She Memes Well: Essays

Copyright © 2021 by Quinta Brunson

All rights reserved

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Brunson, Quinta, author.

Title: She memes well : essays / Quinta Brunson.

Description: Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2021.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020057705 (print) | LCCN 2020057706 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328638984 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781328637079 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Brunson, Quinta. | American wit and humor. | LCGFT: Essays.

Classification: LCC PS3602.R8626 S54 2021 (print) | LCC PS3602.R8626 (ebook) | DDC 814/.6 [B]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057705

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020057706

Cover photography © Sela Shiloni

Cover illustration: kostenkodesign/istock/Getty Images

v1.0521

To my family, and to all of the kids of the internet. Keep going!

Hey, Reader

Being someone that people recognize from the internet is quite the experience. The first time I was meme’d, strangers all over the world saw me making this face:

It’s the face of a girl whose jaw hit the floor upon hearing that her date paid for BOTH movie tickets. A girl who could not believe she was just treated to a large popcorn from the concessions stand. A girl who was not used to the finer things in a life. A girl who was a character made up and played by me.

Was this how I expected to first get noticed as an entertainer? No. Was it hilarious? Yes, very much so. Not only was the video funny, but I still laugh at the fact that the role that pushed me into fame was a character that became known as the He Got Money girl. When I shot that video, I had no idea it’d be my start in the industry; I was just fooling around with a camera phone, hoping I could get some of my Instagram followers to laugh. But even though I didn’t have a solid plan for how to launch my career, I knew I wasn’t just going to be the girl who’s never been on a nice date—I had so much more to prove to the world.

I’ve always liked making people laugh. I think it was because comedy was the thing that connected me to my four much older siblings. That’s right: my parents were active. Together, they produced Kalid, Njia, Kiyana, Kwei, and me, the appropriately named Quinta (which means fifth in Spanish).

Being the youngest and the smallest of the Brunson crew, I learned the importance of attention and how to get it quickly early on in life. Perhaps that’s why I fell in love with the internet the first time I laid on eyes on it. Here was a place with endless opportunities to not only grab attention, but grab it on a global level. What’s not to love? Turns out, oh so much, but we’ll get to that and more (including but not limited to my thoughts on Philly, models, boys, protests, Apple, and Black education). Welcome to my head, reader.

The truth is, it’s intimidating to go from the rapid-fire humor of the internet to pouring all of my thoughts onto physical paper. This shit is scary! It feels weightier, more significant, more permanent. I can’t just delete a book like I can with a tweet that doesn’t land. But still, I wanted to write this because I have a lot to say, and a lot that I want to share. I’m hoping that my words bring you some of the happiness that I’m always trying to put into my work—now just in a have-it-on-your-shelf, forever kind of format.

Although I’m relatively new to the game, I came up during a crazy period in media and technology. There’s been a lot of evolution packed into my career as an entertainer. Creating stuff for the internet forced me to become my own writer, producer, director, actor, editor, you name it. All of this helped me make the seemingly impossible leap from messing around on the internet, to getting paid to mess around on the internet, to working in the traditional entertainment media space (and still messing around on the internet).

Watching the stuff I’ve posted over the years evolve as more people share it with their own jokes and comments has been an incredibly joyful experience. People online—strangers, really—helped me multiply, expand, and become coded into the DNA of the internet. All this has taught me how to embrace the unknown, let go of full control, and finally open up to sharing more of myself with the world. After all, I believe recording our lives is recording history.

I owe a lot of my evolution to the people who have followed me since the early days of my internet-ing, back when I was uploading weird videos of me unenthusiastically singing the theme song to Space Jam and whatnot. Through your likes, comments, and shares, I’ve grown more confident in my words, stories, and experiences. I’ve learned that I do have something to say beyond a caption’s length. You’re the ones who shifted my perspective in a major way and motivated me to take up a little more space in the creative world. Thank you for that.

In return, I’d like to utilize my experiences to teach you some of the valuable lessons I’ve learned as a meme, as a woman, as a Black person, as a shorty, as a performer, as a Will Ferrell lover, as a whatever other label I’ve been given over the years. The most important takeaway I hope this book will give you is how to embrace the act of evolution. Memes would not exist without their ability to morph and carry new meanings as they pass from person to person, and neither would I.

