Was Harlowe racist? Was I oversensitive? Did my being from the Bronx scream so loud of poverty and violence that my actual story didn’t matter? What did it mean for me as a person and a wannabe feminist that I looked up to Harlowe? Was I proof that her feminism was for everyone? I stopped after admitting that I loved Harlowe and that made me an even bigger fool. How could I love some fake-ass, kinda racist (?), clueless person like Harlowe?
