Opinion

The bag that opened up my Blackness

By Alexi McCammond

Opinion editor

December 6, 2023 at 7:15 a.m. EST

Need something to talk about? Text us for thought-provoking opinions that can break any awkward silence.ArrowRight

That was certainly the case when I gifted myself a teeny, tiny Gucci purse that — I’m not kidding — isn’t big enough to hold my cellphone. It’s a brown, firm clutch covered in that classic double-G pattern, with a tiger head clasp to help you snap it closed. I love it, but I have to confess that the overpriced-for-its-size-to-cost-ratio purse doesn’t tell anyone a thing about me. Not once has anyone stopped me while toting this tiny thing around; no one sees it and feels inspired to strike up a conversation with me.

So, I expected the same when I got the smallest-size Telfar Shopping Bag in “Bubblegum” pink. But unlike Gucci or, really, any other big-name luxury brand, it has unexpectedly opened up so many spaces for organic Black joy and connection.

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Let me tell you what I mean. Oprah has one in purple. Beyoncé's white Telfar bag inspired a woman I met two weeks ago to get the same one. Solange, Zoe Kravitz, Lil Nas X, Selena Gomez and AOC carry them around, too. If you see one out in the wild (bars, airports, the office, your Instagram timeline, the subway!), it’s an instant connection. One that you don’t keep to yourself. The words basically burst right out of me — and I’ve heard it from so many other people of color, too: “LOVE your Telfar.” “Okay, I see you, Telfar!” It’s basically obligatory to share which size and color you have, or those you want to snatch up next. Recently, a co-worker, also a woman of color, stopped me to talk about it. It has happened more times than I can count.

The Shopping Bag is offered in three sizes and so many delightful colors: a “Margarine” yellow, “Corned Beef” mauve, “Highlighter” green. I’ll find myself gently touching the faux leather every now and then just to reconfirm it’s as soft as it looks. The embossed logo — a T inside a C, inspired by the eponymous designer’s initials — is nearly invisible to most, but for the real ones, it evokes something of a spiritual symbol at this point. There are also the long, thin straps that hug your shoulder and make the bag a hands-free companion. Straps that are ready to be twisted and turned and tucked just so in the warmth of our palms. And don’t get me started on the massive zippered pocket in the medium and large bags. So much room for activities.

But the “Bushwick Birkin” is more than just a designer bag — it’s the creation of Telfar Clemens, who is Black and queer. It’s an open invitation for acceptance, and one that has helped me overcome my struggle to really feel comfortable in my own skin. It has brought me into a community in which the full breadth of Blackness is on display (queer men, women, old, young, celebs and plebs), where those differences don’t matter. It’s almost like acknowledging the luxury tears down these invisible walls we otherwise erect between ourselves and strangers. We size each other up. We compare and contrast and dissect. We smile and, often, embrace. What starts as a conversation about the Telfar turns into tales of concerts and exes and nail salons.

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For so long I’ve silently struggled to feel entitled to own my Blackness. I’m biracial but was raised primarily by my mom, who is White and, honestly, not a reliable ally. Black beauty wasn’t embraced or explored in our house growing up. My dad worked all the time and was not particularly available, so that left my mom. She straightened and relaxed and dyed my thick, brown, curly hair. My mom is genuinely so out of touch that during one visit to the National Museum of African American History and Culture, she stopped random Black people to apologize … for … slavery? Oppression? Her outfit? I’m still not sure. (But I am certain that the memory remains just as excruciating for me.)

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Yet thinking about it also exposes the pain that I feel knowing all the ways in which my mother whitewashed my sense of identity from a young age. She missed the opportunity to help me be proud of what made me me. What Blackness looked like on me and through me. How it manifests in so many complex and soulful people from Brooklyn to Birmingham. Understanding that loving Black identity, culture and community is vital to my being.

