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I Write About Viral Moments. Then I Became One


“I am contributing to your honeymoon fund on behalf of Michael Bloomberg,” he wrote. “Thank you for embarrassing the rest of us UNL School of Journalism grads.”

I know I messed up. That’s why I deleted the tweet: to prevent the spread of my miscalculation. It wasn’t just that it was personally humiliating—it was also plain wrong. I acknowledged it, and I tried to mitigate it. But the internet is not a place where you can have a brain freeze, make a dumb math mistake, and just live with the embarrassment. You must be shamed for daring to display your humanity. And if you’re a woman—especially a woman of color—that shame will arrive in the form of attacks on your identity and intelligence.

I lost count of the number of messages I received telling me to “go back to school,” as if one public math error negates my entire educational history and two college degrees. Many called into question my journalistic ability. “Look who she writes for,” one person remarked, aghast that I could have a successful career and have the audacity to be imperfect at the same time.

While the rest of the world may be shuffling onto the next viral moment, I am not afforded the opportunity to carry on as quickly. In this day and age—filled with an endless supply of memes and TikToks—we often fail to realize that the viral moment doesn’t end when we’re no longer entertained by it. Those who lived it must move forward in the real world, even if their viral persona remains forever frozen in time in the digital world.

After going viral, there is debris to pick up and clear. I still haven’t resurfaced on Twitter or unprotected my tweets, though that may change by the time this story is published. I have thousands of follower requests to sort through (I suspect many are trolls and/or bots). Eventually, I’ll need to put my website back up.

Every now and then I’m hit with a paralyzing fear: Will I ever live this down? I worry this one tweet will now come to define my legacy; that my tombstone is now fated to say, “Here rests Mekita. She could string words together, but boy was she bad at math.”

I know that’s letting the negativity and noise get to me. And although this experience illustrated how terrible people can be, it also revealed how unbelievably kind they can be, too. Occasionally as I waded through all those antagonistic messages, I’d come across rays of sunshine. “Hang in there,” several people remarked. Another said: “I wanted to reach out to let you know two things: one, you’re not alone and two, this will pass.” I nearly burst into tears.

Becoming a cultural talking point is bizarre. So much of it is out of your control. Once it happens, there’s no reset button. I thought deleting a tweet would prevent this whole debacle, but I was also severely underestimating my own reach. I will be much more deliberative about what I share and post online in the future.

But chief among all the lessons I’ve learned is this: There will always be people who think they know everything about you, probably based on little to no information. But the only person who knows you best is you. And no amount of viral notoriety can change that.

Mekita Rivas is a writer based in Washington, D.C. She regularly covers culture, style, travel, and wellness.



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Don’t Be Mad, but I’m a Feminist Who Decided to Write a Book About Men


I’ve always felt feminism to be like a block party: euphoric, emancipating, jubilant, and open to all. I often fear that many women in my generation think about it instead like a speakeasy: closed, password-protected, and open to the already enlightened.

The narrowing of feminism has presented itself in subtle and not so subtle ways. A few years ago, when I was on a panel and suggested that making the world better for women involved a plan for generating better men, the rhetoric I received was shocking, but familiar. “I don’t care about men,” one of the panelists said. I heard the retort and a round of applause from the audience and sat there dumbfounded. A few months ago, when I suggested that an abortion rights movement that is in peril should remind people that men who get women pregnant also benefit from a women’s right to choose, I was told that “there’s something slightly demeaning about framing women’s fundamental human rights as worthwhile because men have ‘personally benefited’ from them.” When I advised a Western government on a gender equality ministry program and suggested moving a sliver of the resources currently budgeted for girls over to boys to reach them how to be feminists, I was told none of the existing gender equality budget could go to them. For the last five years, when I’ve told people I am working on a book about how we need to develop a new kind of man in order to secure our freedom as women, I was routinely ridiculed. “Yes, because we don’t hear enough about men,” came the sarcastic sneer.

