So this is love?

I sit and watch you shave, I’m obsessed with the movement of your hands, the innate knowledge you hold from a decades long practice.

You notice me, and give a swift and concentrated smile.

I always sit and watch you, waiting for you to notice, balancing the thrill of getting caught and holding your attention, even for just a moment.

So this is love.

You call for me to wash your hair, our weekend routine, I jump at the chance to please you.

I wash and massage your head, with the dexterity that comes from years of trying to do it the way you like.

“Where is your sister”, you ask with a tinge of sternness.

I am here too, you know.

So this is love!

I watch you sleep, you look the most comfortable you’ve ever been when you can finally rest.

You awake, blink at me, then roll over.

I contemplate wrapping my arm around you, but I don’t want to be a bother.

I turn over too.

So this is love.

I always spend too much money on your gifts.

“This is too much”, you always say modestly. I respond that I would give you the world if I could.

I only know how to love through money.

So this is love?

I hold my head high and wait for praise when I proudly state I finished all of our chores.

You ask “where is your sister” sternly.

I shift my gaze and retreat, trying to keep the conversation light.

You look at me blankly and say most of the time you have no clue what I’m talking about.

So this is love!

Shut up.

Speak now.

Be good.

Be trouble.

Looked at like a woman, stared at like a woman, but treated like a girl.

I am a woman.

See me.

Look at me.

Don’t look at me.

I’ll take you seriously, if you beg.

Girl on fire or girl who doesn’t want to be contained.

Girl on the run, or girl who wants a cage.

Girl who needs to calm down, girl who wants to rage.

Look at me.

Don’t look at me.

Look at me so I feel better.

Look at me because you want to feel better.

I can make you feel better, then you don’t need me.

You can make me feel better, but it’s fleeting.

Look at me.

Don’t look at me.

Stare at my face and find the imperfections.

I stare at yours and find none.

Tell me you love me, that’s all I need.

I tell you I love you, that’s no big thing.

Tell me you hate me, that’ll sting.

I tell you I hate you, and we both know I’m lying.

Write to me.

Talk to me.

Look at me.

Don’t look at me.

When I was younger I couldn’t wait to be an adult. Although I didn’t want to grow up too fast or anything like that, I wanted to have control over my life. As a kid who had to grow up quicker than I would have liked to, I saw being older as my golden ticket. Some of us just have no choice but to grow up fast and learn quick. If only I was older, I could go where I want, do what I want, and answer to no one. I no longer had to explain myself for anything, and I could finally live on my own terms. Fast forward to twenty-three years old, and ten year old Stacey couldn’t have been more wrong in some aspects. Yes, there is a whole new set of things that I can do as an adult, however, there are limits to the free passes I get at twenty-three years young. For example, I don’t have a license so I can’t just get up and go as I thought I could as a kid. Even if I did have a license, I have absolutely no way to pay for a car, or car insurance, a concept ten year old Stacey couldn’t grasp. Now let’s be clear, I still have about a month left to say I’m twenty-three, still a prime age to not have my life together. Ten year old Stacey also didn’t prepare me for the existential crisis you are bound to go through in your twenties. You’re old enough to be an adult, but no one treats you as such. Everyone acts as if you aren’t experienced enough and ready for the world, when the truth is that they just don’t trust you enough to make good decisions for yourself or your future. Ten year old Stacey didn’t prepare me for a lot of things, but she was fearless. Younger Stacey was bold, creative, and didn’t take no for an answer. So while I was trying to be older and able to make my own decisions, I didn’t realize I was losing that passion for life and the future that I had. So while I am happy I learned (the hard way) how credit cards and taking care of myself works, I want to remember who I was at ten, and who I wanted to be. I no longer want to limit myself now, because I didn’t back then. Life is tough, and turning twenty-four is scary and exciting, but I will push to be that bold ten year old Stacey again. I heard your thirties are better anyway.

