I’ve spent the last hour giving my unsolicited analysis (v. intentionally not using the word rant) of the sociological experiment known as Love Island on IG.
No, no one asked my opinion. But in the immortal words of Janelle Monáe, prolific Black feminist scholar:
“This ain’t parking—I don’t need your validation.” 😜
So. I saw a clip from THEE Keke Palmer’s interview with Chelly and Olandria from Love Island. If you’re not familiar, they’re gorgeous dark-skinned Black women who oscillated from being fan favorites to “villains,” with a widely debated social media fall-from-grace this season.
I’m still processing the backlash and the “mean girl” label slapped on Chelly and Olandria. I’m also trying to untangle my own internalized respectability politics—the conditioning that taught me, as a Black woman, that there’s never an appropriate way to say “I’m hurt.” That when someone upsets me, I should forgive them immediately. That my feelings must be contained, rationalized, softened.
So no, I don’t have fully-formed thoughts yet on the whole debacle. Obviously, I’m not here for the Angry Black Woman trope being thrown around. I also see how many folks are, for better or worse, contextualizing and offering understanding for Huda’s crash-outs at the start of the season by maintaining that she was provoked, rightfully angry, etc. This both tracks and feels like a double standard.
And I think there’s a point to be made here, not that Black women never get angry, but that our moments of anger don’t come from nowhere. In our moments of anger we are seldom met with the type of curioisity that leads to mutual understanding/empathy. But shit, BW, just like Huda and every other human on this planet, for better or worse– have triggers and reasons we get angry. And we also have reasons why we might be passive, avoidant, or slow to embody that anger– what some might perceive as “cold”.
Because our anger is so often cast as a threat. As the worst thing we can be.
As our true, shameful nature, the thing they’re just waiting to drag out of us so they can feel vindicated. The thing we have to prove them (everyone else, tbh) wrong about.
But that’s not even the blog post I came to write today 😆. Though, trust, I will likely come back to it once I’ve had time to sit with all these feelings and understand them more deeply. (And, yes, if you were wondering I am aware that even this impulse, to intellectualize my reactions before letting them see daylight, is a product of what I just named: the pressure I’ve learned as a Black woman to be calm, detached, and “in control” before being allowed to speak at all.)
Anyway, the reason I pulled you for this chat ti talk about NicOlandria.
In the clip, Olandria tells Keke (and Chelly) that yes, she did have feelings for Nic, and there was a connection—but she, perhaps subconsciously, stifled them because she had no way of knowing if Nic was attracted to her. She’s from Alabama, and she mentioned that where she’s from, men who look like Nic—i.e., white men—tend to be “traditional,” a.k.a. they only date white women.
And listen. That unlocked a whole set of thoughts for me.
Because Black women, especially darker-skinned BW are still disproportionately expected and heckled into staying within our race when it comes to dating. As if people have are entitled to telling us what to do with our bodies, our minds—our hearts. Not falling in line? That brings up all kinds of judgment and baggage I know firsthand.
(Once upon a time, I dealt with a guy who reminds me so much of Nic that maybe this whole storyline hit me harder than it should’ve.)
I was obvi a fan of Olandria and I was the only one of my friends who thought Nic was a certified qt. I never really became a Nicolandria stan though—even though their chemistry was palpable and they’d clearly make a beautiful couple.
Why?
Because I was frustrated. So frustrated.
It was so obvious that Nic was attracted to Olandria. Engrossed by her, even. But he didn’t show any real pursuit, any meaningful interest beyond kissing her in a challenge.
He didn’t take initiative.
And for me, that brought up every wound I’ve ever carried as a Black girl with curves who’s often been reduced to them. Every time I’ve confused physical attention for emotional investment. Every time someone saw me as a conquest, not a connection.
Romantic interest isn’t just about physical chemistry. Most of us can agree that Olandria checks the boxes of just about any beauty standard that, for better or worse, you’re subscribing to. But romance, real, mutual, affirming romance, isn’t just about physical attraction.
And to be clear, I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with appreciating someone’s body—or with appreciating your own body, which is something I’m still learning to do without shame. But there is something deeply wrong with seeing a Black woman’s body as the only thing worth noticing.
Especially when that woman, Olandria, has shown grace, composure, warmth, intelligence, humor, hilarious reactions, and a generally bomb personality.
That’s why Nic’s passivity felt like such a betrayal of what could’ve been. He didn’t take the steps that were necessary to show serious interest. To make it plain.
And in not doing so, he revealed a real lack of understanding of how romance ( and the constructs of desirability, gender roles, gender in general that it rests upon) has been wielded like a thinly veiled weapon—used to exclude so many Black women, especially dark-skinned Black women.
Hopefully he’s open to learning.
Because in that villa? All I saw was a man playing it safe. Passive. Neutral. Waiting on Olandria to do the emotional heavy-lifting, to make the move, to make it easy.
Which brings me to: Exhibit A.
Fiyero and Elphaba.
Golden boy. Unmistakable chemistry. But no courage to act on it. No willingness to stand ten toes down in his desire for someone who didn’t “fit” the aesthetic he was expected to want.
Sound familiar?
The moment I heard Olandria share her piece, I understood her. Because of course she didn’t think Nic was serious. The messaging we receive—again and again—is that darker-skinned Black women are no one’s type. That we’re the exception, the experiment, the fantasy, the almost.
So the burden falls on us to somehow magically know you’re into us—through a challenge kiss??.
At best, you could say Nic thought kissing her in the challenges was enough to express interest, and then he was just waiting to follow her lead. (To that I say: be forreal—challenge kisses are the Love Island equivalent of sharing a pen with your seminar neighbor in the real world.)
In this best case scenario, Nic’s whole “she’s a boss; I’ll follow her lead” approach?That’s how you end up with nothing happening. Because you didn’t offer enough evidence for her to know your interest was serious.
And to be fair: if you’re unwilling to put your ego on the line and risk being rejected by someone society says you “shouldn’t” be attracted to–do you even have a serious interest?
The kind that humbles your ego?
The kind that builds real relationships?
This “intimidating” label that follows Black women like a shadow? It’s just a safer way of saying: “I think you’re gonna reject me (and you shouldn’t have the power to do that), so I’m gonna reject you first.”
Black women, particularly dark-skinned Black women, deserve better.
Romantically. Relationally. Socially. Lovingly.
In the game of love, we’re navigating on a completely different board, one with invisible rules and landmines at every step.
To ignore that, to act like we’re playing on the same field as everyone else, is just the same old tired pervasive gaslighting.
PS. Don’t let my proclivity for pink fool you; justice for Elphaba. 🤎💚💅🏾🤭
Leave a Reply