I am all for a feminism that decenters men. I am all for a feminism that puts women’s voices front and center. I am all for a feminism that seeks structural change and expects men to surrender power, but more and more I’m alarmed at a feminism that has no plan for men at all.

It wasn’t always like this for me. I too used to dismiss men’s role in the feminist movement. Men betrayed, harassed, assaulted, and traumatized me before I was even old enough to kiss one. I had to change schools due to violent bullying from the boys in my class. My experience with the opposite sex is far from unique. In fact, it’s shockingly normal and far worse for girls who aren’t white, middle-class, and able-bodied. In the United States, more than one in three women report domestic abuse from a partner in their lifetime. And in an average month, at least 52 women are shot and killed at the hands of an intimate partner. These are men women know. Never mind the men we don’t know.

To put it simply, women have been hurt and harmed by men for centuries, so as they’re enjoying increasing liberation, worrying about their oppressors isn’t on the agenda. It’s not like we don’t still have work to do on our own behalf. Despite major wins, poverty is still so feminized that the gender wealth gap is expected to take more than two centuries to close. Programs that benefit women have had to endure the steepest cuts under the Trump administration. Even in the make-believe world Hollywood creates to distract us from the grim world we live in, women are less likely to be protagonists and speak half as much as men do. Given that women already get a smaller slice of the pie, there is a legitimate concern that dedicating resources to men is shortchanging women.



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Crazy Rich Asians Is the Love Letter to My People I Never Had a Chance to Write


The first time I got to write a featured role for an Asian character was on a one-hour network TV drama. I was a staff writer and my showrunner told me he had an idea for my episode. “It’s about two sisters. Two HOT sisters. And they’re Asian. Like the Hilton sisters, but Asian.”

I’d like to say I was secure enough in myself and my views on cultural representation to tell him to stick it up the hole he was pulling these ideas from, but I didn’t. I was just psyched I had a job. Also, this was before Twitter, chronic wokeness, and #MeToo. Instead, I opened my notebook, licked my pen (figuratively), and asked, “So what are these two hot Asian sisters doing?” My showrunner shrugged. “They’re running around for two acts being hot.” I dutifully scribbled “Asians Being Hot” in my notebook.

That was just the beginning. That same showrunner also wanted me to feature Chinese triads, have them use Japanese throwing stars, and get into a kung-fu fight with our (white) lead. To not feel like I was totally selling out my race and culture, I tried to own it. Subvert expectations. I had the badass triads selling imitation handbags. (OK, that was more a dive into different stereotype.) I tried replacing the throwing star with another less culturally on-the-nose weapon: guns! And I tried to not have a scene between our other (also white) lead and his Chinese contact at a roast duck restaurant. I tried, but I failed. If you find this distasteful, it’s worth noting the episode did great with a 3.0 rating in the demo, which is astronomical for today’s standards. America did not share your squeamishness for racial stereotypes.

Adele Lim at the ‘Crazy Rich Asians’ premiere

That was over 10 years ago, and the shows I’ve worked on since have not come close to that level of doofy obliviousness. (Also, now that I’m more established in my career, I don’t put up with that nonsense.) But there are other issues I’ve faced in depicting my culture—or, more accurately, not depicting it. Of the dozen or so shows I’ve written on, none of them had an Asian lead. Only one had an Asian character in their main cast. And the few instances where I’d write a strong, sexually appealing Asian male guest character, I’d face pushback from the showrunner or casting. “Can he be Latino? Or African American?” was usually the first response, as if one minority was interchangeable for another. Casting would claim the talent pool wasn’t there, but I realized if I was an annoying enough jerk about it, they’d eventually find me the right actor.

So when director Jon Chu—who I’d worked with before, we sold a TV pilot together—asked if I’d be interested in working on the screenplay adaptation for Crazy Rich Asians (with co-screenwriter Peter Chiarelli), based on a book by Kevin Kwan featuring all Asian characters, my reply was not so much “yes” as it was “OH MY GOD. YES, PLEASE! WHEN CAN I START?!” It didn’t matter that I didn’t have the time (I was a full-time writer and producer on another TV show), had no idea how much or little money it would be, and I’d never written a movie before. I just knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and that I was going to make it work.

