On July 5, 2018, I stood outside of the Walgreen’s on State and Randolph in a too tight, but also too long, hot pink jumpsuit, a light wash denim vest, white dangle earrings, and brightly colored striped Vans sneakers, sipping a Diet Arnold Palmer and people watching. My makeup was flawless—dramatic eyes shadowed with Fenty Beauty’s magenta “Sangria Sunrise” highlighter, purple liquid liner on my bottom eyelids, more Fenty “Rum” highlighter on my cheek bones, and an improvised ombre lip using MAC’s “Smoked Purple” and “Flat Out Fabulous” matte lipsticks. My hair was in two tiny buns. I felt cool as fuck, comfortable, and proud of my concert outfit. For once, I didn’t feel like every fat roll I had was emphasized in my outfit or that people were staring at the way my belly just exists in a jumpsuit, front and center for all eyes to see. My boobs looked awesome, even swimming in a strapless bra, which never seems to fit right. People looked at me, probably shocked by my flaming hot pink attire and the way I causally leaned on the window of Walgreen’s looking back at them instead of getting in line for the venue. The Chicago Theatre marquee read: JANELLE MONAE JULY 5 SOLD OUT. 

There are no fat women in Janelle Monáe’s fictional Metropolis. The futuristic city is filled with a diverse range of tall, skinny, unique people of all races, sexualities, and genders. If you’re not paying attention, everything about it is perfect—besides the segregation, of course. The concept of Metropolis being that Cindi/Jane are part of the minority, the androids, because they are “different.” But when I tried to make my way into the city, seeking solidarity with the other “different” androids, I realized I’d be isolated, if not ostracized by them. No room for fat women in Metropolis—we’re off brand, not aesthetic. 

I will not claim to be a day one Janelle Monáe fan. She’s only been on my radar since 2010 and “Tightrope (Feat. Big Boi)” as the R&B singer who always wore suits. I dug her aesthetic, her individuality. She was someone to see on the red carpet, but I wasn’t listening to her albums. Sometimes I’d stumble onto a new single and think, I like Janelle Monáe, but I was not exploring the corners of the internet and pop culture where she was being discussed. I was too mainstream, listening to Ke$ha, Lady Gaga, 3OH!3, and LMFAO instead because they had Top 40 hits and were different from typical pop music. I forgot about Monáe. 

Before Dirty Computer, my favorite song by Janelle Monáe was “Q.U.E.E.N. (Feat. Erykah Badu).” The song’s title is an acronym for “Queer, Untouchables, Emigrants, Excommunicated, and Negroid,” of which I fit into a couple categories. Certainly, Negroid due to obvious and heavily promoted blackness, but also Untouchable, because, I too, am poor. I loved “Q.U.E.E.N.” because it was quirky and asked questions. The song is confident and intelligent, curious but rooted. Lyrics like, “And am I weird to dance alone late at night?” and “Hey sister/ am I good enough for your heaven?” made me relate more to the song and Monáe, while I danced in my living room or twerked in my bus seat. I often feel like an outcast in public spaces as a fat, black woman; sometimes because of my interests, sometimes because of my clothing, and other times because my body makes me uncomfortable because I imagine it makes other people uncomfortable—a feeling I wish I could ignore or teach myself that its untrue and just a remnant of teenage self-loathing. But here I am. 

Outside of the Walgreens, I watched as concertgoers stopped to take pictures with the marquee. Something I wish I’d done. All sorts of people came to the Janelle Monáe concert. They wore everything and anything. I saw neon pink capes, fishnets, booty shorts, rompers, sneakers, flip flops, platform heels, black lipstick, purple lipstick, t-shirts, jean dresses, mini-skirts, leather, graphic tees, black and white, punk, metal, futuristic—there was no single aesthetic to adhere to. We had more than a decade of Janelle Monáe visuals and music to pull an outfit from. People posed in their outfits as their friends took straight on portraits or crouched down to find the perfect angle. They took selfies with large smiles. They met up with the rest of their group, hugging in front of the marquee before heading to the theater. The line wrapped around Randolph towards Michigan, and we buzzed with excitement and anticipation for what is to come. 

I am not trying to body shame skinny people. It’s one of my New Year’s resolutions, after complaining in a car full of people about my best friend’s bony butt digging into my thighs as she sat on my lap. I wasn’t trying to skinny shame then, either, but the consensus was that I was. As a fat girl it’s weird to be on the other side of body shaming, since I don’t really care about how skinny anyone is. I care about if my friends are healthy and happy, and we slam on food or workout or go places together and I never think about how people perceive us as a friend group, since we’re not all thin and we’re not all big, but we vary. But I guess, if you’re skinny and reading this and feel self-conscious about your place in the culture: your body is your own, and you shouldn’t give a fuck about how anyone else feels about it.  

