Evolution of a Grown-Ass Woman
I woke up with Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” blasting in my head. Today was the day, after ten months at a flashy six-figure job as a fashion advertising exec at Rolling Stone magazine, that I was going to quit. I had been counting down the days to this departure ever since I accepted the position. In my mind, Rolling Stone was the ultimate temp job: do the work, secure the bag (the money bag), and get to the business of living my real life.
It was a crisp January morning in 2005. In my boss’s sunlit office, his head was down—he was studying some papers, probably sales projections for the upcoming issues. When you’re a salesperson, that’s all you’re ever doing: studying the numbers, trying to figure out how you can make your quota and get a bonus, KA-CHING! When he heard my footsteps, he looked up and gave a wry smile. We got along incredibly well, and I genuinely liked him. He was like me, a smart, scrappy outsider—from Staten Island, in his case; I count him and Wu-Tang Clan as good things produced there—who had managed to make it into the hallowed halls of magazine publishing. Lots of folks were intimidated by him. He didn’t suffer fools, and he didn’t hold his tongue. Thankfully, I was his Golden Girl (Blanche, of course). He’d brought me onto this team to shore up fashion advertising in Rolling Stone, and in just ten short months, I had delivered, so we had a real love affair going on—so much so that we had a nickname: we were “Bevy and the Boss.”
Bevy of “Bevy and the Boss” entered the office and sat down. The Boss asked what was up, and I launched into an anxiety-fueled, rambling monologue about how much I adored working with him and what an impactful learning experience it had been (it solidified that I never wanted to do sales ever again) but it was time for me to move on. “I’m quitting to lead a creative life,” I said, “to act, sing, to just be.” He told me I was having a midlife crisis. How dare he! (“Midlife crisis: an emotional crisis of identity and self-confidence that can occur in early middle age.”) He clearly didn’t know what he was talking about, and I rebutted his theory immediately. My narrative won’t be mansplained. As a Black woman from Harlem—pre-gentrification Harlem—I couldn’t have that be my story. I didn’t have time for a midlife crisis.
I suspect there are currently a slew of folks at the Whole Foods on 125th Street or the Bikram Yoga place on 145th (a location that was formerly a crack house) who can identify with having a midlife crisis, but not I. In fact it was the opposite—when I decided to quit Rolling Stone, I’d found real clarity, about not only who I was at that moment, but who I wanted to end up being in life. In traditional self-help books, this would be described as “finding your purpose.”
Now, before you think I’m going to go all Zen Bevy on you, be clear that I had no fucking idea how I was going to achieve this abstract concept of living my life’s purpose. I didn’t have a crystal ball. But I did have enough of the spirit of the beloved Iyanla Vanzant to know that I had to “fix my life,” and I couldn’t do that with a nine-to-five. Being tethered to a career I had outgrown was like standing for two hours in a pair of six-inch spike heels: it looked good, but my feet (and spirit) were swollen and in agony!
But, of course, no one knew it by looking at me. If social media had been around in the late nineties and early aughts, the trolls might have played armchair psychiatrists trying to dissect my life. More than a decade before Instagram, I was living the Instagram life—a fierce, shapely woman pictured frequently in exotic locales; hanging with beautiful, famous people; wearing designer outfits; and excelling at her corporate job. Mine was a grown and sexy lifestyle on steroids. I was a “Samantha”—if this reference is unfamiliar, google Sex and the City and thank me later—thirty-eight years old with a small but mighty roster of lovers and the aforementioned cushy job.
When I proclaimed to anyone who would listen (friends, enemies, lovers, the Rolling Stone security guard, my mailman, my eight-year-old nephew) that I was quitting my job, it seemed to many of them that my leaving was coming out of nowhere—and that’s just the way I planned it. Who publicizes that, for the past five years, they were unfulfilled in their career?
What’s ironic is that even if I had told folks about my plans, they probably wouldn’t have believed me. You see, I really was a bona fide rock star in the fashion advertising world then. (Of course, this was back when folks still read magazines.) And my job came with perks: I had an expense account so ample that I never paid for meals. (I didn’t come out my wallet even on the weekends, thanks to my lovers.) I had become accustomed to flying first class, having a car and driver twenty hours a day while I attended European fashion shows, and my fave perk of all time: Christmas gifts! My assistants would groan about the holiday season because of all the gifts I received. (Okay, if I’m being honest, my assistants groaned a lot anyway; I was a tough boss.) Every Christmas, my office would look like a photo shoot for the Neiman Marcus holiday catalog (pre-fifty-dollar collard greens), filled with gifts from every major design house, from Armani to Yves Saint Laurent, and these would be exclusive items. My haul of swag would include bags, shoes, jewelry, champagne—things that money literally couldn’t buy because these items were given, and only to those with access. Here’s a Bevelation for you: True luxury is access, and as a fashion and beauty advertising director, I’d worked for two decades to earn that access. Who willingly gives that up? Who walks away from a job that pays well, a bona fide good thing? I’ll tell you who: someone looking for a great thing, an inspiring thing, a creative thing, a feeling of freedom, a new dream. In 2002, I wrote in my journal, “I want to live differently, explore and create!” That was more than two years before I actually went ahead and did just that.
