Leralara

It was the early 2000s, backstage at the Hammerstein Ballroom. Champagne in one hand, cigarette in the other. I know, I know — smoking is bad. But I can’t change the past. I’m just telling my story.

It was the first-ever Lane Bryant lingerie runway show — a landmark moment for body diversity, years before that term became marketing currency. The air buzzed with nerves, heat, and high heels. Plus-size women weren’t used to walking in lingerie under spotlights. It was revolutionary, terrifying, and televised.

Marcus Schenkenberg and Tyson Beckford were there —  they seemed to possess a strangely engineered geometry from another planet, ironically personable and friendly. 

I’d been told more than once that I wasn’t “big enough” to be plus-size.  I lived between categories. I was both too much and not enough, which is another way of saying: healthy. But healthy doesn’t read the same on film— so I was plus-size. The show was like one of those dreams— dreams where you’re naked in front of classmates — except this time, it was real, on the Jumbotron in Times Square and major networks. 

Anna Nicole Smith was there too. Between fittings, she’d vanish into her dressing room, to sing Marilyn Monroe songs to herself in a giant mirror. Interaction with her was surreal, I could have easily chosen to highlight the experience of that day with Anna. But I’ll only say that I hope she has found peace, and that she seemed a sweet soul— I worried for her after we met and was saddened when shortly after she tragically passed.

Back to the story of my encounter— it was almost go time. I was holding it together one puff at a time. When the others left to fix hair or makeup, I stayed.. 

“WHO is SMOKING in here??”

The voice was low, but loud. holding a resonance that reverberated… was oddly familiar. 

I turned around. Two large bodyguards flanked a woman in a black stocking cap. Shorter in stature, but seismic in presence.

I began to put it all together then. Before me stood the Queen of Motown herself. She looked annoyed, her focus locked on my face — which I imagine carried a Winona Ryder–esque mix of confusion and revelation. I hadn’t expected to ever meet Aretha Franklin, much less to be the sole offender — the one apparently responsible for endangering her iconic voice.

Every clever retort died on my tongue. I almost dropped my cigarette; merely stubbed it out like punctuation.

It was a weird moment that caught me off guard. 

That moment I realized respect isn’t submission; it’s alignment. Sometimes yielding to another woman’s gravity isn’t weakness — it’s wisdom. It’s strength recognizing strength.

In an age when respect between women is treated like a limited resource, giving it can feel like rebellion. Back then, we were fighting for space — on runways, in magazines, in the mirror. The thinner girls were celebrated, but often at great cost — sacrificing actual health for the appearance of it.

Later in my career, Glamour magazine would feature me in an editorial about former icons and ancient beauty ideals — about how today’s industry wouldn’t make them megastars; they’d be plus-size models. The main photo for that article had been chosen with purpose — to make a strong point. Since my proportions were an exact match for the Venus de Milo, I disrobed and climbed onto the platform to mirror and playfully stand tall beside my best twin, Venus. I was honored, but it also made me acutely aware of something: no matter what we are — too big, too small — what does it matter, if we aren’t happy?