I recently wrote about my experience on the Andrew Yang campaign and how my dream job turned into a nightmare. It was a toxic workplace and I had to escape, and the day I resigned I took a breath for the first time in months. I took two months to sleep for the first time in forever, and I just stopped and thought about all of the things I had missed while diving head-first into politics (it was a lot fyi). Being in politics will do that to you though, your job IS your life and the quicker you get used to it, the better off you’ll be. I mention this because I thought right after resigning from my job, that would be the lowest point of my life, right? Well welcome to 20-fucking-20, the year of broken plans and horrible outcomes from a relentless pandemic. I thought resigning from my job and feeling lost was just reserved for the beginning, not the beginning, middle, and through a never ending quarantine. I used to consider myself a homebody, until, of course, I was stuck at home with my never ending thoughts for months on end. During my daily routine of going between my bedroom and living room, I stare at the indentation on my couch cushion. It wasn’t there months ago, but now I’m pretty sure it will never go away. While looking at it, and inevitably sitting in it, it brings comfort and pain. Who am I? What am I doing with my life? Where will I be in five years? These broad questions probe me everyday, taunting me while I sink a bit lower into the couch and my feelings while obsessing about the ‘what ifs’. However, with months of thinking, you also start to think about what you’re doing right, and I am not wasting anything. I actually do a lot with various political organizations, and while I may not be on top of the world of political campaigning, I will get there in due time. Most importantly, I remind myself that I matter, and I always will. So while quitting my job right before a pandemic really messed with my world domination plans, I’m taking this time to become a better person. So I think I will let my therapist know that I cried but also laughed this week, I’m still on this roller coaster called life, I will keep working on my sanity, and I’ve moved to the middle couch cushion.

As a young Black girl, I was too Black for the boys I liked.

As a young Black girl, I was too Black for my Florida school.

As a young Black girl, I wasn’t Black enough for my Chicago school.

As a young Black girl, I tried my hardest to be as Black as I could.

“You are a smart, young Black woman.”

As a Black teenage girl, I pushed myself.

As a Black teenage girl, I strived for perfection.

As a Black teenage girl, I knew that I had to work twice as hard to get half as far as they do.

As a Black teenage girl, I took a bus and two trains for a quality education.

As a Black teenage girl, I just wanted to be a Black teenage girl.

“You are a smart, young Black woman.”

As a young Black girl in college, I was either an experiment or a fetish for men.

As a young Black girl in college, I, again, was too Black, but also not Black enough.

As a young Black girl in college, I figured out that you never grow out of being the Black friend.

As a young Black girl in college, I figured out I wanted to help change the world.

“You are a smart, young Black woman.”

As a young Black woman, I struggle to get a seat at any table.

As a young Black woman, my kindness is tested.

As a young Black woman, people say they believe in me, but they don’t.

As a young Black woman, I am tired.

As a young Black woman, I am smart.

As a young Black woman, I am Stacey Berry.

I began working for the Andrew Yang campaign at the end of September, 2019. Fresh out of college with an International Relations degree, I had a hunger to get into politics. I remember waking up early on the first day of the job, I sprung out of bed and was contemplating what to wear. “Should I go for a more formal look, or business casual?” I wondered to myself, and settled on a denim shirt, black slacks and flats. Business casual it was, dressy enough to let the office know I cared about my appearance, but not too dressy where I seem intimidating. I remember looking at my boyfriend, so happy and relived that I found a job, but more importantly, I finally had something to do during the day. We both had jobs now, we both had schedules, and I finally had something I was proud of. I felt like I had made it, got my foot in the door to move up and up in the campaign if I did I good job. So I promised myself from that week on, I would be the best damn organizer I could be.