Teddy Pendergrass used to sing, “You can’t hide from yourself, / Everywhere you go, there you are.” Well, I proved Teddy wrong: I hid from myself, and it was pretty darn easy to do. That version of my “self” was a character I was presenting, and everybody bought into her, including me. I was a top-tier customer who stanned for Beverly like she was the latest Supreme collaboration. I was obsessed with furthering the legend of this modern-day fashionista who had managed to claw her way into an industry that wasn’t exactly clamoring to welcome curvy Black girls.
My entire thirties were dominated by the narrative that Beverly Smith, born and raised in Harlem, was a top-notch, self-made BAWSE, one who took no shit from anyone. She was a globetrotting, man-eating, designer garment–wearing vixen. To be clear, I’m aware that what I’ve just described sounds like the main character in a fabulous movie where I’m played by Angela Bassett—don’t be shady; I know she would require padding—and everyone envies me. The real truth is that a “flashing lights” lifestyle takes its toll.
First off, when you work as hard as I did, it’s hard to develop, much less maintain, intimate relationships, unless you count your vibrator. I dated a lot during that era, but nothing managed to stick. I remember my bestie Renee Billy, aka Nay Nay Billy, advising me to stop telling prospective boyfriends my travel schedule in advance. She said, “Why would a guy try to establish a relationship with a woman who is literally never around?” When she said it, I got all indignant. I thought she was advising me to lie, to hide my fabulous life from some basic guy. Nope. Instead, she was advising me to get to know a person, to date him more than a few times before submitting my travel itinerary. Hindsight is 20/20, but back then, I clearly needed eye surgery as my vision was blurred.
It wasn’t just romantic relationships that were challenged by my high-powered job. I also wasn’t as present for friends and family as I would have liked to be. Men’s Fall/Winter Fashion Week takes place in Milan during the second week of January. My mom’s birthday is on the eighth, my bestie Aimee Morris’s is on the tenth; I missed both their birthdays a couple of times. But the event I most regret missing is my sister Stephanie’s wedding. Her wedding took place during one of my sales trips to Europe, and although she didn’t tell anyone she was getting married, I still felt guilty that I missed her special day. I tried to make it up to all of them by bringing back expensive gifts, but I now know that my mom and Aimee would have preferred to have me at their parties singing “Happy Birthday” in my trademark baritone voice, and my sister would have liked my being there acting hysterical about every little detail of her courthouse wedding.
Here’s a Bevelation: When it comes to healthy relationships, nothing beats being there. Your presence is the ultimate present.
Back then, I simply wasn’t evolved enough—and as a Scorpio, I was more than just a little self-absorbed—so I felt justified in missing out on such events. I had a career in a very competitive space, and that was my justification. It was a space where I had made real inroads and gained clout, but there was always someone with more, especially from the general market—aka white fashion magazines. Working in fashion and advertising in the nineties while Black meant being constantly reminded that, to borrow the old Sesame Street song, one of these things (me) is not like the others, and I was determined not only to meet but to exceed expectations. And it wasn’t just that I was Black. It was the way I showed up as a Black woman.
Let me paint the picture: showing up in elite and austere fashion spaces looking bawdy-licious, wearing brightly hued clothes that showcased my curves, rocking short haircuts or, sometimes (clutch the pearls!), braids—this was seen as daring and, yes, brave. (Can we have a moment and finally decree the death of the word brave to describe a woman who dares to break the “rules” and deviate from what mainstream society dictates is “beauty”?) I wasn’t attempting to be brave when I wore braids instead of a long, silky weave. (I actually started wearing them after I caused a minor blackout while using my million-watt curling iron at my luxury hotel in Milan.) Even so, I understood that my braids were seen as a statement, part of my racial identity, and I didn’t shy away from that. But braids were only a small part of my look. I took real pleasure in being audacious when it came to my garments, too. Clothing is a calling card, and I wanted to announce, without saying a word, that a Harlem girl was entering the room. I was drawn to clothes that most girls from the paler side of fashion wouldn’t have dared try to pull off. Wearing all white in the middle of winter? Why not? My suntan is year-round. A Dolce & Gabbana corset dress in fuchsia? Lace me up and pray I don’t have to go to the bathroom!
