The New Year’s Eve before I was leaving home for good I sat in my near empty apartment full of boxes waiting. It was our last NYE together as best friends turned lovers who were holding on to something we both knew had to end. I waited. I called. I texted. Waited some more. He was out getting plastered and I was the last stop of the night. When he finally walked through the door in the wee hours of the morning, I chastised him about how he had ruined what was supposed to be a memorable night, our last one together. By the time we finished arguing we sat on my cream leather loveseat with our thighs nearly touching. The January breeze whistled through the sliding patio door.

“Bené, I have to let you go. If I don’t I’ll be holding you back.”

Like all of the other important men in my life, he was full of I love yous and tears but wouldn’t stay. My second favorite poet, Nayyirah Waheed, says, “Stay is a sensitive word. We wear who stayed and who left in our skin forever.” I tried to fight it, fight for us, but somehow my brain knew what my heart couldn’t yet understand. It was best this way. I was leaving home, destined for greatness, and deep down we knew I was never coming back. And he was never going to leave. We salvaged the early morning by making love for the last time.

A few days later I drove my little two-door Chevy to the cornfields of Indiana to embark on what I thought would be the solution to me throwing away my dream of becoming the female Johnnie Cochran.

As a little girl I don’t remember knowing what I wanted to be when I grew up. I only dreamt of being rich and famous. Someone’s name everybody knew. To have the means do some good in the world. I always did exceptionally well in school, but I didn’t like science or math. The medical field was out. I didn’t like kids enough to want to teach. I was into the arts, which is why I’d auditioned for dance and drama for Nashville School of the Arts and was accepted for both. Thoughts of attending Julliard to become a professional dancer were shot down with the “dancers don’t make no money” my family had repeated like a psalm. Misty Copeland says hi, Ma. So when I graduated high school in three years I’d settled on being a lawyer. I was a great debater, which is the clean way of saying I loved to argue. I found the law to be interesting enough, and a six figure salary seemed like having it all back then. Besides, I wasn’t going to be just any lawyer; I was going to be the female Johnnie Cochran. When I stepped onto Tennessee State University’s campus in the fall of ‘02, I declared Chemistry as my major. I’d let my mom convince me I could become a pharmacist, a career that didn’t require med school and I could make 100K a year out the gate. The way she saw it, like most people of our parents generation and the one before them, you go to school to get a good job and you work that job until you retire. But by my second semester I’d changed my major to English.

English was always my favorite subject. And although I’d always written from a young age— raps, poetry, essays — I wasn’t majoring in English to become a writer. I’d read somewhere that law schools preferred English majors over Political Science majors because it meant we could write, analyze and think critically. It never dawned on me that I could be a writer until I was on my way to grad school at 23. The LSAT had proven to be much more challenging than I’d expected. I’d always done so well in school that I underestimated the difficulty of culturally biased standardized tests like the LSAT. I did horribly. In my defense, I didn’t really study for it either. I retook it while in grad school after taking a LSAT prep course and did better, but not good enough. There were also the bad decisions I’d made in my wild early 20s that would have to be disclosed when it came time for me to pass the bar exam, so that was that on my law school ambitions. It took me a year into grad school to box up my LSAT prep books, law school applications and all the information I’d collected about law schools over the years. A sadness of finality washed over me that day as I closed the chapter on who I once thought I’d become. New dreams were on the horizon and I was now committed to becoming a journalist, more specifically, a writer. I believed I could be of service to the world by writing for the marginalized, the people overlooked, underrepresented and stereotyped. The media had gotten our communities wrong so often, and I was going to be the one to right those wrongs.

Once I’d conquered grad school I set my eyes on New York City. My one and only media internship at VIBE had solidified NYC was this dreamy fantasy that I had to make a reality. I’d make it in NYC then I could make it anywhere. In the summer of 2010, fresh out of grad school, I visited my then boyfriend, a New York native, and never left.