My rabid enthusiasm for the book went beyond the fact its entire galaxy of amazing characters was Asian. Jon didn’t know it, but I grew up in Southeast Asia in the same overseas Chinese community and culture the book is set in. (Alright, not the exact same culture—we were middle class. I like to say my family isn’t rich, but plenty crazy.)

In a world where the majority of lead characters is male and white and you’re not, that’s a constant challenge.

I came to the States at 18 for college and hustled for years before landing my first TV writing job in Los Angeles. I feel blessed and fortunate for the career I’ve had, but I’ve often felt that there was a level I wasn’t hitting in my work. “Write what you know” is the platitude most often leveled at writers. But in a world where the majority of lead characters is male and white and you’re not, that’s a constant challenge. I had to work doubly hard to make sure their lines sound authentic (enough) or to have a handle on their drives and motivations. And if I did pull from my own experiences, I had to translate them through a fractured prism to make them applicable to a white guy with a strong jawline.

With Crazy Rich Asians, I had to do none of that. I felt these characters in my bones—they looked and acted like my family members or people I knew. Their voices were ones I grew up with. Their vices, predilections, and obsession with food and luxury handbags were details etched in my DNA. One of my favorite scenes in the movie is one that isn’t in the book—we had to compress plot points to squeeze it into a two-hour movie—and that’s a scene of Rachel, the protagonist, playing Mahjong with Eleanor, her boyfriend’s mother.

MCDCRRI EC048

It was inspired by the countless hours my family has spent around the Mahjong table, telling stories, working out family issues, and trash-talking the living fuck out of each other. It sounds narcissistic, but I cry every time I watch that scene. Not because of the Mahjong, but because it’s a love letter to my world and my people. One I never had a chance to write before.

Jon Chu has said that he wants our movie to be a movement. And I hope it is, or at least the beginning of an age where we give voice to all people whose stories have yet to be told. Where minorities and women in this country get to be equally celebrated in movies and TV. Having had a taste of it, I know there’s no going back. Kiss my ass, Asian Hilton sisters.

Crazy Rich Asians is in theaters now.

Photos: Warner Bros./Everett Collection, Getty Images



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Jake Tapper on 'Hellfire Club': I Knew I Wanted to Write a Strong Woman


If you’ve taken Fiction 101, you may be aware of the golden rule: Write what you know. CNN chief Washington correspondent Jake Tapper stuck to this idea when he wrote his debut political thriller—to an extent. The Hellfire Club is rife with Beltway intrigue and backroom deals, but Tapper’s leading lady is what kept us turning pages. And we’re not alone: Margaret has been praised by Nicole Wallace and Elizabeth Banks, and is perhaps best described by a member of Senator Kirsten Gillibrand‘s staff as a “resourceful badass” and “true queen.” We checked in with Tapper to find out how it feels to be the creator of a woman readers won’t be able to stop thinking about.

Glamour: I know you’re getting all kinds of praise for your Margaret. Can you tell me a little bit about how she came to be?Jake Tapper: As a reader of thrillers, I was well aware that the usual formula is for a single, studly James Bond type to jump from martinis to romance to shootouts. I knew I wanted Charlie Marder to be married to a woman he was madly in love with, and I knew I wanted her to be strong. I think that’s sexier and more romantic than the normal prototype. As a fan of Nick and Nora from The Thin Man, I started off wanting them to have what I hope is witty repartee. As Charlie begins to compromise his principles, Margaret objects to what’s happening to the man she loves and admires. From there, she took on a life of her own.

Glamour: Have you been surprised by the response?JT: Absolutely. I don’t pretend to be Mr. Woke 2018 or to have any special insight into women. I’m just a normal meatheaded man, though I do read, so I’m aware of feminist criticism of art made by men—the Bechdel Test and such. So I’m kind of amazed readers out there think I pulled it off.

