The Real Ones

Top political strategist Maya Rupert reveals how, for people of color, being real comes at a cost and authenticity is a privilege the marginalized cannot afford—that is, unless we change the system that keeps sending us the bill. . .

One of Maya Rupert’s earliest memories was learning how to be inauthentic. That performance—the ability to make white people feel comfortable about race—has brought her everything from safety to success. As the third Black woman in history to run a presidential campaign, she soon realized that there was no room among society’s expectations for our real selves. In The Real Ones, Rupert reveals that for some, inauthenticity is necessary for survival.

In this deeply relatable book, Rupert weaves together pop culture and politics, workplace advice and personal stories. She shares the off-camera experiences on the presidential campaign trail in a post-Obama political landscape. She sees what Taylor Swift and Beyoncé fans expect from our biggest stars—one is admired as the authentic girl next door, the other is required to be a queen. She exposes the trap too many face in the workplace, when we are asked to bring our full selves to work—but not too much. Rupert sees a world where success is at the expense of our authenticity, not because of it.

The Real Ones offers an entirely fresh take on race—that authenticity is a privilege kept from people of color. When we are constantly confronted with the question, "Who do you think you are?" we cannot begin to ask ourselves "Who am I?" In the end, Rupert upends our understanding of authenticity, so that readers can stop questioning who we are, and finally thrive."Maya Rupert offers a frontline look at the ways that dominant society shapes Black identities, and how we all suffer when we can't be our true authentic selves. The Real Ones is necessary reading for anyone navigating workplaces, politics, or systems not set up for all of us."
—Heather McGhee, New York Times bestselling author of The Sum of Us

"Full of candor and expertise, this is such an interesting perspective on the elusive privilege of "authenticity" that's relevant to any context but especially pertinent in this moment of media and politics."
—Meena Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Ambitious Girl

"When I'm mad, confused, or depressed about American politics, Maya Rupert is the person I call. She understands the mysterious world of politics and culture as well as anyone I’ve ever met and she never holds back the truth. The Real Ones is game-changing and brain-changing. This book will change the way you see politics, pop culture, and yourself."
—Hank Green, author of the #1 New York Times bestseller An Absolutely Remarkable Thing

“In her revelatory book, Maya Rupert puts insightful words to the unsettling feeling too many underrepresented people know, of feeling trapped by coded expectations. Deeply validating and beautifully reflective, The Real Ones shows us a path forward to create communities that are more honest and more inclusive of our whole selves, as ultimately a more equitable society is a more successful one.”
—Donna Brazile, former Chairwoman of the Democratic National Committee and New York Times bestselling author of Hacks

“Maya Rupert captures, with unflinching honesty and grace, the Black professionals’ struggle to have both performance and presence in not only work spaces but all spaces—as authenticity can be the very thing that many cannot fully access. The Real Ones so eloquently puts a name to, and gives language to the experience—and her book offers an essential path forward to shifting the narrative.”
—Judge Victoria Pratt, retired Chief Judge, former Rutgers University professor, and author of The Power of Dignity

“Maya Rupert’s The Real Ones is a MUST read for leaders who want to create more authenticity in today’s world. Rupert does a fantastic job breaking down the authenticity paradox, which show how being “real” is not the same for everyone. The writing is smart, witty, and deeply accessible, and shows us how we can dismantle the myths behind what “authenticity” truly means.”
—John Wang, author of Big Asian Energy

“A timely and provocative study about the hidden gatekeeping power of authenticity.”
—Kirkus

“[A] perceptive debut… Sharing examples from pop culture, politics, and her own life, Rupert shows how authenticity is a concept used to gatekeep or trip up people with marginalized identities.”
—Publishers Weekly

“A thought-provoking examination of the subjective nature of authenticity. Recommended for readers interested in racial justice in politics and pop culture.”
—Rebekah Kati, Library JournalMaya Rupert is a political strategist and the third Black woman in history to run a presidential campaign. She is the Executive Vice President at Blue State, and she hosts the podcast When We Win, an NAACP Image Award nominee. A nationally respected voice on progressive politics and the Democratic party, she has appeared on MSNBC, CNN, and NPR; and in The New York Times and The Atlantic. She lives in Washington, D.C. with her cats.1

The Observation Effect

I decided I wanted to write this book roughly at the same moment I realized I needed to read this book.

It was 2020, and the Democratic primary race had begun as one of the most energized and racially diverse fields of candidates we've ever seen. And I was proud to be the campaign manager for Julián Castro, the former secretary of the Department of Housing and Urban Development. He was running in a field that included Kamala Harris, Cory Booker, Tulsi Gabbard, Wayne Messam, Deval Patrick, and Andrew Yang.

Our campaign turned a lot of heads and accomplished so much in shifting the national conversation and highlighting crucial issues. Still, competition was fierce; and in the end, the field was getting narrower, and the time came to suspend Julián's presidential primary campaign. It was during the awkward time, when I knew I was going to join Elizabeth Warren's campaign as a senior adviser but it wasn't public knowledge, that I was being hounded by reporters who wanted to talk about the race as if I were unaffiliated with any campaign.