Speaking of evolution, I’m a completely different person than when I first sat down to write to you. When I started working on this book, I was just leaving a stable job of four years. I peeled off my security blanket (BuzzFeed) and was naked in the dawn of change. (This is both a metaphorical and literal analogy. I actually do sleep naked. People say, But Quinta, what if there’s a fire? And I’m just like, the streets will be blessed to see my gifts.) I had no clue what the future would hold for me, but I was excited to push myself even further and see what resulted. Since then, I’ve moved in with my boyfriend (who then became a fiancé). Got a cat. Transitioned from my twenties and into my thirties. Earned some money and then spent too much of that money. Deleted Twitter from my phone, redownloaded it, and then got rid of it again. Lost friends to demons and gained followers through jokes. Went to Costa Rica. Celebrated my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary. Got angry, got sad, got excited, and got motivated. Successfully gave myself passion twists. Uploaded, downloaded, cropped, and deleted. I sold a few shows and got a series regular job on HBO’s A Black Lady Sketch Show. It’s been a whirlwind, and I’m excited to share all of these experiences and more with you.

So . . . looks like we’re going to be hanging out together for a bit, and since you’re about to invite me into your life, let me invite you into mine: I’m currently sitting on my Crate and Barrel couch with my computer resting on my lap. There’s a lone Nike sneaker in the middle of my living room floor and my orange tabby cat, Jack, is eyeing me like I owe him rent. The sun is shining through my living room window because here in LA the sun is always doing shit like shining through windows. My jaw hurts for no specific reason, and I can’t wait to play Mario Party—but first—this. Let’s get into it.

1

V Is for Victory

I got a taste for the stage at the ripe age of five, dancing in one of those little-kid recitals nobody wants to go to. As soon as the theater began cheering and clapping for me (and, sure, for the other kids who were dancing up there with me, too), I knew I liked that feeling and would be chasing it forever.

To say I was an energetic kid would be an understatement. My mother, who is a dedicated and brilliant kindergarten teacher, always believed in solving problems with education. Seeing that I needed an outlet for my hyperactive tendencies, she signed me up for acrobatics and ballet as a way to get all of my restless energy out. It was a genius move: if you have a child who is literally spinning circles around you all day, flipping and knocking over the vase you just bought from Kmart, sign her up for dance class so at least those circles can look more like pirouettes.

When I first got to L and L Dance Productions, a modest three-floor rowhome turned dance studio, I immediately fell in love. First of all, the building itself was cool. The two studio spaces on the first floor had floor-to-ceiling mirrors up front, with a ballet barre attached to the back wall. The second floor was one big studio space with a locker room and another room for changing. The third floor served as creepy storage space you ventured to when you got older to be rebellious because no one was allowed up there. The lobby was filled with little girls who were giggling, gossiping, and jumping while waiting for their class to start. There were three women who ran the desk, affectionately known as Aunt Lynne, Aunt Linda, and Aunt Stacy. They somehow always seemed totally fine with all the wild energy.

On my first day, the main thing I noticed was that I was the smallest one in my class. Seeing myself next to all the other girls my age, I was immediately like, I know I was the shortest one in kindergarten, but dang—ya’ll taller than me too? Before this, I didn’t realize that I’d have that reaction every time I entered a group setting for the rest of my life.

Consistently being the smallest person in the room does either one of two things: it can help you be noticed, or it can help you be ignored. To be straight with you, when I was a little girl, my height made people fawn over me . . . a lot. I was fucking cute. I looked like a little bobblehead baby doll.

When it came to dance, though, the teachers were smarter than to let themselves be charmed by my adorableness. They had been there and seen cute. The question was: Could I perform? It was the exact challenge I needed.

The teachers were my favorite part of dance—they were all so cool and stern, so you had to work hard to impress them. You had to get good at your craft; you had to pay attention, hit your marks, and be technically proficient. When they said Positions! you got in those positions or else you delayed the whole class. When they said Point your foot! you pointed your foot, or else your perfect arabesque was worthless. They demanded excellence.

Two teachers stood out to me from my time at L and L. The first was Miss Hollie. Miss Hollie, who could’ve been anywhere from twenty-two to forty-seven (my age radar hadn’t developed yet), was the coolest person to me. She was a dancer for Philadanco, one of the best companies in America. At a quick glance, she looked like my sister Kiyana, pretty and soulful, and I liked that about her immediately. Most importantly, she once threw ballet shoes at the wall when a girl in the class wasn’t paying attention. That was badass, and earned my six-year-old respect.

Miss Hollie had a warm presence until the classroom door shut and it was time to learn some routines. Obviously, our early moves weren’t too complicated, because we were tiny, kid idiots, but like I said, there was still an expectation of excellence. Being held to such a high standard, we were made to feel like we were real dancers—even though we were basically playing a drawn-out game of Simon Says.

Early on in the lessons, Miss Hollie told us that something exciting was upcoming.