Glamour: What was it like to write a woman who is pregnant? I’d love to hear a little bit about your research here.JT: The first challenge was to give Margaret her own complicated backstory, involving her own family struggles and interests and ambitions. Then I wrote for her as I would for any character, though with more noble motivations, since she’s such a kind person of such character. When the book starts, Margaret has just found out she’s pregnant, so I did a lot of checking with my editor, who happens to be a woman, and also my wife (we have two kids), to make sure the physical challenges she faces as she enters her second trimester were even possible. There were some scenes that had to be rewritten because my editor insisted there wasn’t a pregnant woman alive who who would have Margaret’s stamina.

Glamour: Do you think the experience of writing Margaret has made you a better colleague, husband, or friend—or a more empathic one?JT: The simple answer is no. But I do think it’s make me a more critical reader when it comes to the roles of women in fiction, as written by men, and more appreciative of authors who make the effort to include many different types of characters. Look, I think part of it is, at least as far as I’m concerned, I didn’t want to mess it up. I felt a similar anxiousness about an African American character I wrote, in terms of: Who the hell am I to even attempt to create this character? That trepidation might be part of the issue for some authors. But I’m really glad I tried.





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What It's Like to Write a Movie About Confidence—When You Never Really Had Any


Self esteem. It can be really cagey, kind of like trying to get my cat in her carrier for the vet. It’s time consuming and involves a lot of chasing and crying and determination—and just when I really think I’ve got it, she somehow gets one paw out before the zipper is closed. Then I realize I don’t have it at all.

I’ll be in my car, driving to pick up my kids at school, and thinking I’m really killing it as a working mom with my DIY blowout and high-waisted, shredded-bottom jeans. Then, seconds later, I’m feeding the meter and a hot 23-year-old model walks by and I’m drained of all my self love. Only then do I notice that one of my husband’s no-snore nose strips is stuck to my ankle. I guess what I’m saying is: There are times when I feel great about myself and times when I don’t, and having any control over those times—when they start or abruptly end—feels pretty elusive.

I feel quite confident that I’m not the only woman who hasn’t achieved total mastery of self esteem. All of us have days, or at least moments, where we feel kickass. And moments where we feel totally unworthy. As a filmmaker, I think it’s OK—no, I actually think it’s crucial—to acknowledge that.

There are times, as a female filmmaker, that I feel pressure to present a fantasy-lady land. A world where all women are fully actualized, always confident, and without insecurities or self-doubt. Where they’re evolved beyond the cares of the mortal world, like appearance and men and dinner. But that’s not my truth, or the truth of anyone I know.

In developing female characters, my goal is for women to identify with them and laugh with them, precisely because they are, like us, imperfect. Only from there—seeing that we have all had this shared experience of having our self esteem undermined by people or things or pictures or comments or thoughts—can we collectively look toward a better way.

PHOTO: Kevin Winter

Abby Kohn with Michelle Williams, Busy Philipps, and Marc Silverstein at the ‘I Feel Pretty’ premiere.

I mean, everyone has their greatest hits, right? Those seminal moments in life where you were rejected, flattened, humiliated—the moments that seem to lay the groundwork for insecurities to come.

My greatest hits unspool so easily into my brain and pool out into my body with almost no prodding at all. I can still feel the tidal wave of sickening dread and shame that sped through me while clutching my Swatch phone as I listened to two different boys not-so-politely decline my invite to my first co-ed dance. (I went to an all-girls school and met one boy at mini golf. The other was in my brother’s school carpool. I can admit it wasn’t a slam dunk, but they were the only boys I knew.)

I think about the time I professed my love to an older boy who drove a Chrysler Cordoba and sometimes took me and my friend for chili fries after we saw his “band”—only for him to tell me he liked my friend and they really wanted to make the chili fries a couple’s thing. Or getting the nickname “Skeletor” from my friends—not because I was thin, but because my deep-set eyes plus hereditary dark circles made me look, I guess, dead.

