Back in college, when I would proclaim myself “getting thick” when the scale tipped 105 pounds, I received two formative insights about my style.
The first, from a rockhead boy I wanted desperately to love me. A boy who once, as I sat on my twin bed post-coitus, looked at my hips and declared “You know, sitting down, you could trick somebody into thinking you were thick.” Tells you everything you need to know about my self esteem at the time. Point being: his compliments came few and far between.
For instance, say—on your way to check out the latest offering in the super soap opera that is the MCU—you want to snap some photos of the old arthouse theater hosting the show. It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon (matinee for you, always) so the barbershop next door to the theater is full of men.
And you, a woman, are pacing just outside the window. Phone in the air, whispering to yourself, looking for the perfect shot.
When the tide turned on Love Jones? Can’t say. Just that it started as most terrible things do. On Twitter.
I’ll back up for the uninitiated.
Love Jones, the 1997 rom-dram-com starring Larenz Tate and Nia Long, was long hailed as a standard-bearer for onscreen black love. Carried by the leads’ sizzling chemistry and a soundtrack produced to get you laid, it often rolled off the tongues of Xers and Xillennials when asked their favorite movie.
Not to mention its…efficacy in the dorm rooms of black college students. “Come over and watch Love Jones“—predating Netflix and Chill by a decade.