It took me until April 2012 to land my first full-time media job. I substitute taught and took a gig at Harlem Children’s Zone as I waited for my big break. In hindsight, that delay and rejection would come to be symbolic of how I’d spend the next eight years working in NYC media. In between August 2010 and April 2012 I was making a name for myself freelancing for sites like the now defunct thefreshxpress.com and clutchmagonline.com. My opinions were bold, confrontational and sometimes loud and wrong, but people were paying attention. An editor for Essence.com had become familiar with my byline through me constantly churning out my opinion on everything from relationships to feminism to race. When people say you can’t pay bills with opinions I can tell they don’t know any writers. I paid many bills from doing just that. Eventually I was able to parlay those op-ed pieces into reported pieces for ESSENCE, the site and later the magazine. Print clips were King because as we saw it, anybody could write online but you had to really be skilled to write for the mag. ESSENCE was the first bucket list publication I checked off my list. VIBE was the second.

VH1 called in the spring of 2012. I went all out for my interview and writing test because I had to get this job. We’d grown up watching VH1 Behind the Music. It was home to the iconic Flavor of Love and For the Love of Ray J. Having the network’s name on my resumé would be a game changer. I killed my interview and within a week I’d accepted the job offer, moved to my first Brooklyn apartment, alone, and left my Long Island dwellings and boyfriend behind.

Nothing about VH1 was a traditional media job. I was the go-to girl for the network’s ratchet reality shows that I still watch. I worked with talent. I produced video content. I did live web shows, on-camera interviews. Most days I was writing at least six pieces a day and editing photos for each one. It was a bootcamp of sorts. A faux cool pop-culture vibe, but still corporate America. It was also my introduction to The Industry. The open bars. Free concerts. Interviewing artists in their studios. The album listening parties. Not many people can say they were at Kendrick Lamar’s NYC listening party for his classic debut, good kid, m.a.a.d. city. But I was there listening to the album on blown out speakers before it was released.

Being in the streets at events Monday through Thursday got old. Quick. And I’d noticed people only wanted to get close to me because of where I worked. The same people who’d ignored my emails when I was a freelancer were on my dick when I suddenly had that VH1 title behind my name. I vowed then I’d never put my job in any of social media bios, or mention where I worked unless it was absolutely necessary. I wanted to be known and respected as Bené, not Bené who works at whatever company.

In the years since those early VH1 days I’ve added more household name brands to my resumé that most people would never know, and a few niche sites like The Frisky (RIP) where I did some damn good work. I also was never not freelancing. Multiple streams of income. One by one I was knocking off bucket list goals: GQ, New York Times, historic magazine cover stories, interviewing my favorite artists and eventually ending up on a magazine Masthead as an editor. But in the midst of some pretty dope achievements, shit wasn’t all sweet. By year three I hated The Industry. You couldn’t pay me to attend events. The scene was the same ol’ people and I found a lot of them to be phony. There are some really good people in media, but I struggled with folks caring more about being popular than wanting to master the craft. Regular ass writers behaved like they were real life celebrities. It was a smart hustle though. Social media popularity and clout-chasing turned into some big bags and opportunity for folks. I can’t hate on that. Instead I turned my focus away from being the radical chick with opinions and started doing only reported pieces — profiles, cover stories, Q&As, longform journalism. I didn’t want editors hitting me up to do hot takes every time some racist did some racist thing. I made it my goal to insert myself as a black woman in the spaces people deem prestigious. Sadly, there is a hierarchy in media and black publications are at the bottom of the totem pole. Several white editors did not take me seriously until I had clips from mainstream publications.

After being laid off from Centric TV (now called BET Her), I’d become jaded and uninspired. It was my second lay-off (a total that grew to five), always due to budget cuts. I was in what I call a professional hell from 2015-2018. The highs were extremely high but too infrequent. And the lows were so low I had to drive right over to the SNAP office on Myrtle Ave. to apply for food stamps and Medicaid. Depression knew me intimately and insomnia may as well have been my lover. Rejection was eating away at my insides like a ravishing incurable disease. I’d ask God why She didn’t give me a gift that didn’t involve rejection, or at least one where me having a Master’s meant I could have some sort of stability.