I’m here to talk about my body navigating pop culture, where most of the bodies are skinny and beautiful, or at least smaller and more proportionate than mine. I don’t see myself represented on television much. Most of the time, if I do, it is either through the lens of someone bigger than I am or a black archetype: a maternal figure or an abused teenager. Never on reality shows. Growing up, I always related to America Ferrara in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants because she was fat and a writer, and watching her slide into those jeans that Blake Lively had just shimmied into still makes me cringe and swoon simultaneously. That’s pretty much it though: America Ferrara, Teri in Degrassi until she fell into a coma, Dorinda in The Cheetah Girls because she was poor, Dijonay in The Proud Family was, personally, just a little too ratchet for me to relate to, so I aligned more with Penny in that case—but not too many options, and even less of them were black. 

This is to say, that I noticed Janelle Monáe’s Dirty Computer [Emotion Picture] has little to no fat women in it. Which is disappointing because Janelle Monáe is wonderful—she’s beautiful, perfect skin, versatile hair, amazing voice, multi-talented, queer, political, fashionable, creative, intelligent; she has rhythm, she can dance, she’s an advocate, on and on and on. She is the world’s last remaining connection to Prince, to be honest, as if he transferred all his goodness and talent into her before he died. You can’t imagine my glee at seeing the dancers in “Pynk” wear provocative panties with tufts of thick black hair sprouting out. That’s representation right there! 

And I don’t believe it’s her intention to exclude fat people. And I don’t want to criticize her for not being able to represent everyone, since she’s trying to. When you have race, gender, sexuality, politics and oppression all packed into a single song or television film, it’s easy to let things like body type slip through the cracks. It’s unfair of me to criticize her for forgetting about us big girls, because black artists are already held to an impossible standard. I never criticized a white artist I loved for this, so how can I criticize Janelle Monáe? I’m not upset, but I am obsessed, wondering if Janelle Monáe knows that we’ve noticed the lack of big girls in her visuals. I googled different versions of “Janelle Monáe + Fat + Dirty Computer” and didn’t find anything. Nothing but the deserved applause for Dirty Computer and analysis of how Monáe has finally put her alter ego to the side. 

Maybe it’s rooted in the male gaze. How many films, music videos, TV shows have you seen with a lot of fat people in the cast? Most recently, I watched Real Women Have Curves on HBO, American Horror Story: Coven, and I did a brief binge of My 600 lb. Life, which was just upsetting. I follow a lot of body positive people and accounts on Instagram, so often my feed is flooded with big girls killing it as athletes, models, and professionals in the real world. But the answer to my question is not many, and even less that are positive. I only see content with fat people in it because I seek it out, looking for representation amongst the population of non-celebrities, of people who pay Apple Music bills, shop online, have anxiety attacks, and eat cereal for dinner. People who are a selective kind of sexy, who embraced beauty and being different by showcasing it on a platform for their own audiences—similar to Janelle Monáe’s audience: people who feel and look different. But in general, people don’t buy things they don’t like; we don’t engage in content that doesn’t interest us or catch our eye. Sex sells, and the consensus is that fat isn’t sexy, but repulsive or unhealthy, so what are we selling? 

Thick is not skinny, but skinny can be thick. Monáe’s dancers are all beautiful pseudo-doppelgängers of herself: black, tall, leggy, natural hair, athletic, bubble butts. Some of them border on being thick, with a little jiggle in their thighs that screams fat rather than muscle, but for the most part they are all skinny and glamourous, and not a single one looks like me. Which makes me feel some type of way because big girls can dance, too. I can throw my weight around gracefully. I have rhythm. And I know that Janelle Monáe knows this, but somehow for her entire artistic career she has only allowed big girls in the background when it comes to existing her visuals. Just to be sure, I went back and counted. 

Janelle Monáe has 12 music videos and short films, including her latest, Dirty Computer [Emotion Picture]. One morning, I sat in my pajamas and took notes while watching them all back to back. Each one is great—diverse, conceptualized, fashionable, choreographed—almost flawless, if I weren’t explicitly looking for fat women. There is a fat woman in the video for “Electric Lady,” playing a maternal figure at the beginning of the video. In the video of “Q.U.E.E.N.” there is a tall plus-size woman with a giant afro on the far left, still thin, but many of the dancers in the video are curvy—just not fat. “Tightrope” has a single thick dancer in the chorus wearing all black about two minutes in, but every time there is a wide shot of the room, she is hidden behind other dancers, fading into the background. In the rest of the videos, the dancers are all athletic and thin, with curves in the right places, and tight bubble butts to pop and lock alongside Janelle Monáe, uniform in aesthetic, body type, and outfit. 

Still, Monáe manages to showcase the diversity of black people in each of her visuals. There are various skin tones, hairstyles, and outfits to admire and critique in each video, and of course every dancer and background extra is thin, tall, and beautiful. Which is how Dirty Computer got away from me. I was so enamored with the concept and the amount of blackness flourishing on screen, I didn’t even think about intersectionality. I was like black people? Yes. Queer people? Yes. Love? Yes. Race? Yes. Sex? Yes. When I first watched the video for “Make Me Feel,” I knew exactly which role I wished to have in the music video. I wanted to be one of the women clad in neon leotard and tights with matching pumps—a faceless woman, nothing but legs and torso as Janelle Monáe crawls through them oozing with sexual energy. I couldn’t find a plus-size neon leotard online, and while I found the tights, I’m sure VPL and belly overhang would make my attempt to insert myself in Metropolis unsuccessful. 