When I arrived to the office, just a little after nine in the morning, I got out of my uber and knew that the moment I walked into the door of the vast office building, my life would change forever. I was no longer a girl, in the sense that I was in school with people wondering what my plans after college were. I was a woman, still with a lot to learn, but a woman who was making her own money and working in the field that I wanted to. I was shaking a little before walking into the Yang campaign headquarters, and had to stop in the bathroom to steady myself. It was all a little overwhelming, because I had worked so hard for the moment of walking into that door, and now I was in the bathroom down the hall from it silently freaking out because that’s what you do when you are so close to achieving your goals, you freak out. I calmed myself, did some breathing, and looked in the mirror and told myself, “you are Stacey Berry, you belong here”. This was the push I needed to leave the bathroom that I had been in for a little too long, because now I was a few minutes late, and as I sped walked to the office I imagined every scenario of what would be behind it. Would it be like one of the political shows I loved to watch, with everyone bustling around the room answering phones, volunteers trying to find their ground, and everyone as hungry for Andrew to win like I was? It seemed I had thought of every scenario in those 15 seconds instead of the right one.

I walked into the office… and it was a let down to say the least. There were very few chairs and desks and it almost looked like a front for some random shady business venture. There was no one in the office, except who I would soon learn was my State Director, behind a closed door talking a mile a minute to someone who was apart of the campaign but miles away. That whole pep talk that I had just told myself in the bathroom was quickly fading by the second, but I just told myself everything was fine. A lot of campaigns look like this, even the headquarters in Iowa, but I wanted to give the space a chance before I completely judged it. So I made my way to the very back room, the “war room” as I learned to call it, and found my new boss. He was a very young guy, wearing cargo shorts, beat up sneakers, and a plaid shirt. He looked at me and when we started chatting it was clear he was trying to overcompensate his appearance with seeming like a boss who did things his way and that was that. I sat there and listened to him speak, laying out a very long list of tasks that I was expected to do everyday, but it didn’t phase me. See I have experience with campaigns already, canvassing, phone banking, having people tell me to lose their number, having very long conversations with others about how candidate x can change America, the whole nine yards. So most of the tasks I had absolutely no problem with. However, I could tell that the man in front of me, who was barely old enough to be a man, thought that I knew nothing, no matter how many tasks I took head on and proved I could do, there was always something a little wrong. He did teach me some new things, like how to use VAN, and how to cut turf, but mostly I wanted to take the reins with the experience I already had, and he didn’t want that. I was in the wake of a micro-manager, and since I had other managers before this, I just thought that I would keep him happy, get all of the volunteers I could, and everything else would work itself out. It was a long first day in the office, and on top of having one male watching my every move, I had three others watching me as well. When the clock struck from 10 am, to 12 pm, to 3 pm, I was so busy with my first day duties that it hit me that I was the only person there in my role as an organizer, and I was surrounded by men. Without a woman in site, and especially no women of color, I thought this to be a bit weird. However, always being the optimist, or at least trying to be, I knew that Andrew Yang was just building up his base in Iowa, and others would come.

I had to give myself a pep talk through out the entirety of that first day, especially when I was sent out to canvass, alone, as the sun went down. See, I don’t usually have an issue with canvassing. It helps me get out of the office, which could feel claustrophobic as a woman in an all male show, but I expected to go with another organizer, or at least my boss. When I put two and two together that neither of those things would be happening, I packed up my things and headed out to my turf. “This turf is near the office, so just stay out there until 8:30 pm and check in when you’re done”. That was that, and he never asked if I felt safe canvassing alone in a neighborhood I didn’t know, after dark, so I did what any woman trying to prove herself would do, I went canvassing. As the day went on and the sun went down, I gained the assistance of my boyfriend and he drove me around the neighborhoods so I could get door to door a bit easier, (I don’t have a car; better for the environment), and I was getting scared of going up to doors after the clock hit 7 pm and there was little to no daylight left. See, even during the day in Des Moines, people would rather a black woman not knock on their door, so I had even worse luck when the clock struck seven. There were instances where it was so dark while knocking, I was afraid that my boyfriend wouldn’t even notice if I was snatched on someones’ doorstep because I could barely see myself. At 7:30, because it was now pitch black out and Des Moines doesn’t have very many street lights in residential areas, I had no choice but to stop. I texted my Director that I couldn’t go on any further, especially as a woman walking up to doors, whether my boyfriend was there or not, I was simply scared. When I spoke to him on the phone and explained that I didn’t feel comfortable, all he said was “well you need to still canvass”. When I hung up, I knew I was in a man’s world, and that exciting feeling for what was to come on this campaign started to turn into dread.

