipops and wear Mary Janes with ankle socks. But what it is not is a time for “fresh discovery” of the likes of Janis Joplin (or Amy Winehouse, or The Smiths, or Joy Division for that matter). For some reason, however, the “woman” still grasping at some quaint notion of fatalism being endearing or some such bullshit seems to think that it’s a good idea to turn to Janis at a time in her life when being the tragic victim is a little much to take seriously (after all, twenty is the new sixty in this climate called despising the old guard).

Maybe it’s that Janis appeals to the maligned “woman” at any age, that her brand of being shat upon by a “man” transcends the generations. Yet, at a certain point, playing the part of the sad, chain-smoking alcoholic in order to better appreciate the place the music of Janis was coming from can become more exhausting than liberating. Anyway, it’s certainly not helpful to one’s lungs or potbelly. Or even one’s musical growth, for Janis’ music tends to hit a wall pretty quickly, what with her solo artistic output consisting of I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama! and Pearl.

In any event, the “woman” who has “just” realized how “groovy” Janis is in her twenties can’t really be deemed anything other than someone who could never take another piece of your heart now darlin’–’cause she didn’t have one to earlier apprehend that feelings, if we ever have them/choose to embrace them, can only come in the dawn–not the twilight–of our youth. Everything after is just a feigned attempt at emotionalism.

Women Who Sit on A Man’s Shoulders During A Concert.

Seeing as how “men” are already endlessly titillated by the image of a “woman” relying on them in metaphorical ways (though what could be metaphorical about an ad like “Keep Her Where She Belongs” with the image of a woman lying down next to a “man’s” shoe?), it’s no wonder that the timeless emblem at any outdoor concert or music festival remains the sight of a flower crowned twig wearing little more than shorts and a bathing suit top happily gawking at the stage while perched atop her current beau’s shoulders.

Because being dainty and on drugs is almost harder than being a “woman” itself. And a “girl” needs all the propping up she can get, after all, when she’s barely got enough girth to handle the weight of that bird brain of hers. Plus, she just really loves music, you know? Not any specific artist or genre, she just likes it. The social nature of getting high or microdosing in a public space where she can “really commune” with others. Though obviously not anyone that might lure away the attention of her boyfriend (of the moment, for these types of shoulder-carrying romances rarely last past the summer). But anyone else slightly fatter or dowdier or “male” will do for the purposes of her festival consortium. Because this is her moment, understand? She’s been waiting at least forty-five minutes for a band she has no ardor for (apart from the song that’s been playing on the radio) to come on while everyone else has been standing around for hours in order to have secured the benefit of a decent vantage point.

But she, in all her white “girl” wisdom, gets ahead by getting on top. For the pussy isn’t powerful just when serving as an orifice of pleasure, but also when wrapped around a “man’s” head. A “man” whose sense of privilege is possibly more egregious than the “woman” he’s lifting for obliging her request in the first place.