Money was the number one source of all my problems, but the inner turmoil of my career not being what I thought it should be was a close second. Sacrificing so much for a career that’s not producing the results you’d envision takes a toll on you mentally. I had to pay my university to intern at VIBE. I paid out of pocket to live in NYC for that summer. When I landed VH1 that was all me. Nobody made any calls on my behalf. I got it out the mud like all hustlers do.

The growing jadedness and feeling of defeat made me self-isolate. Friends mean well, but they give the worst advice. “Everybody can tell you how to do it; they never did it.” Friends legit told me I could write my way out of my circumstances as if a pile of money would magically fall in my lap if I just sat down and wrote. Other “friends” and associates dipped because it was no longer beneficial. When my cover stories were going viral, or I’d written for some new white publication, it was great to cheerlead for me and do the “I’m so happy to know you” spiel. When I stopped posting any milestone achievements people ghosted. It was no longer cool to be next to me or even show public support on the rare occasion I would promote my work. An editor I’d written for for over six years as a freelancer, and had worked for their brand for two summers in a row, had the power to hire me and acted clueless when I asked her why she hadn’t. I desperately needed the job and I was over qualified for it if anything. That kind of betrayal from every angle scarred me, but it made me appreciate all the people who still go up for me even though instead of career announcements I mostly post bad bitch pics on the ‘gram.

No sane person would choose the life of a creative. Writing is not like singing or songwriting. Our favorite artists have created their greatest work in times of heartbreak and doubt and loneliness and fear. We only want a Mary J. album if she’s going through it. Kendrick was admittedly depressed while making To Pimp A Butterfly. Lemonade is the result of Jay Z’s trifling community dick. Well, this ain’t that. This is the first thing I’ve written since May. Any creative who creates dope shit will tell you you become paralyzed, unable to create, when you’re trying to survive. What sane person would choose this life? And what do you do when writing is the only thing you think you’re kind of good at?

January marks ten years since I left the place I’d called home for ten years. And it’s once again time to pack up and leave the place I’ve lived the longest since leaving home.

Our souls know when it’s time to close a chapter. For about the past three years I’d been feeling like I was over NYC, but as much as I’d say it I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. Every time I was sure was the time I was out of here, another job would come through at the last hour. This time I’m certain. My lease ends on December 31st. There’s no way I’ll find another one-bedroom in BK for even close to what I’m paying when I moved in this apartment almost five years ago. But strangely, even with all the stress of of planning a major move during the holidays, having the date feels like confirmation from the universe. It’s time. I came, I saw, I conquered. I loved and lost and loved again. I gave NYC everything I had in me. We had the best of times and the worst of times. I did everything I set out to do except, well, that one thing. But it’ll happen. And I don’t need to be here for it to manifest.

What’s next is a question that consumes me day and night. It’s as terrifying as it is freeing. What I want is constantly changing as I evolve. And truthfully, I don’t know. I think it’s time for palm trees though. And beaches and space and serenity and maybe a cute little puppy. Somewhere for my old ass to lay down roots where I don’t feel like every day is a hustle and struggle just to survive. I’m tired of surviving. I’m ready to live.

Ten years ago when he told me he had to let me go I didn’t understand. How do you love someone and let them go? Now I get it. He didn’t really let me go as we’re still best friends. But he had to let go of how we were at that particular time in order for me to flourish. He knew I would not have experienced what was necessary for my growth had he stayed. And I was too much of a recovering undercover over lover to have the strength to say goodbye.

Ten years have passed since that New Year’s morning and it’s time to leave again. I smile because he was right. Nayyirah was right too. We wear who stays and who leaves in our skin forever. But sometimes we’re the ones doing the leaving. And sometimes to leave is to live.

The mayor tweeted about you. He posted that Making Your Mark on the World pilot video. I only made it to 1:27 before the tears fell.