This time, it was a reporter who wanted to talk on background about a piece he was considering writing about the racial dynamics in the race. It was an issue that had been touched on often during the cycle but hadn't been explored adequately as far as I was concerned. At this point, Cory Booker had just suspended his campaign, following closely after our campaign had done the same earlier that month. Andrew Yang remained the sole candidate of color still in the race that initially began with an impressively diverse field. There had been a number of ways that race had impacted that cycle, and I was eager to talk about the unconscious biases and double standards that candidates of color had faced that were underreported. The reporter didn't know what he wanted his piece to be yet, so we had a wide-ranging discussion. We talked about how race impacted fundraising. Media coverage. Representation in polling. Perception of electability. And one issue that had kept coming up for me during our campaign, but I had never known how to frame it: authenticity.

"What exactly do you mean?" he prompted me. "Like, the candidates of color were considered too authentic?"

"No," I explained. "I think the candidates of color struggle with being viewed as authentic."

"And why is that?"

"Well, a lot of reasons. But I think it's harder for candidates of color to feel comfortable speaking unscripted and that makes them seem stiff or fake."

"But . . . that sounds like you're saying they are less authentic," he noted.

I paused. It did sound like I was saying that. "I guess I don't think that should be the measure of authenticity"-I tried again-"because of how people of color are held to a higher standard, being off-the-cuff comes with more risk. So they're going to be more cautious with what they say and how they say it."

"But does that mean we can't expect candidates of color to be as candid and straightforward with voters?"

"No. Of course not," I assured him with more confidence than I felt. I was confusing myself. "I guess I just think we have to be thoughtful about what we're asking of candidates of color. Though . . . not to say we shouldn't expect authenticity from candidates of color . . ." I trailed off and he kindly let me. I was flailing. And that was uncommon for me.

I don't typically have a difficult time talking about race and inequality and the ways that these dynamics can play out. It's something I've gotten pretty good at over the course of my career, from my time as a lawyer and a movement leader in Washington to my time in electoral politics. While I spent most of my career in social justice movement politics, in 2020, I became only the third Black woman in history to manage a presidential campaign. This means I have had to talk about these issues a lot. But also in spaces where I could fairly assume people agreed with me and also in spaces where I could fairly assume no one agreed with me. But for some reason, on this idea, I was stuck.

I was describing something I knew to be true. I watched authenticity get weaponized against our campaign and the campaigns for the other candidates of color. I was convinced that the demands around authenticity were a factor in why the candidates of color were struggling in this cycle. And yet, I had never heard this argument made-and couldn't really formulate it myself. Authenticity was good. Voters like authenticity. And yet, authenticity was creating a barrier to equality in the Democratic primary race. And I needed to articulate why.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn't unique to politics. This was a dynamic I had seen before. It was one of the reasons I ashamedly hated talking about authenticity. Every time it came up, I looked for an opportunity to change the subject. I couldn't put my finger on why, but it just felt like a trap.

Whenever I heard progressives criticize a candidate of color for not using the same rhetoric as a white candidate, I was baffled. As a progressive, I, too, wanted candidates to be unabashed in the views I shared with them, but I confessed I wasn't surprised that the most radical-sounding rhetoric was often harder for the candidates of color to espouse. "She obviously can't say that," I'd say of a position I found to be perfectly reasonable. "No one will take her seriously."

Outside of politics, I noticed the same dynamic when these issues came up. Whenever people would talk about having "courageous conversations" with colleagues, when conflict arose, I would listen earnestly. And then I would roll my eyes while silently acknowledging that I would never be able to broach a conversation around a racial microaggression in one of those discussions. Whenever people talked about finding their "authentic self," I would treat it as a thought experiment, like if someone told me to imagine an alien colony. What authentic self? I would wonder almost laughingly. And then the realization slowly washed over me like warm water that turned suddenly cold: Wait. Don't we all do that? Aren't we all . . . lying?

"They'll think we're all like that."

"You have to prove them wrong."

"You have to be twice as good to get half as much."

Learning as an adult that other parents of color recited these mantras to their kids as often as mine did was like learning the comfort food you thought you invented is a regional variation and actually a lot of other people enjoy sugar on grits, too. Our first memories of discovering who we were, for a lot of us, were inextricably linked to being told who we needed to be. Many of us grew up hearing routine advice about the white people who were always watching us.

Now, some might think that living a life while being observed-and judged-might affect your ability to live authentically. But the most important thing to understand about authenticity is that it doesn't exist. Really. In fact, there's an experiment in quantum physics that proves it. It's not just me. It's science.

Physicists didn't put things in those terms, of course. Some had set out to measure the behavior of electrons-or tiny bits of matter. The electrons were capable of behaving as either particles or waves, so the scientists designed an experiment where they would shoot the electrons at a barrier with two slits and, depending on how they got through the barrier, that would determine if they were acting as particles or waves.

