I'm sorry, Ms. Jenner
The downfall of King Kylie
I was always jealous of Kylie—who wouldn’t be? When she first started causing problems, she was only 16. Traveling the world, showing off, rocking a red braid-down like some Black girl she copied, and doing whatever she wanted.
For many people—even those who aren’t Black—the audacity of her cultural appropriation was infuriating and bewildering. How can someone who has everything feel entitled to dip into the cultural staples of the most underrepresented, disrespected class? How can she borrow the parts of Black culture she likes, only to discard the rest? Meanwhile, Black girls are sent home from school for wearing an afro, denied jobs for cornrows, teased relentlessly for the size of their lips compared to non-Black peers, labeled “hood” for long acrylic nails, and overlooked for not being considered “pretty.”
Then, to top it off, she built herself a body to mimic the figures of women of color—while lying through her teeth about it. (Not all Black girls are slim-thicc, but you know what I mean.) I get wanting surgery or cosmetic procedures, and disclosure isn’t mandatory because it’s nobody’s business, but to lie? Just say you’re not going to talk about it. But no, she had to fib—claiming her lips were all lip liner, her huge chest was a Wonderbra, and her curves were thanks to motherhood (it’s downright immoral to blame your daughter for that). Her tendency for half-truths seemed almost pathological.
She inspired viral challenges where girls tried to get “Kylie lips” and then basked in the rewards of a career built solely on the perceived beauty of her augmentations. The whole spectacle was wild. Not that she was the first or last to do it (hint: her step-niece), but the mix of appropriation, grandiosity, and lack of accountability was genuinely irksome. Kylie was out there lying to her fans, who supported her businesses and side hustles with their wallets wide open.
Overall, I thought all of this was cruel and irresponsible on her part—and sad for fans and viewers (myself included) watching it unfold. All I ever saw underneath, though, was an insecure, sad girl trying to feel better—unsuccessfully.
Our judgments of others are often judgments of ourselves. In my own life, I was perpetually confused and never feeling good enough. Now, I'm mature enough to realize that much of my vitriol for Ms. Jenner went beyond the culture-vulture stuff; it slipped into recognizing her inner pain and rejecting it because it mirrored mine, which disgusted me. I’d screenshot her photos and laugh, thinking, “Surgery will never make her like herself. And all that simping for Travis Scott…when he won’t even post her? How embarrassing! He doesn’t want you, girl.” I thought she couldn’t see that.
But on my end, no amount of followers, bomb selfies, or tequila shots would ever fill the God-shaped hole within. No amount of nail sets, Drake songs, or dating every dude in the metropolitan valley (who also wouldn’t post me) would ease my self-loathing. I couldn’t see that. Kylie and I burned through the best of our youth trying to be something—and to look good doing it.
She was deep in the vacuum of celebrity desensitization, so far gone she didn’t realize how absurd her lifestyle looked. Yet, she’d mockingly remind us how she “knows” she’s blessed—as if she could, having never lived any less lavishly. For her, middle-class pain is theoretical, and our struggles are just an ideological debate.
But, as these things do, the turns tabled.
Suddenly, she and the Kardashian clan fell from grace as the middle class grew sick of having poverty rubbed in our faces. We got damn tired of closet tours overflowing with Birkins and seeing Stormi pick her car for the day while we hoped our tires wouldn’t fall off on the way to work. People couldn’t take any more of the jets, perfect skin, beachfront views, and $500 bottles of Clase Azul—while we silently wondered if it might be better to die than to keep scraping the bottom of the barrel just to pay for everything.
Just like that, Ky-Ky and her famous fam went from queens of the world to queens of the damned: no one cares about their nonsense anymore. Kylie seems like the same lost girl from 2016, only older, wondering why no one likes her anymore. The try-hardness is clear as she posts on apps she doesn’t fully understand, her empire crumbling, shares being sold off. She spent half a decade as That Girl, only to watch the world she built collapse. All those selfies, tits and ass, ass and tits—what did it amount to?
But as we watch her fall unfold faster than a Super Mario speedrun, I can’t help but feel a soft spot opening for her, the idea of her, and people like her. I sense a shift in my self-awareness as I continue to see parts of myself in her. I, too, want to take a bow on this lifestyle of self-promotion, selfies, and endless mirror-staring. I, too, have the white flag ready, primed to say, "Fuck it all": I don’t care what the internet thinks of me anymore. It’s okay if I’m not It or the shit or the GOAT or a baddie. I, too, can take my not-21-anymore ass somewhere and ride off into the sunset with my man.
Now, when I skim her posts, I send a quick wish to the universe that the internet is kinder to her today than it was yesterday because she’s a person; she’s just another soul trying to figure it out. She’s me, and she’s all of us, too.
—M