Since I heard the news via text I’ve had a hard time coping with the words RIP next to your name. Because being dead at 32 doesn’t make much sense. You were very much alive when we talked a little over a week ago. And now that you’re not, I don’t understand the whys and hows.

Ten days ago I texted you to see how the preparations for the move to Atlanta were going. You said you had a lot to do so you’d postponed the move. You were going to have an intimate going away party at Angel Harlem. I was so proud of you although I was secretly sad you were leaving. Remember I kept calling this our glo’ up season? We were about to glo’ up on everybody. You at CNN.com as the entertainment editor, me writing for new mainstream publications. It was our time.

I remember the day we met. It was June 06, 2011 at a NYABJ meeting. We had a good laugh with Jessica because me being me, I raised my hand to ask a very blunt but relevant question. We still laugh about that to this day. The next day I emailed all of you so you’d have my contact info. You were the only person on the thread who responded.

Hey Bené,

Good meeting you as well. Let’s make some things happen for NYABJ — it’s apparent they really need us.

Hit me on Twitter: @MFeeney and @NYDNMFeeney.

All the best,

Michael J. Feeney
Staff Writer
NY Daily News

That’s the kind of man you were.

Who knew a year later you’d be running things as president of NYABJ. You were literally the only reason I came to those damn meetings. I’m not a big fan of forced networking. You’d tell me that was all the more reason to come. At your last meeting as president I beamed with pride seeing you at that podium. You were a beacon of light for the org. Instead of complaining about the things you wanted to see done with NYABJ, you sprung into action. When you emailed me at the end of 2011 to tell me you were running, I knew you’d win. How could you not? So seeing you honored for your four years of service, and everyone toasting you for everything you’d accomplished, was a proud moment as your friend. Even though the meeting was to celebrate you, the first thing you said when you saw me was, “Awww man. I meant to shout you out.” I had just written the Shonda Rhimes covers, and you, in your moment, were thinking about how you wanted the room to celebrate me.

That was the kind of man you were.

The last time we hung out was the night of the NYABJ Christmas party at Clyde Frazier’s. You had a cold. I could tell you were tired and slightly sick. You weren’t your usual upbeat self. I waited with you until the party was over as you rolled up some banner. Even on your way out the door you were still working. You drove me to the train in your white car with NY press plates. I didn’t even know press plates existed until hanging with you. In the car, I had just received the edits to a major piece and was near tears. I hated the edits. You were talking and I was halfway listening because I was knee deep in writing an email over the edits. I read you the email and you laughed in my face. You flat out told me not to send that email. It was too emotional and could be interpreted wrong. I scrapped it and sent something with less words, less feelings. We sat in the car for a few minutes to talk before I got on the train. When I got home I texted you, “Thanks for reeling me back in. That email I was about to send was about to be too LIT.” Your response: “Lol. You have an opportunity that few ever get. You are a good writer and they know it. I’m proud of you and proud to call you my friend. Keep up the good work! Sometimes you just gotta keep your emotions in check. You’re too good to be showing out! Lol.”

That was the kind of man you were.

Always looking out, always wanting to see everyone shine, always being a friend that told me the truth — not just what I wanted to hear.

I’m so angry that was the last time I hugged you. That I’ll never ride in that white car again. That I’m fighting to remember what your laugh sounds like.

Over the last year that our friendship grew, I don’t think I got to tell you that you were the only person who I consistently talked to about the thing we always talked about. We encouraged each other. You passed on contacts. I texted to see how you were doing. We threw shade at silly things celebs were doing. When I wrote that Chi-Raq review on my blog you texted me how I needed to pitch it and be paid for that piece. You were always thinking about the work and how us writers should be compensated for it.

That’s the kind of man you were.

Remember when we started getting close. You told me I needed a male brain trust for the men I was dating. I texted you about this guy I was talking to who went to Delaware State with you. You told me he was good people. But you thought everybody was good people. You had love for everybody. I told you the guy and I had no chemistry. You told me to give it time. It didn’t work out, but I appreciated that you were hopeful. That’s when our friendship blossomed.