I could go on, but right or wrong I interpreted all of these affronts as a referendum on my looks alone. I became a girl who’d never call a guy I barely knew to ask him to a dance or profess my love for an older boy, as I had done in the past. By the time I grew up, I knew who I was and what I looked like so, I believed, I knew better.

I see the beginning of my chicken and the egg there. Was I being passed over because of my looks? Or was I taking myself out of the equation because of the slights I had already endured, and the insecurities that had arisen because of them? Had I internalized all of my greatest hits so much that you could read it on my face, in my posture, in my everything—and that was the thing making me unattractive? I think my answer is, in large part, YES.

We’ve been trained for so long to believe that our looks carry weight, but it’s actually who we are and our confidence that really sets each and every one of us apart.

And that’s where we meet Renee, Amy Schumer’s character in I Feel Pretty. She moves through the world having already endured her greatest hits. Maybe, like me, when she asked her beloved aunt if she was pretty, her aunt told her she was really bright. Now, she’s passed over trying to place an order at a crowded bar, not because she’s unattractive but because she believes she’s unattractive. She puts that out into the world, and sometimes people treat her accordingly. When Renee changes and believes she’s beautiful (though we make it very, crystal clear that nothing has changed), she gets everything she’s ever wanted.

The belief that radical self confidence can mean so much is, I think, quite real. We’ve been trained for so long to believe that our looks carry so much weight, but it’s actually who we are and our confidence that really sets each and every one of us apart.

When I was in the third grade, I was asked to be in the sixth grade musical. It was thrilling. I felt like good things could lay ahead for me at Third Street Elementary, as long as I nailed my part of Winthrop, the male kid with a lisp in our school production of The Music Man. I did kind of nail it, in my corduroy knickers (inexplicably in style in the mid-’80s) and my borrowed penny loafers. I had a solo song—”Gary, Indiana”—and I’m pretty sure I killed. But then, running up on to the stage for my curtain call at the end of the show, one of the loafers (damn Alexandra and her slightly wider feet) came flying off. I tripped and fell on my face. On stage. In front of everyone. I quickly got up, stunned, took a humiliated bow, then hid behind the sixth graders, crying, while they took company bows.

I FEEL PRETTY

PHOTO: Mark Schäfer

Abby Kohn on the set of ‘I Feel Pretty’ with Marc Silverstein.

After the show, my dad valiantly tried to explain that no one even noticed my fall. And if they did, they just thought it was a “character choice.” He told me they loved my song, my lisp, my corduroy knickers—they didn’t even notice that thing at the end. That’s when I got my first taste of his Glass Menagerie speech. It was a good speech, something my dad would roll out when necessitated by any number of childhood and adolescent calamities.

It went a little something like this (and apologies to Tennessee Williams for this, I’m really just trying to paraphrase Jim Kohn’s interpretation of the work, as told to a hysterical 9-year-old): In the Glass Menagerie, Laura has a limp. It has held her back her whole life. Convinced that people are always whispering about her and judging her, she could barely stand going to high school and has gone out little in the years since. Then, a popular boy comes over who remembers her from high school, and she reminds him that she didn’t have many dates then or now because of the obvious limp. His response, “What limp?” All these years, she’s been limiting herself, her life, because of this flaw, and the fact is most people didn’t even notice or care. I think about that speech a lot. It resonates even more now than when I was 9, and I think my dad—and I guess American playwright and literary legend Tennessee Williams—were onto something.

We all obsess about our perceived flaws—our looks, our talents, our intelligence—but what if it isn’t those perceived flaws at all, only our belief in them, that is holding us back from our dreams? What if a single step toward radical confidence in ourselves got us closer to our dreams?

If that can be a goal for young women—on par with, or even overtaking, the desire for smaller pores or those very pointy fingernails—I will be a very happy, slightly-less-young woman.



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