I was feeling lost. There was Olivia Pope—I spent most hours of the day thinking about who she was and what she wanted. How she walked; what she wore; what she said. There was “Kerry Washington,” who had become an avatar for progress and inclusion and fashion and fame—she, too, had a calculated appearance and way of being. And then there was me, behind the scenes, the longshoreman at the end of the dock, in the middle of a nor’easter with my head down, working through the night. In some ways, my worldview became very small, and my circle of trust shrank. I felt a distance growing between my
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