Okay, ladies, we’re going to start practicing a routine for the recital, she informed us, extending the pronunciation of the word recital. That’s how you know something is important—when someone really takes their time to enunciate the word. She said we’d be performing on stage, doing both ballet and acrobatics routines, in front of our parents and friends.

While most of the class was practicing a move I like to call picking a leotard wedgie out of the butt, I perked up. Recital. It sounded like something I’d be into, especially after the way Miss Hollie set it up. Doing routines on a stage with the lights on us and our families in the audience sounded so glamorous and special.

You’re going to need to work extra hard to show your families how much you’ve learned, Miss Hollie told us.

I solemnly nodded. A chance to show off in front of everyone? I was going to take this seriously.

The next time Miss Hollie yelled, Get in positions! I sprinted to my spot like my life depended on it. Having four older siblings in the house, I was rarely granted the opportunity to lead things, so in dance class, I took advantage of every chance that I got to run shit. We arabesqued and pliéd, being sure to point our feet perfectly to the classical music. I pointed as hard as I could in order to seem better than I was—ballet is all about presenting perfection, even when you’re in pain.

That pressure for perfection may have motivated me, but at the same time, it was good to have an outlet in my other L and L class: acrobatics. Acrobatics was really where my chaotic talents would shine. I loved tumbling and flipping and wanted to learn all that I could about how to defy gravity. My acrobatics teacher, Miss Denise, was cool and I immediately liked her. She was short like me and a bit less rigid than Miss Hollie. Rigid in that we were still doing flips and tricks that could literally break our necks, so you had to pay attention, but the mood of the class was fun. In ballet, we were firmly bouncing to Bach to prepare for the recital, while in acrobatics, there was a more laid-back vibe as we cartwheeled in prep for our big routine.

Okay, girls, Miss Denise hollered one day as we prepped. Now we’re gonna put this all to music. You ready? She popped a CD into the boom box and hit play.

Everybody get up, it’s time to slam now, Jelanna LaFleur’s voice rang out. We’ve got the real jam going down . . . Welcome to the Space Jam . . .

Yes, that’s right, we were going to be dancing to the Quad City DJ’s breakout hit from the Michael Jordan/Bugs Bunny vehicle Space Jam, aka one of the greatest basketball stories ever told. The movie had just come out and was all the rage in animation, music, and all-around hilarity. First graders like me gave it five stars. My personal favorite line? Let’s all laugh at the duck! The delivery from Daffy takes me out. What a comic genius. Anyway, young Quinta was ECSTATIC that we’d be performing to this song, and so was everyone else in the class.

Have you ever seen a group of five- and six-year-old aspiring ballerinas go HAMMER to bass music? It’s magnificent. As soon as the beat dropped, everyone started doing roundoffs and back handsprings, creating absolute chaos in the classroom. The CD would skip and Miss Denise would holler at us to get back to positions, until that chaos became more coordinated. This play-pause-groan process repeated itself for the next month or so as we learned our routines for the recital. Little by little, Miss Hollie and Miss Denise drilled the moves into our developing brains.

As the summer recital approached, Miss Hollie and Miss Denise started to page though the costume catalogs that were released every year from companies like Costume Gallery, Dansco, and Bloch. These magazines would be filled with frilly, fun, and glitzy outfits that could add some necessary dramatic effect to whatever song you were dancing to. Us kids would crowd around, trying to look over their shoulders and see what cute costumes we might be getting. I always tried to give my input, but they left me out of the important decision-making.

The day our costumes arrived, Miss Hollie and Miss Denise skipped warm-ups for the day, combined their classes, and had all the girls try on their ensembles instead. We were giddy and coming down off our sugar highs from lunch. I was so excited, I couldn’t stop hopping up and down.

Miss Hollie helped me into my ballet costume, a bluish leotard with sequins and a sheer skirt that made me feel like a fairy. I twirled and looked into the mirror. But the best was yet to come: my acrobatics costume, a cheerleader ensemble to match the Space Jam theme. The leotard was bright white with a satiny shine to it, with sleeves down to my wrists and gold sequin bands sewn on around the edges. It also had a turtleneck, you know, because nothing says breathable dancewear like long sleeves, gold handcuffs, and a turtleneck. The jazziness was highlighted by red sequin stripes down the skirt and a gold sequin belt. With new matching white acrobatic shoes, the look was complete. I felt like a Christmas ornament and looked like a disco ball. The red sequin V proudly displayed on the front of the leotard was everything. V, if you are wondering, stood for victory. What was it a victory over? I’m gonna say the Monstars!

See? Cute.