I’ve sobbed on and off all evening. I aimlessly checked Twitter and Facebook to read people’s amazingly kind words about you. Through the grief I keep going back to our texts. Even through tears I smile and laugh at some of the things we used to write in those texts. It’s so unreal that you’ll never text me again.

To think that you went into cardiac arrest when you had the heart of gold is not lost on me. Before today I always thought the saying “the good die young” was stupid. I mean, the good die at all ages. I think I understand now. You were just 32. You are still supposed to be here.

Your accomplishments in journalism go without saying. And many people will honor you with their words over the upcoming weeks. I know what I’ve written here doesn’t do you justice. I really don’t have the words but I had to write. You, more than anyone, would understand that.

As I end this I’m thinking about October. We went to a booty modeling event together and had one of the best nights I’ve had in NYC. A freaking booty modeling event! Man, I miss you already.

Trust and know you were loved. How you touched people, how you connected people, how you lived life, will never be forgotten. In your honor we’re all going to live a little more and write a little harder.

I’m incredibly grateful to call you a friend. You saw the best in me.

Tell God I’d prefer it if you were here with us, but I at least know you’re up there with a pen in your hand, taking notes. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Rest in love, my friend. The good really do die young.

By now you’ve likely seen the news: I wrote my very first cover story. I say you’ve likely seen it not out of arrogance, but because it was an epic unveiling. “Good Morning America” exclusively revealed all six covers on September 10 at 8:30 a.m. I shamelessly tuned in. And DVRd. The cover story rollout took over my social media for an entire day. Literally. My mentions on Twitter were in shambles. I had no idea my announcing of it would be retweeted  by more than a handful of people, let alone by nearly 400. I received a boatload of Facebook requests (all of which I can’t accept so please look for me here). My testimony on “doing the work” has 145 shares and 278 likes. Kerry Washington and Shonda and Viola and more reposted their covers on Instagram and Twitter. Joan Morgan who helped shape my feminism gave me an amazing compliment on FB. Ava DuVernay posted the covers and favorited my tweet. It was a day of magic. Not so much because of me, but because it was historic. In ESSENCE’s 45 year existence they’ve never done six covers for one story. And that is the power of Shonda Rhimes, ladies and gentleman.

I won’t rehash the “inspiring” and “you brought me to tears” backstory because the FB status is public and you can read it there. I want to take you behind the scenes of what it was like being in the presence of such #BlackExcellence in the opulent Palace Hotel in the Katz Jewel Suite for two days. From all accounts, it was the first time all three casts of Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal and How to Get Away with Murder were in the same room. It certainly was the first group photo they’d taken for a magazine spread. Sure they see each other on red carpets in passing or at the ABC Upfronts — Upfronts is when networks announce their fall programming lineup. But the cast had never been together in this way.

This photo was shared between ESSENCE, Entertainment Weekly and People. The camaraderie was apparent. The loving energy was palpable. These 35 or so people who all work under the Shondaland umbrella genuinely liked and respected each other. As you’ll read in the piece, it’s due to Shonda’s “no asshole” policy that she’s very serious about. There was lots of laughter. A lot of hugs. Basically a family reunion without the potato salad and electric slide.

The day after the group shot was all ESSENCE (read: all the Black folks). It was magical. I’ve been on magazine shoots before for stories like my Raisin in the Sun profile starring Diahann Carroll and Anika Noni Rose. But never a cover story shoot, and it was quite different than a package shoot. First of all, walking in to The Palace Hotel for two days (three if you include Viola’s shoot) as a Black girl with blue hair felt so good. I felt the stares. I imagine many people wondered what could a Black girl with blue hair do for a living. I smiled at everyone with my head held high. The Jewel Suite is pure decadence. From the Martin Katz crystal chandelier to the spiral staircase to the decor. And the 54 stories skyscraper view is top-notch. It’s a suite you wish you could afford so you could come back alone, or with a love, to enjoy a weekend staycation to pretend as if this is your real life. However, there’s not much time to bask in the beauty of the suite. There’s lots of movement and lots of waiting, too.

