Chapter 6: Sequins and Secrets
I should've known better than to let someone in just because they knew the difference between a lace-trimmed hipster and a full-coverage cotton granny panty.
It started with a DM. A simple, innocent message from a woman named Simone who said she'd seen a photo of me at one of Grandma's parties — posted on my personal page, among friends and family — and immediately felt seen. She said she loved the same things I did: vintage flair, bold prints, big hair, and yes… granny panties . Not as a joke, not as some ironic throwback, but as a lifestyle.
Turns out, she was part of a whole underground community of Black women celebrating unapologetic femininity — the kind that didn't need to be filtered through anyone else's gaze. We talked for hours. Shared playlists, fashion tips, even stories about our grandmothers and how they taught us to wear our underwear like armor — high-waisted, floral, and always covered in ruffles.
She invited me to an event she was organizing called "Soul & Silk" — a celebration of Black femininity, heritage, and self-love. I hesitated. I wasn't looking to make new friends, especially not after James and his sweet smile had left me heartbroken. But something about Simone felt familiar, like the kind of sisterhood you only find in church basements or beauty salons.
So I went.
And for a while, it felt like magic.
We laughed over wine and fried catfish, danced barefoot in the backyard of her apartment complex, and I even showed her my collection of vintage cotton panties — each pair more colorful than the last. I told her stories about sneaking into Grandma's drawer as a kid, pressing my face into the soft folds of her drawers, dreaming of one day owning underwear that made me feel that powerful.
But then came the betrayal.
I should've read the fine print. The release form. The part where she asked if she could share my story as inspiration for the movement she was building. I thought it meant a quote on Instagram, maybe a short blurb on the event recap page.
Instead, she published everything .
Photos of me dancing at Grandma's parties. Snippets of our private messages. And worst of all — a full article titled "The Panty Queen: How One Woman Owns Her Heritage, One Ruffle at a Time." It included a candid shot of me holding up a pair of my favorite black cotton granny panties with pink polka dots — the ones I wore when I felt like being brave.
At first, people were supportive. Some even called me iconic. But then the comments turned cruel. My coworkers found it. My boss slid into my DMs asking if I was "trying to make a statement at work." Clients started making jokes. Invitations to meetings dried up.
I felt naked — not in body, but in soul.
I confronted Simone, tears hot behind my eyes. She tried to spin it as empowerment, as visibility. Said she didn't understand why I was mad — hadn't I always wanted to be seen?
But not like that.
Not without my permission.
That night, I sat on Grandma's porch in silence, clutching a glass of sweet tea that had gone warm. She didn't say much, just handed me a handkerchief and hummed along to Mahalia Jackson playing softly in the background.
"You can love big," she finally said, "but not everyone deserves your sparkle."
And she was right.
From now on, I'd choose carefully who got to see me shine — and who got to see what I wore underneath it all.
Because next time, I wasn't going to let anyone dim my light again.