A few years back, in what felt like some great step for sisterhood, I decided to wear my natural hair for the first time during a Fox News segment. “Hoping we can just leave it,” I told the in-studio hair and makeup artists when they asked what to do with it. But finding the courage to confront myself and the flatiron still wasn’t the secret to loving or communicating my identity to others.

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That’s why I always walk away from these spur-of-the-moment kikis with fellow Telfar bag girlies and guys thinking to myself how lucky I am to be welcomed into and a part of this fabulous informal-yet in-the-know community centered on Black joy. Where my soul gets fed. Where walls don’t exist. Where beauty is found in the vulnerability and comfort and acceptance that comes from a shared love of the culture. Where the bags are big enough to hold your phone, and where, at the end of the day, it doesn’t even matter what’s in there.

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Okay, fine, I’ll admit it: Sometimes I buy things, especially fancy things, to attain some sort of status. To quietly, and definitely without explicitly seeking attention, declare that I’m a person who’s worth getting to know. Someone who should be taken seriously. Someone who can afford a little luxury bag.

That was certainly the case when I gifted myself a teeny, tiny Gucci purse that — I’m not kidding — isn’t big enough to hold my cellphone. It’s a brown, firm clutch covered in that classic double-G pattern, with a tiger head clasp to help you snap it closed. I love it, but I have to confess that the overpriced-for-its-size-to-cost-ratio purse doesn’t tell anyone a thing about me. Not once has anyone stopped me while toting this tiny thing around; no one sees it and feels inspired to strike up a conversation with me.

So, I expected the same when I got the smallest-size Telfar Shopping Bag in “Bubblegum” pink. But unlike Gucci or, really, any other big-name luxury brand, it has unexpectedly opened up so many spaces for organic Black joy and connection.

Let me tell you what I mean. Oprah has one in purple. Beyoncé's white Telfar bag inspired a woman I met two weeks ago to get the same one. Solange, Zoe Kravitz, Lil Nas X, Selena Gomez and AOC carry them around, too. If you see one out in the wild (bars, airports, the office, your Instagram timeline, the subway!), it’s an instant connection. One that you don’t keep to yourself. The words basically burst right out of me — and I’ve heard it from so many other people of color, too: “LOVE your Telfar.” “Okay, I see you, Telfar!” It’s basically obligatory to share which size and color you have, or those you want to snatch up next. Recently, a co-worker, also a woman of color, stopped me to talk about it. It has happened more times than I can count.

The Shopping Bag is offered in three sizes and so many delightful colors: a “Margarine” yellow, “Corned Beef” mauve, “Highlighter” green. I’ll find myself gently touching the faux leather every now and then just to reconfirm it’s as soft as it looks. The embossed logo — a T inside a C, inspired by the eponymous designer’s initials — is nearly invisible to most, but for the real ones, it evokes something of a spiritual symbol at this point. There are also the long, thin straps that hug your shoulder and make the bag a hands-free companion. Straps that are ready to be twisted and turned and tucked just so in the warmth of our palms. And don’t get me started on the massive zippered pocket in the medium and large bags. So much room for activities.

But the “Bushwick Birkin” is more than just a designer bag — it’s the creation of Telfar Clemens, who is Black and queer. It’s an open invitation for acceptance, and one that has helped me overcome my struggle to really feel comfortable in my own skin. It has brought me into a community in which the full breadth of Blackness is on display (queer men, women, old, young, celebs and plebs), where those differences don’t matter. It’s almost like acknowledging the luxury tears down these invisible walls we otherwise erect between ourselves and strangers. We size each other up. We compare and contrast and dissect. We smile and, often, embrace. What starts as a conversation about the Telfar turns into tales of concerts and exes and nail salons.

For so long I’ve silently struggled to feel entitled to own my Blackness. I’m biracial but was raised primarily by my mom, who is White and, honestly, not a reliable ally. Black beauty wasn’t embraced or explored in our house growing up. My dad worked all the time and was not particularly available, so that left my mom. She straightened and relaxed and dyed my thick, brown, curly hair. My mom is genuinely so out of touch that during one visit to the National Museum of African American History and Culture, she stopped random Black people to apologize … for … slavery? Oppression? Her outfit? I’m still not sure. (But I am certain that the memory remains just as excruciating for me.)

