As a young writer, I imagined myself as a Black Carrie Bradshaw, and I aspired to live comfortably while only working as a writer and not having to have a day job. I mean, who wouldn’t want a cute apartment in a bustling city, a fabulous wardrobe, an impeccable shoe collection, and a group of amazing and equally successful women who poured into me, listened to me whine about men, and could relate? 

The only problem? I didn’t really see a reflection of myself in those characters. Yes, I shared traits with both Carrie, played by Sarah Jessica Parker (writer! clothes lover! shoe collector!), and Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall), who was sexually liberated and unapologetically herself at all times. But I couldn’t see myself in those women. It wasn’t just that I’m not a prim and proper prude like Charlotte York (Kristin Davis) or an awkward neurotic who is all over the place like Miranda Hobbes (Cynthia Nixon). I’m not white.

On ‘And Just Like That,’ Black and brown characters are little more than props