For weeks, I woke up, looked in the mirror at the bags under my eyes, and tried to stay optimistic. “I am Stacey Berry…I am Stacey Berry” I would say over and over in my head, day after day, as if my own name was the key to being strong. I would put my hand on the door to the office, take a deep breath in and out, and always walk in with a smile. The plain faces of the men looking up at me from their computers and important phone calls, I wasn’t going to let that deter me! I was Stacey Berry, I was invincible! “I am Stacey Berry… I am Stacey Berry”, I repeated as day to day I walked back to the small, plain storage area in the back corner of the headquarters that I made my office, where I was left alone for hours to do my phone calls and make my schedule and make meetings. “I am Stacey Berry… I am Stacey Berry” I told myself as my Regional Director never checked in on what I was doing, because he was too preoccupied with the power that came with his sudden promotion, and not with a little organizer as myself. “I am Stacey Berry… I am Stacey Berry” I said as I watched the men in the office bond without taking a second look at me, going off for lunches or leaving for the day and never informing me that I was the only one in the office in case something that was above my intel had to be handled. That first month, I was in bro culture hell, to simply put it, because it seemed like the whole campaign was riding on my shoulders, but most of the men in charge didn’t do their duties, they just went on and on about being in charge when they knew nothing about being a leader. I could see the quick scan they would give me, the irritation flashing over their eyes for just a second before it changed to confusion, whenever I walked into the room and dared ask a question about the state of the campaign, or when any other organizers would be added in Des Moines. There was always a curt “soon enough”, or “I don’t have that information for you” before they returned to their laptops, or talking amongst each other, or a really important phone call that just couldn’t wait. I felt trapped between a rock and a hard place, where on one end I needed to be strong and firm because this job was helping Andrew, and with the fact that just coming into work put me on the brink of having a panic attack because of being a woman I was looked down on. “I am Stacey Berry… I am Stacey Berry” was getting softer and softer in my head as I was silently told to shut up and do as I was told.

When I was promoted to Deputy Iowa Political Director in October, I felt elated. I was actually friends with my Political Director, and he treated me like a person, and he cared about what I had to bring to the table. Sure, I was a black woman, and the campaign needed me to show some diversity for Andrew, but I was okay with being the token. I had earned it, all those tears and wondering why I was putting up with the disrespect, besides finally having health benefits, was starting to look worth it. “I am Stacey Berry… I am Stacey Berry” was loud as ever in my head, because even in tough times, I got shit done. I had worked so hard for this, that when I let my sister know I was promoted, I had to take a second to cry in the bathroom, the same dimly lit bathroom that a month before I stood in scared, wondering what I would become. The men who looked down on me and tried to control me past my work duties still tried to fight my promotion. I remember going into the office that all the top dogs shared, opening the door and being scanned with irritation as I had before. “So this position is like an assistant, it’ll be easy, and we’re real sad that you are moving up because you were such a good organizer”. I was such a good organizer that I didn’t get any respect for all the work I did? Sounded odd to me, and even odder that they would label this new job as an assistant and as easy, because anyone who is a Deputy Director knows how tough the job is. I just smiled and nodded, knowing that this wasn’t a battle that needed to be fought now, and left the room and them behind as I ventured into the realm of politics that I always wanted to be on. That first day, my new Political Director and I had a meeting to go over what he wanted my role to be, and we went shopping for a desk for me. This was a small gesture, but was huge for me. Before this, I sat next to anywhere I could, but now I was in his office. I was in an office with windows, and he always liked to keep the blinds up so it was always warm and sunny, with the rays bouncing off of the many maps he had around the room and all of the pictures with his friends behind his desk. We never got to put that desk together, because being on the political team means a lot of traveling, but it was the thought that counted. He wanted me to be comfortable, in a sea of men who couldn’t care less about me as long as I was falling in line, and he cared. I will never forget that desk, and he was one of the few people who knew how hard this campaign was for me. Little did I know this was the beginning of the end.