Tons of people are around. The celebrities. Their PR. The network’s PR. Hairstylist. Wardrobe stylist. Barbers. Manicurist. Photographer. Beauty Directors. Creative Directors. And so on. I had 10 people to interview in one day. Viola Davis was interview number 11, but her shoot was scheduled for a different day. Interviewing 10 people in between hair, makeup, styling and their photoshoots sounds like pure chaos. Not to mention some of them are household names like Kerry Washington, Chandra Wilson and of course Shonda Rhimes. There’s limited time because schedules are tight. However, I have zero complaints on how everything ran. It was a long, long day that ran smoother than a baby’s bottom. The ESSENCE team along with ABC’s PR helped me grab the actors as they were available. Everyone was so down to earth and chill. No egos. They were super personable. I can’t tell you how many of the actors said, “Oh my god, I LOVE your hair!”

I was most nervous about interviewing Shonda Rhimes and Viola Davis. Shonda is the most powerful showrunner in television. And if you’ve read enough of her interviews or follow her on Twitter you know she is no-nonsense. A brilliant woman who is not here for anyone’s foolishness. I was nervous about Viola for different reasons but nervous nonetheless. Shonda’s warmness surprised me. She was genuine. You could tell why everyone under the Shondaland family praised her. It wasn’t like two old girlfriends catching up, but it was two women — both writers — talking to each other with a respect and acknowledgment of their crafts. Viola was just as warm. Serious about what she wanted to convey, serious about the craft of acting, but nice. She dropped a really good gem about being yourself and how the status quo doesn’t change because everyone in Hollywood is trying to be a version of someone else and no one speaks up.

Alfred Enoch who plays Wes in HTGAWM was funny with his delightful British accent. Aja Naomi King who plays Mikaela in HTGAWM is both gorgeous and just a good soul. We had the same “Love” tattoo. We had quite a few ki kis. And Jerrika Hinton who plays Stephanie Edwards on Grey’s was a vibrant thing. Her personality lit up the room. She told this amazing story about Debbie Allen when I asked her the funniest moment of filming on Grey’s. She responded:

Yes! Just this season, I can’t remember what episode we were shooting, but it was group scene in the ER, nobody…For some reason something was happening. There was something in the air that day and we couldn’t keep it together. Like, we were trying to do this really serious thing and this trauma comes in, and Kevin is yelling all these orders at us and we just keep cracking up. Nobody can hold it together and Debbie was directing that episode. After about five times Debbie just runs out and she’s like, ‘OKAY EVERYBODY, ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT. ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE…’ And everybody, like everybody: crew, cast, everybody just jumps in ‘ONE, TWO, THREE…’ And she got it out of us. [Laughter]

And then you were ready to get back to work? I asked.

And then we could do it. That’s the magic of Debbie Allen.

It’s been a beautiful struggle. I’m already on to the next thing. People have moved on to the next topic. But I couldn’t not recognize this moment for what it is. It is proof that doing the work matters. Believing in yourself matters. Never giving up matters. Not only does it matter, it produces results. It took me five years of professional writing to get here. I’ve written plenty for free. I’ve written some horrible things that I hope are scrubbed from the ‘net. I still pitch ideas and never hear back from editors. I physically went to offices with my resume but couldn’t get past security. I’ve emailed editors to set up coffee dates to no avail. I’ve paid my dues. It took me two years to land my first media job. I could write a book alone on that suffocating two year period. Since then I’ve suffered through two layoffs. But somehow I’ve kept writing and remained committed to the craft. I’m happy to be part of such a historic moment with my ESSENCE family. And even happier that my first cover star was a brown girl from suburban Chicago who is at the top of her field all because she “imagined things in her head” and with her words made them a reality.