I received a lot of attention, and I appreciated it, but I was also very clear that my entire look had been cribbed from the women in my neighborhood. My look was bold, daring, even brave (ugh) in Europe, but in Harlem, it was just a Saturday-night look.
* * *
Wherever I went out in the world, my goal always was (and always will be) to represent Harlem, my community. I felt accomplished while in the spotlight because I had learned to play the game and to play it my way, leading with swagger, going against the status quo, and, in return, garnering nice financial results. For a time, it felt like I was winning. But I didn’t realize what a toll it was taking on me and my spirit. My wardrobe and attitude were a shield, protecting me from reality and signaling to all that I was living a fab life, but it soon began to feel less like protection and more like a weapon of my own making turned against me.
By the time I announced I was quitting, I was weary of the dog and pony show that is sales. Initially, I loved wining and dining clients, having “spa days” versus being in the office, going to fashion showrooms and selecting items fresh off the runway and not paying a dime for them. However, as with every good thing, there’s always a price to pay. As I mentioned earlier, I missed important events in my loved ones’ lives. And the more that continued to happen, the more I felt I was drowning in a shallow life, and the more I resented my “dream job.” Sales is an intimate business, centered on developing client relationships, and I was great at it. But singing for my supper to meet my sales quota—treating folks to concerts, spa treatments, dinners—meant entertaining clients whom, if they hadn’t been in control of advertising budgets, I would never have had a coffee with, much less a three-hour dinner followed by late-night cocktails. Knowing I only tolerated these people for the check, I started feeling disingenuous in my encounters with them. There were times when I did enjoy my work, when a client outing wasn’t a chore and I didn’t feel like a whore (yass, rhymes), and some clients became my friends, and still are to this day. However, for every genuine connection, there were ten forced relationships with snobs, insecure mean girls, and needy people who thought I was some kind of magical Negro who could advise them on everything from their love life to their career. Their brand of self-absorption and obliviousness began to wear on my nerves. I was frazzled, but it wasn’t only being in service to clients that wore my smile down to a grimace; ultimately, I was exhausted from being in service to the persona I had created for myself. When I finally came to the realization that continuing to go down this path meant perhaps never knowing where the character ended and the real me began, I knew I had to tender my resignation.
I’ll bet you’re reading this right now and thinking, I’d love to have those kinds of problems. That’s what you think … until you meet a woman like the one I was. Better yet, try working for one of us, and you’ll be like, “Too short!” and your favorite word will be beeyatch. It’s not entirely our fault that we get so caught up in playing the role of tough woman. We’ve been hardened by years of climbing the corporate ladder and watching mediocre men sprint ahead simply because of what swung between their legs or, in the case of many power-hungry men, barely dangled. Women often feel they have to take on a tough exterior; this often alienates everyone around us, especially those who try to get close. For many women, everyone is the competition, even our friends and subordinates. Just like those objects in the side-view mirror looking farther away than they really are, tough women often appear more secure than they really are. But when you get up on us, often the most powerful, aloof, unbothered-by-what-anyone-thinks-or-says among us are masking insecurities. That’s me. I’m us—or at least I was.
Many folks thought I was prescient because I got out of magazine publishing before the glamorous perks were cut off. Here’s the part where I should say, “Yes, that’s right. I saw the fall coming,” but that wouldn’t be true, and writing a memoir is tricky enough—regarding your truth versus their truth versus the real truth—without complicating it with blatant untruths, aka lies. No, my reasons for getting out were different. Frankly, I witnessed that lifestyle up close, and it scared me. I was on a career trajectory, ascending rapidly, and I realized that very few people at the top of the heap were actually happy. Yes, they had “everything”—all the adoring fans, the not-so-adoring team, the perks—but many of them were miserable. In the early 2000s, I had a few friends who quit fashion. I was especially inspired by the PR fashion girl who became a yogi and the luxury marketer who quit to travel the world. Their stories inspired me, but I thought it was easy for them—they were young and thin and white, and if the thing they ran away to do didn’t work out, fashion would welcome them back with open arms and free samples. That wasn’t my story. Then, one day, I realized that while I wasn’t young, white, or sample size, I was smart, Black, and savvy, and that, too, had value, so I woke the fuck up! I lived this story. Want to hear it? Here it goes …
The Ugly Side of My Beautiful Life
It was 1999. I was the beauty and fashion advertising director at Vibe magazine, and I’d landed at Milan’s Malpensa Airport for the men’s shows. That divinely crisp Sunday morning, I strutted into the terminal in six-inch heels with a porter struggling under the weight of my four suitcases. My regular driver, Giovanni, was waiting for me as I exited customs. Giovanni was dark-haired, swarthy, and fine, with that swagged-out Italian sex appeal. As he kissed me on both cheeks, I began to remember why this city had felt like a second home for so many years. His car was idling curbside, which I’m sure was illegal (and horrible for the environment), but, hey, la dolce vita is a mindset. It’s a good life indeed! I let my golden-brown mink slip off my shoulders onto the plush leather seats of the Mercedes sedan. Stretching out in comfort, I enjoyed the ride through the quiet streets of Milan, hearing nothing but what sounded like ten thousand church bells chiming in harmony. We reached the iconic Principe di Savoia hotel, where I was a regular guest, and I was greeted by what seemed like the entire staff. “Buon giorno, Princess Smith,” everyone said. Yaas, I was indeed feeling royal.