While being a Deputy Iowa Political Director, I was in my zone. Anything that needed to get done, I took care of it. I was known for taking care of what needed to be done, whether it was for Andrew, for an event in Iowa, or for my Director, I did it, no matter how big the ask. I felt like Olivia Pope, doing what needed to be done so that supporters and my candidate where happy, while they didn’t see all the strings of what goes into politics. I was a part of the political team, I was in the big leagues now. Whenever I walked around, I would stand up a little bit straighter. This job was a lot of travel, I have been all over Iowa, listening to pop and hip hop as I typed many meeting minutes and agendas on my laptop bumping on my knees as we went back and forth to Sioux City. I spent so much time in the car and in various Holiday Inns, I forgot what life was like sleeping in my own bed. That girl who once didn’t have anything else to do straight out of college but watch Netflix, sure had her plate full.

“This may be a bit nit picky but is actually kind of important campaign wise. You are not the deputy Iowa chair. Please remove that and do not tell people that is your title”. I read this while having a long night in a holiday inn from a man who was not my direct supervisor, who also refused to acknowledge my titles before telling me I shouldn’t use one. I was directly under my Political Director, who was also the Iowa Chair, so I took both titles, and I had earned them. I did the same amount of work, so I should share the title. I was upset, and went to the political team above me seeking answers from the confusion I got with this message. Before that phone call with the political team, I wanted to speak up, and I was Deputy Political Director of Iowa and Deputy Iowa Chair. After the phone call that night, I kept my mouth shut because “this wasn’t a hill you should die on”, and I was just the Deputy Political Director.

My Director and I missed home, missed our loved ones, but we were doing something for the betterment of America, so we knew we had to sacrifice to get our guy in office. My whole life was Andrew Yang, it was gaining endorsements, it was scheduling more meetings, and traveling and taking care of any task my Director needed me too. I remember wakening up no later than 6:30 am everyday, looking out of the fluttery white shades of Holiday Inns towards the sky at dawn, wondering if I was in Davenport or Dubuque, and what the day had to offer. The feeling of excitement at the beginning of my promotion was now steadily turning into dread again, with the traveling and stress kicking in for both myself and my Director. What was so hard was that I not only had to be strong for myself, but also for him, because he was like the candidate. When he is happy, he fires up the room, he gets those endorsements, he’s electric. “Keep him happy… keep him happy” had now replaced my first mantra. The him I was referring to wasn’t just my Political Director anymore, it was many men, some of them came with the title, others where the ones I thought I shut away behind that door who would only refer to me as an assistant during the meeting discussing the position.

“You know, don’t take this the wrong way, but I fought against your promotion. I mean… you were the best damn organizer we had”. It was an office gathering, with everyone feeling the wear and tear of being on a campaign as we got closer to the caucus, at the end of the wooden bar in a dimly lit corner that my former Regional Director told me this. The same man who leapt at a promotion that he wasn’t the best pick for, and left me high and dry to build up a campaign, thought that this was something he could share with me after one too many whiskey sours. I took a beat, looking at his smug face, into his demeaning eyes as he thought sharing his inner thoughts with me would bring us closer together, and all I could do was laugh. I had been working in this position for a month now, killing it, and all of that would not have happened if this barely of age man had got his way. I felt disgusted, drank a little too much to make up for the men and women in the room who would cut their own foot off if it meant keeping Andrew happy and ruining others on the path, and took myself home, to sleep in my own bed for the first time in weeks.