If they acted as particles, the electrons would go through only one of the slits in the barrier. If they acted as waves, they would go through both the slits in the barrier, and meet again on the other end. In order to measure the results, the physicists set up an instrument designed to observe the electrons. However, when they were being observed by the instrument, the electrons behaved only as particles. The experiment demonstrated a concept called "the observer effect." In other words, it showed that the act of observation changed the observable reality.

Despite my being, if it's possible, the opposite of a quantum physicist, I find myself thinking about this concept a lot. You know how you don't remember being told about Santa Claus-he was just always there? In the same way kids of color have long known about another unseen but always watching presence: White People. Our parents seemed constantly aware-and made sure we were aware-of the ways that White People were watching us and interpreting the things we did. Our parents stressed that we carried a heightened sense of responsibility because of these unseen observers.

Growing up Black helps us to understand so many social limits long before we have the vocabulary to name them. We didn't have to know what double standards were, only that our parents warned us that even if our friends did something wrong and didn't get in trouble, it didn't mean we would be so lucky. We didn't have to know what respectability politics were, only what it felt like the first time we were tempted to prove to a white person that we were one of the good ones.

There are graduate students studying race and privilege who struggle with articulating the difference between white and whiteness-one word is a descriptor of individual people, the other is a construct that fuels a system of power and oppression. We may have also struggled with explaining these differences, but as Black kids, we understood. There were people who were white, and there were White People. And our parents weren't worried about individual people who were white-our friends, their parents, teachers; people we knew and people we loved. To be clear, our parents didn't warn us about any specific white person, which was almost worse because there was always a vague specter of fear around us. If we failed to be vigilant, to always be the best version of ourselves, any white person-even ones we trusted-could become White People.

And some of our most visceral memories involved those transformations.

I watched the Girl Scout troop leader turn into a White Person when she told my mother there wasn't space in the troop for me and my sister. My mother then, despite working the night shift at the post office, somehow found the time to became a troop leader just so my sister and I could be Girl Scouts. Adults who I respected would compliment me, smiling indulgently about how smart and well-behaved I was, then transform into White People, twisting their faces into something ugly while conspiratorially telling me I wasn't "like the other ones." I heard this a lot. My sister and I were often paid the excruciating compliment that we weren't like other Black people-that we "didn't count." It allowed everyone to go about their regularly scheduled racism without having to adjust any stereotypes to account for us. We were simply exempted from some of the worst assumptions about Black people.

Those moments hurt me; but in a way I couldn't explain, I felt like those moments hurt them, too. Those moments would make my parents dislike them. They meant I couldn't trust them anymore. But more fundamentally, they meant that those White People were the bad guys. Now as an adult I'm able to make more sophisticated racial analyses, and I have no problem explaining that being racist isn't good for anyone. Even if it may seem to benefit some white people in some small ways, racism harms everyone. It harms us materially, as Heather McGhee brilliantly points out in her book The Sum of Us, where she explores the economic and political costs that everyone-including white people-bear for their racism. But it also harms us morally and on a deeper, human level. The degradation that racism brings about upon White People isn't abated by any momentary benefit it can confer. But that's a hard concept for a child to understand-or at least understand well. As a child, my mind had been blessed, or cursed, with a preternatural sense of responsibility and duty. So I decided it was my job to save my white people from becoming White People. And I could do that by being very careful about who they saw when they looked at me. Since they were always watching, I couldn't just control what they saw, I had to control who I was.

If I misbehaved in public, it would be confirming White People's worst suspicions about not just me but all Black people. Every achievement was an opportunity to disprove a stereotype that White People already had about us. I needed to be agreeable and almost debilitatingly nice, to give no one a reason to dislike me, to exclude me, to see me as different. Thanks to late '90s pop culture, I was bombarded with images of Blackness that I needed to define myself in opposition to: Black girlhood was defined by criminality and oversexualization, both things as I grew older that I avoided with painful specificity. But no image was as persistent or had as big an impact on me as the angry Black woman.

At this point in my life, I can confidently say my positivity and upbeat personality feel natural for me, but I'm less confident that I can call myself a naturally positive and upbeat person. If I had never been confronted as a child with the angry Black women caricatures, I'm not sure if I would now be so quick to forgive and so slow to show anger. I don't know if those are qualities that form-for lack of a better phrase-the real me or if they were ones I'd developed to help me manage how White People saw me.

Sadly, I don't think this experience is unique to me, or even especially uncommon. For many of us, childhood-the period of time when we were supposed to be learning who we were-was a time when we shaped ourselves into something that would be palatable to an external other. That dominant perspective was always watching and had the ability to rob us of something precious: Whether it was safety, acceptance, stability, or success. In order to protect ourselves, we let who we were be forever changed by the fact that we were being observed.

In school, whenever we studied Black history, I developed a coping mechanism I call the Only Game, which will be very familiar or very foreign to you depending on whether you've ever been the Only in an elementary school class. The Only person of color. The Only immigrant. The Only person with a disability. If you have ever been the Only one with any identity that gets somehow studied or mentioned in a class or during a special presentation, I'm willing to bet you developed your version of the Only Game.