I was escorted to my regular room, a beautiful buttercup-yellow corner suite. It was filled with gifts from the major fashion houses: Cavalli (RIP), Versace, Missoni—you know, all the designers with names that end in a vowel. I went straight to the window, and as I opened the drapes, I caught the sunlight just right and I swear I heard “Ave Maria” playing on a loop. Suffice it to say, I was a long way from Harlem’s 150th Street and Eighth Avenue. #MommaIMadeIt.
The bellman kissed my hand. I tipped him fifty bucks, a reimbursable expense, and he bowed out of the room backward, closing the door behind him. And I collapsed on the bed, sobbing into fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of Frette sheets.
It seemed I had it all—but Houston, we had a problem.
At the time, though, I had no idea what that problem could be. I knew I was experiencing malaise. (Yes, I could have called it depression, but malaise sounds exotic and luxurious.) Just like Solange—well, before Solange, who was only sixteen then—I had tried to sex it away, shop it away, drink it away, eat it away, sex it away. (Mentioning sex twice isn’t a typo; that was my favorite escape.) I was self-medicating, and for a while, each of these remedies had worked. But when they stopped quelling my despair, I felt worse than I did before—especially after rounds of meaningless sex with a well-hung and sweet-but-daft lover. Some of you ladies who have low numbers in the romance department may wonder why I didn’t stop having sex when I knew it wasn’t making me feel any better. Well, I don’t know about you, but I was going to keep trying. No one calls me a quitter!
I know now that sexcapades can often be more trouble than they’re worth. Yes, I practiced safe sex, but herpes is skin-to-skin. There’s also HPV, an oldie but a goodie, and crabs (though, fear of bedbugs may have replaced fear of crabs). So, you have this romp, and then you worry about disease. And itching. And what about pregnancy? Yes, again, you practice safe sex, but are you practicing it correctly!? After he ejaculates, he’s supposed to get up and get something—preferably a flute of champagne and a warm, soapy washcloth; you know, for a cleanup in aisle five. He’s not supposed to lounge around in my lady parts with the condom still on, letting his sperm imitate Michael Phelps! Damn, why was there so much angst around something that was supposed to be casual and fun?
My other drug of choice was shopping. I know I’m not alone in recovery. (Can I get an amen?) Out of all my addictions—this Scorpio has had a few—being a shopaholic was the toughest to kick because it’s been glorified in pop culture. In fact, for many women, it’s a badge of honor. Ladies, I’m telling you, it’s not! It’s a marketing hoax. Go online and type “shopaholic” into your search engine. Pages of garbage (I mean, items) will come up, most of them in pink—marketers know that women in crisis are suckers for pink. I’m sure you think the “Shop Till You Drop” mugs or the “I’m Not a Shopaholic, I’m Helping the Economy” T-shirts are cute and benign. They’re not! As the sage and always up-front self-help goddess Iyanla Vanzant would say, “Call a thing, a thing.” I mean, did you really need to purchase three Goyard bags at once, to the tune of ten thousand dollars? (True story, and the only highlight is that I was able to sell one when I went broke. More on that later.)
Back to Milan and the tear-soaked Frette bed linens. So, I was spiraling out of control and couldn’t see my way around that feeling. I was unable to craft a strategy to solve my problem because I didn’t know what was wrong, I knew only that something was definitely not right. Meanwhile, it was 9 a.m. on a Sunday in Milan, which meant it was only 3 a.m. in New York. Usually, when I’m feeling low, I call one of my besties—Renee, Aimee, or my sister, Stephanie. However, if I’d called any of them at 3 a.m. from Italy and admitted that I was crying in a luxury hotel suite, they would have freaked out, so I quickly ruled out transatlantic dialing. If I had been home, I could have made a booty call and avoided my feelings by having sex. I did think about calling Giovanni the driver—we had quite the flirtation going—but even in my sorry state, I retained my morals. (He’s a married man, so off-limits.)
Copyright © 2020 by Bevy Smith