There is a fat woman (maybe even more than one) in the “Pynk” video. She exists in the background mostly, except for a few close-ups that flash by in a second. Of course, “Pynk” takes place in a female-dominated motel in the middle of the desert. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t at least one fat femme checked in and kicking it with her crew. We see her next to the pool in sunglasses. She’s reflected in the mirror behind Janelle Monáe and her entourage in the bedroom. She’s dancing in the bedroom. She’s wearing the “I grab back” panties, no thigh gap in sight. Important to note that she’s not working out with the other dancers. But she’s dancing in the background while we all scream “Yeeeeaaaaah” and “Ahhhhhhh.” Because you can’t empower women and sing about pussy without acknowledging the variety of women and vaginas that exists in the world, you know? As Janelle Monáe sings, “We’re all just pink.” 

Fat people showed out for Janelle Monáe, even though we are not represented in Monáe’s Metropolis. I keep wondering what happened to all the fat black queens that led to our destruction. Like how I watch movies where protagonists have to run from shit to survive—zombies, lava, toxic rain, dinosaurs, rabid animals—and I continue eating my snack with a shrug, like “Welp, there goes that.” But there was an unmistakable air of confidence glazed on every patron at the Dirty Computer Tour. We were all there for individual reasons: I wanted to taste a little bit of freedom before I left Chicago, a sip of being a carefree black girl for a night in the Chicago Theatre before I stepped back out on State Street and had to care again. And I did that. I danced my ass off in my little box of personal space between my friends, waving my arms, grinding my hips, and singing along to every word. In a way, I was alone and at home, anonymous and unbothered in a sea of people. I sweat through my jumpsuit, which rubbed a hot pink spot onto the inside of my denim vest. I sweat through my makeup, casually patting at my forehead while dancing. And during Monáe’s speeches on equality and love and fighting the patriarchy, I stretched my knees, gearing up for the next dance number. 

One of my favorite songs from Dirty Computer is “I Got the Juice (Feat. Pharrell Williams).” Shit feels good. I’ve always felt like I’ve had juice—being the fat girl has never stopped me from getting the D, once I started pursuing it. Juice as colloquialism, as culture, as the beverage I abstain from, as a lifestyle. So, of course when Janelle Monáe starts playing “I Got the Juice,” I freaked out. The lyrics spilled out of me like air: “You’re so damn electric, you/ you know you got that juice/ now, squeeze all that passionfruit/ ain’t no one fresher than you.” Then Janelle Monáe decided she wanted to see people’s juice—I’m too far back to be selected, so I engage in the “when one eats, we all eat” ideology and support every soul that she brings onstage, praying, hoping that one of the big girls in the crowd gets to go onstage and go the fuck off in front of the crowd. It ended up being, “you in the floral,” a black woman in a floral jumpsuit, bigger than the other participants called onstage. And while I cheered for everyone dancing, my voice cracked screaming for this woman, who doesn’t have a shred of representation in Janelle Monáe’s visual concepts, but is onstage, juicy AF, having the time of her life. What is judgment at a Janelle Monáe concert? Music can do that to you, if it’s good enough. 

At the beginning of Dirty Computer, Janelle Monáe explains the concept as such: “You were dirty if you looked different. You were dirty if you refused to live the way they dictated. You were dirty if you showed any form of opposition at all. And if you were dirty, it was only a matter of time.” I look different, but at the same time, I am unremarkable in appearance in United States standards and expectations. Seventy percent of Americans over twenty are overweight. More than one-third of the United States population over 20 (37.9%) is obese. I am one of these people. I’m also of average height. I’m healthy—besides an on and off again addiction to sugar, I eat healthy, I exercise, I orgasm, I dance, and I take my meds and birth control on-time. The male gaze isn’t centered on me, so it’s hard to find people who look like me on television and in films, especially in music videos. But I have always wanted to be in one, even in the background, snapping my fingers or dancing to the chorus.  

During the concert, Janelle Monáe asks her audience to scream “I AM A DIRTY COMPUTER,” I listen as the people around me bellow the words back to her, hands up in the air, and I wonder, what are you if you can’t even fit in with the outcasts? 

Negesti Kaudo is an essayist, educator, and sex toy columnist based in Columbus, Ohio. She is the youngest recipient of the Ohioana Library Association's Walter Rumsey Marvin Grant (2015). Her essays and criticism have been published in Seneca Review, Fourth Genre, Storm Cellar Magazine, Best American Experimental 2020, and elsewhere. Kaudo's debut collection RIPE: Essays was published by Mad Creek Books, an imprint of The Ohio State University Press in 2022.