“Keep him happy…keep him happy”, it no longer sounded joyful. I no longer said things about my job with an exclamation mark after it in my head when describing myself. I wasn’t invincible! I was weak. I wasn’t Stacey Berry! I was, unnamed, I lost that name when I kept pushing myself to do a job that was tearing me apart from the seams. I kept going, because of Andrew Yang, I just had to get him into office, for America, for my children, for the betterment of society. I was so hungry and we were about a month and a half from the caucus that I couldn’t stop. So I pushed through, from Holiday Inn to Holiday Inn, from “this meeting we are asking for the endorsement” to “we just need to get to know them during this meeting”, to “can you read me those policies again; we needed this done yesterday; well I can’t work with a team that doesn’t work as hard as us political people; why does it seem like we are the only people who want Andrew to win on this campaign?”

“Are the people on this campaign deliberately trying to sabotage it!” The laid back meeting minutes and getting our work done was now replaced by this on the long car rides past the many wind turbines across Iowa. My eyes were heavy, but I was still propelling myself into my projects, doing great things, taking care of what needed to be done, and making sure I kept the men happy. I was finally home for the first time in I didn’t even know how long. From a very packed three day trip through eastern Iowa, I was able to sleep in my own bed, and I walked back into the office, divided between political staffers and field staffers. It was us vs. them, those who took care of business vs. those that weren’t leading the campaign in the right direction. My director and I tried to work away from the office as often as we could, put constantly being pulled back for meetings that didn’t include us. One instance was that I was asked to stay late because “this meeting was very important”, and for the next hour I sat and tried to talk while men talked over me, looking at the new State Director with an urgency, while he typed away and finally looked up to tell me that I was no longer needed, the most words he had told me while I was in the room.

That night, I got home and was on the phone with my coworker, an organizer, and she was telling me about another organizer in the headquarters who had gotten a promotion, but then told me he would be making more money as well. I asked her to repeat that last part, because I still was making the same amount of money as an organizer, while sitting in that small room while being looked down on by the men I was keeping happy. He, along with the men in the deputy positions on the campaign, were making $1500 dollars more than I was. I told her I would call her back, and immediately called my Director. “I just found out that he is getting a promotion and making more money, and I….”. I couldn’t even get the words out without breaking down. I worked so hard, did so much, and didn’t even make anywhere near my male counterparts. The men in charge of the political team had advocated that I get a raise when I first started and proved myself in the new position back in October, but it never came. I had asked about it, but with many talks about how little money the campaign had, I thought I was only getting the title and nothing else, so it shocked me when more money was being offered to a man for his promotion, but not for mine that happened months ago. After that phone call, I no longer wanted to keep the men happy, I no longer was Stacey Berry… I was nothing. There was nothing going on in my head except for rage, because this campaign was run amuck from the beginning, from the top of the food chain, it was a man eat woman world.

The next day I had a meeting about my pay with the national and state directors, feeling like a shell just as I had during the early days of my time on the campaign. I was able to stand my ground enough with them being prepared to offer me more money, but I felt disgusting by the end of it. It all ended with a swift handshake, and shuffling out of the room, with me sitting there fighting back tears that I had kept inside for months, and the men finally allowing themselves to breath because they avoided another woman making a scene. I went home early that day, and felt like I could give this another shot. I was offered the pay raise I deserved, even though it was long overdue, and decided to sleep on it. The next morning, a young woman in Iowa was fired during her two week notice to the campaign, because she had complained about some of the men in higher-up positions through the correct channels. When I learned about this information, I hung up the phone with her, and called my Director to put in my resignation for the blatant sexism on the campaign. I was shaking the entire time I spoke to him, but for the first time in this experience on the Yang campaign, I felt like I was doing the right thing, not just for me but for other women who felt they couldn’t.

I refused to accept more money for a position I drove myself into the ground for, when a woman who brought so much good to the campaign, was also driven away for the wrong reasons. When I tried to let others on the campaign know about my situation, I was shut down. I was once the golden girl, and just overnight I was turned into the bitch, because standing up for myself and others was “sabotaging the campaign”. “I am Stacey Berry… I am Stacey Berry”, I heard getting louder and louder in my head as I looked at a sunny and blue sky outside of my home, and I knew right then and there that leaving that toxic environment was the right thing to do.

I could breathe again, I could live again, I was free.