Yet thinking about it also exposes the pain that I feel knowing all the ways in which my mother whitewashed my sense of identity from a young age. She missed the opportunity to help me be proud of what made me me. What Blackness looked like on me and through me. How it manifests in so many complex and soulful people from Brooklyn to Birmingham. Understanding that loving Black identity, culture and community is vital to my being.

A few years back, in what felt like some great step for sisterhood, I decided to wear my natural hair for the first time during a Fox News segment. “Hoping we can just leave it,” I told the in-studio hair and makeup artists when they asked what to do with it. But finding the courage to confront myself and the flatiron still wasn’t the secret to loving or communicating my identity to others.

That’s why I always walk away from these spur-of-the-moment kikis with fellow Telfar bag girlies and guys thinking to myself how lucky I am to be welcomed into and a part of this fabulous informal-yet in-the-know community centered on Black joy. Where my soul gets fed. Where walls don’t exist. Where beauty is found in the vulnerability and comfort and acceptance that comes from a shared love of the culture. Where the bags are big enough to hold your phone, and where, at the end of the day, it doesn’t even matter what’s in there.

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The bag that opened up my Blackness

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06.12.2023

Opinion

The bag that opened up my Blackness

By Alexi McCammond

Opinion editor

December 6, 2023 at 7:15 a.m. EST

Need something to talk about? Text us for thought-provoking opinions that can break any awkward silence.ArrowRight

That was certainly the case when I gifted myself a teeny, tiny Gucci purse that — I’m not kidding — isn’t big enough to hold my cellphone. It’s a brown, firm clutch covered in that classic double-G pattern, with a tiger head clasp to help you snap it closed. I love it, but I have to confess that the overpriced-for-its-size-to-cost-ratio purse doesn’t tell anyone a thing about me. Not once has anyone stopped me while toting this tiny thing around; no one sees it and feels inspired to strike up a conversation with me.

So, I expected the same when I got the smallest-size Telfar Shopping Bag in “Bubblegum” pink. But unlike Gucci or, really, any other big-name luxury brand, it has unexpectedly opened up so many spaces for organic Black joy and connection.

Advertisement

Let me tell you what I mean. Oprah has one in purple. Beyoncé's white Telfar bag inspired a woman I met two weeks ago to get the same one. Solange, Zoe Kravitz, Lil Nas X, Selena Gomez and AOC carry them around, too. If you see one out in the wild (bars, airports, the office, your Instagram timeline, the subway!), it’s an instant connection. One that you don’t keep to yourself. The words basically burst right out of me — and I’ve heard it from so many other people of color, too: “LOVE your Telfar.” “Okay, I see you, Telfar!” It’s basically obligatory to share which size and color you have, or those you want to snatch up next. Recently, a co-worker, also a woman of color, stopped me to talk about it. It has happened more times than I can count.

The Shopping Bag is offered in three sizes and so many delightful colors: a “Margarine” yellow, “Corned Beef” mauve, “Highlighter” green. I’ll find myself gently touching the faux leather every now and then just to reconfirm it’s as soft as it looks. The embossed logo — a T inside a C, inspired by the eponymous designer’s initials — is nearly invisible to most, but for the real ones, it evokes something of a spiritual symbol at this point. There are also the long, thin straps that hug your shoulder and make the bag a hands-free companion. Straps that are ready to be twisted and turned and tucked just so in the warmth of our palms. And don’t get me started on the massive zippered pocket in the medium and large bags. So much room for activities.

But the “Bushwick Birkin” is more than just a designer bag — it’s the creation of Telfar Clemens, who is Black and queer. It’s an open invitation for acceptance, and one that has helped me overcome my struggle to really feel comfortable in my own........

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