The Secret Society of Becoming the Black Model T: Through the Looking Glass

They said I was emotional. Difficult. Unstable...but Intelligent just enough to invade and map out their next move to stay ahead of me with. OK, I feel you...but you can't charge me for having a feeling that already exists within me. You're going to put my mind on a rest? For what, - intuition?

As the very story we are all watching—is the one where I "lose" myself..my identity—for a script written behind my back, using the ink of my own tears?

There’s something grotesquely poetic about how fairytales are repurposed to cage the very girls they were meant to inspire. We love to tell stories about chosen ones, about forgotten princesses awakening to their purpose.

But what happens when the whole kingdom agrees to pretend you’re not her…even though you are? Like Alice, I was dropped into a world where logic made no sense and roles were reversed. The smiles didn’t match the energy in the adult world. The names didn’t match the souls. Just new faces, acting up while trying to mimic and exhaust the names I did match. My family. My friends. In soul, spirit and blood. Despite the elections and war agreements that alter plans and rely on unawareness to keep hiding and preserving a lie.

But unlike Alice, I didn’t just stumble into Wonderland—I was cast into it. Surrounded by illusionists playing roles written in my handwriting, twisting my family, my love, and my silence into performance art.

Art that I loved, but was designed to take me away from. A part of my own world, but asking to be let in or invited to. A water princess without a governed title on paper, just mocked. Which makes it even more of an act when a celebrity praises the unseated who are diluting, distorting and destroying our own lineages just to play out and act that they can somehow compete for, while praising themselves as their only competition. Giving up my "voice" to make a living on land and running relays with strong legs. 

At sixteen or seventeen, Cinderella woke up, not from a spell, but from betrayal. She wasn’t just “the help”—she was the heir. But by the time she realized it, they’d already replaced her portrait on the wall. That’s what they tried to do to me. Paint me as a rebellious daughter, and my parents? They behaved as if my parents saw me like I was a bad seed. An unstable “monkey mind” in need of containment...while everyone spiritually feasts on Breakfast at Tiffanys. Putting me into psychological prisons to continue to silence me under strategically setup forced labour and trafficking to meet historical war agreements not even mentioned in books or education that we are rewarded by graduating from. Isnt it ironic - don't you think?

All while performing loyalty to my mother, my lineage, and my legacy… like it was theirs. But let’s be honest—this wasn’t a fairytale. It was a ritual of humiliation disguised as help. A spiritual trap door camouflaged with “tough love,” triggering every emotional response possible so they could sell the reaction and silence the truth. 

The stepmother archetype doesn’t just steal clothes. She rewrites the will. She remakes the mirror. And she convinces the whole world that the reflection of the real girl is a glitch…like Vanellope but a cartoon, a ghost. A "burden" to the empire they built on my name.

To the readers who played a "part" to audition for—knowingly or not: If you once joined in the mocking, the shunning, the 'professional silence' that rewarded betrayal and disguised spiritual erasure as “business decisions”…this blog isn’t just a mirror for me.

It’s a mirror for you too. Did you trade in your conscience for comfort? Did you trade in your Morals for Money? Did you justify a lie because the stage paid better than the truth? Did you mistake my emotional strength for instability, because it was easier to see me as the villain than admit you were following one? This isn’t a guilt trip. This is your wake-up call.

Because the secret society you thought you were joining… was built on hiding the real me. Keeping me on the outside of an inside joke about me, but dressed up enough to keep close to the body and snatch and small details that they can enhance for their runway. And eventually, every mirror shows the truth.