Member-only story
Last week, I watched Bon Appétit editors suffer the consequences of their actions. I wasn’t surprised when their moment of reckoning hit — no one was. I was, however, stunned to see the photos sleuthed out by Tammie Teclemariam of Adam Rapoport in brownface. I was sad to see skilled Bengali American chef Sohla El-Waylly is paid a fraction of what her white, dependent peers make, and how then-editor-in-chief Rapoport publicly confused her for author Priya Krishna, an Indian American contributor, before an audience.
My heart sank even further as horror stories from employees and freelancers hit social media, but ultimately, I wasn’t surprised. Their actions were exposed. Would anything come of it?
As the week progressed, I found out that I was one of the chefs sacrificed in their culture of casual racism and appropriation. My relationship with BA was like one with a man who doesn’t want to be seen with his date in public. It’s one that makes you question yourself while being completely unfulfilling.
Most people are overjoyed about being the subject of a profile on Bon Appétit’s website; I’ve seen counterparts get huge boosts, often leading to more professional opportunities. I was nervous and unsure of how my story would be told, but thankfully, I’d established a relationship of trust with the author. I knew that she had some issues getting approval for the piece, but once it got the green light (which took months), I knew that I could trust her to tell my story.
I’ve had to fight for the opportunities I’ve gotten. Prejudice is omnipresent and oppressive, and that’s something everyone is starting to learn by witnessing what the Black community has faced for centuries. By the time I was 12, I’d adjusted to a pervasive feeling of dread, all over my skin tone. Naïvely, sure, I’d hoped that maybe the profile would be a sign of turning the corner. I thought that perhaps I’d figured out how to join the discussions at the table, to have a seat. But it’s because of the Black Lives Matter movement that I gained the courage and space to speak up.
I didn’t know, while I was expecting equal treatment at the table, I was expected to be excited about scraps off a side plate.