Then, from nowhere, Miss Denise pulled out the game changer: pom-poms. They were made of gold, well, at least to six-year-old me, it looked like gold. In reality (and after some googling) I’m pretty sure they were made of gold-colored Mylar. Regardless, they were the most luxurious and fun things I’d ever set eyes on. They were cute, they made noise, and doggone it . . . they meant I could be a real cheerleader if I wanted. If I close my eyes tight enough, I can still see the slinky metallic strands glimmering in my Dunkaroo-icing-covered hands.

At home that night, still in costume, I couldn’t put my pom-poms down. I sprinted around the house shaking them in my siblings’ faces, shrieking the lyrics to Space Jam.

These are pretty, huh? my exhausted, but entertained, mother said, affirming that they were indeed the epitome of childhood opulence.

Even though I wanted to live in the costume forever, my mother, who saw the pristine white shimmer as a challenge (and had four kids’ worth of experience when it came to keeping things clean), knew better than to let me wear my outfit beyond the initial fitting. Back into the bag it went, along with the gold pom-poms. It was almost painful to wait until the recital to wear my costume again, but somehow, I made it through the experience.

On the day of the recital, my mom took my face into her hands and looked me squarely in the eye and said, You know what?

What?! I yelled in extreme and unnecessarily loud little-kid volume.

You’re gonna be so good! she responded. I was feeling empowered and extremely antsy to show off my costume to my siblings. Hold on. My mom pulled out some makeup to add that finishing touch. It was my first time wearing makeup, and I can’t say that I loved it. I squirmed the whole time as my mom applied the foundation and rouge. It felt like I’d put on a second layer of skin, a restrictive skin that kind of itched.* I looked like a small Donna Summer.

I ran downstairs to show off my costume and gaudy makeup job. When I hit the living room, where the rest of my family was waiting to leave for the show, they had me do a little spin and show off some dance moves before they enveloped me in their versions of support.

My dad, who is the direct, no-nonsense type, looked me up and down. Look at you. Which is my dad’s language for You look so pretty and cute! You’re going to be so good, and I’m so happy I had you, even though you were a surprise! He’s the best. My brothers called me cute, but only to get the show on the road, their eyes fixed on the video game they were playing. My sisters fixed my hair and judged my mom’s makeup job. It was the beginning of a Brunson family recital-day tradition.

My family is close-knit, despite being big. Not TLC-Baptist-family big, but whenever I tell people in Los Angeles that I have four siblings, they go, Whoa, big family, so I guess it’s not that common. This is probably because it’s expensive as hell—I’m sure my parents could’ve been millionaires without all of us. They never thought about that, though—our home was filled with love, the kind money can’t buy.

My parents were searchers, both individually and together. They came from sometimes unstable homes and had parents that were present yet imperfect. Both entered adulthood deeply craving to be part of something better than what they had growing up. They wanted something that would prove to them that they’d be okay. Their search for a community eventually led them to each other, after which they were quickly married. They’ve been glued together ever since.

Both of my parents came up in the seventies, right after the decades-long civil rights movement came to an end. Hippies and Black Panthers were exploding onto the cultural scene across the United States. Philly in the seventies was a revolutionary playground filled with all sorts of clubs: poetry, jazz, disco, you name it. Everything was about nonconformity, standing out, and breaking boundaries. At their wedding, my parents vowed not to walk the path of their parents, but to do something different, something radical in their own right: they were going to stay together and create their own community, aka have a lot of kids.

At the time, Black Power movements were encouraging Black Americans to embrace their culture fearlessly. One of the ways my parents did this was by giving their children names with a direct African influence. Because of this, all of my siblings have powerful names that carry a lot of meaning. I’ve always loved the names my parents chose because they’re a sign of their pride and their resistance to the norms society had been pushing on them.

Their first child, Kalid, who is fifteen years older than me, is the oldest, tallest, and the most serious of us all. It’s my theory that he took the entirety of my family’s height genes for himself, leaving the rest of us to carry on the teeny frame of my mother. My parents chose the Arabic name Kalid because it means eternal. That’s very much how I see Kalid. He is an ever-present figure in my life who survives no matter what. Although I spent the least amount of time with Kalid because of our age difference, I always appreciated his spirit. Growing up with a brother who is that much older basically gave me free rein to be as fearless as I wanted to be. It wasn’t scary to mouth off or confront my childhood enemies because I knew I had a secret weapon: a very tall, very big, very protective older brother, who also happened to (maybe) have a gun.

Njia, who we call Jia, came three years later. Njia means the way in Swahili. Jia was very much the one who forged the way for us Brunson girls. She was always ahead of the curve when it came to fashion, looking immaculately put together at every event. Jia was the