The Texas sun was scorching that August afternoon at White Rock Lake. I was in the center of a field of dry sand-colored grasses posing as Akofena, an Ashanti warrior princess and oldest known ancestor in Missy Burton’s 7-generation Dynasty. The custom crystal-grid pasties that I spent hours constructing didn’t have a fighting chance against the pools of sweat rolling over my body. I tried, repeatedly, to reapply the covers to my breasts, but when they eventually fell face down in the dirt, they were done for. I froze for a split second as a life of insecurity about my tea-cup titties washed over me. Immediately after this, worry of soon-to-come southern conservative critiques about this unladylike activity echoed in my head. But I kept posing anyway, topless.

Something about that moment, embodying an indigenous West African woman, felt familiar… freeing… and I didn’t care anymore.  After the shoot, as Missy turned the air conditioning on full blast to cool the car for our ride back to my apartment in Freedman Town, she looked at me with with a mix of excitement and concern. “Are you okay?” I told her I was. Her dark brown eyes burrowed into mine with an unwavering intensity. Unsatisfied with my response, she asked again.  “The shots were amazing.  It was like you became another person when your pasties came off.  Something spiritual happened.  But I want to be sure that you are comfortable.  Are you absolutely sure that you are ok with me using these photos?” I nodded and explained, “I was okay with it the moment that they fell off and I continued with the shoot.” She smiled. “But, I at least need to give my mama a heads up.” We laughed. I haven’t looked back since.