Sure, whatever.
Via Fusion:
I was in fourth grade and Mabel was in fifth. Every day in our joint classroom, I stared at her longingly. She had a small waist, big boobs, a wash and set that always lasted through the week, and baby tees that clung to her body that way. Her sense of style was insanely enviable. But it was what hung from her neck—a giant, hollow, diamond-studded plate—that really made Mabel an elementary-school fashion icon.
Mabel wasn’t the only girl I knew who rocked a nameplate necklace—she was just the coolest. All the Puerto Rican, Dominican and black girls wore them, and each had their own special take. Mahogany, whose grandma Ms. Helen lived across the street from my family in a single-room occupancy building, had one with bubbly script but no diamonds. Another girl from around my way had a heart decal in her nameplate, and nearly all the girls had a thick squiggly line underneath—a clever decoration to emphasize the importance of what sat above.
Nameplates have always leapt off the chests of black and brown girls who wear them; they’re an unequivocal and proud proclamation of our individuality, as well as a salute to those who gave us our names. The necklaces are a response to gas-station bracelets and department-store mugs emblazoned with names like Katie and Becky. But most of all, they’re a flashy and pointed rejection of the banality of white affluence.