The Day the Party Died in Washington, D.C.

The Snob is feeling a little nostalgic today! She's feeling like ... she misses something. Something fun. Something young. Something so amazingly Black that she fears it may never happen again.

She's got three words for you—Obama Era D.C.

If you know, you know. If you don't. I apologize.

You missed a hell of a party.

Just hundreds of thousands of Black women with the same idea—I'll move to D.C., make a name for myself, and bag me the closest thing I can get to a Barack.

(SPOILER ALERT: That man was not to be found, because there were literally only 5 of them, and out of those 5, four were gay. But the real "Barack" were the friends we made drunkenly in the club bathroom along the way!)

But before we start reminiscing, let's get some Snob Business out of the way!

Snob Takes

BOUGIE GIRLS NEED LOVE TOO: New on The Snob today: I profiled Married at First Sight's Nikki Jefferson for her new in-depth series MEET CUTE, where yours truly waxes poetic on Black women in search of the best things in life—love, food, travel, fashion, fun, friendship, and more. In this interview, Nikki breaks down her "bougie" tastes and her humble background, while addressing what really went down while she filmed the hit Peacock show. (Married at First Sight's Nikki Jefferson Found Hope in a Reality TV Place)

SHOP 'TIL YOU DROP: Have you registered yet for the Dresses & Drama sale and brunch on Sunday, Sept. 27th? Yes, coming later this month in Bed-Stuy, your friendly neighborhood Snob is selling her many clothes, bags, art, shoes, and jewelry. It's ALL GOTTA GO! Everything starts at 50% off retail. Name your price and let's make a deal. The clothes are sizes 12 to 20, and many items still have the tags on because I was too lazy to return them. I'm talking dresses by Farm Rio, Sachin & Babi, and Theory. Wares by Black designers like Fe Noel, Diarrablu, and Christie Brown. Plus tennis outfits and work clothes. Gala dresses and Gucci platform tennis shoes. Leather handbags by Coach and Tory Burch. And original art by Thomas E. Lockhart. I'm unloading it all while serving you light brunch bites and mimosas. Come to shop. Stay for the kiki! (Psst, Plus Size Girlies! Shop The Snob's Closet at Her Dresses & Drama Brunch)

THE BLACK SNOB POD DEBUTS SEPT. 24: I'm ready. Are you? The Snob has been working hard alongside her producer, Moses Williams, to bring you the pod for and by Black snobs. Subscribe today so you won't miss the first episode when it drops on Thursday, Sept. 24th. Williams, whom I've known since he was about 11 due to my 17-year friendship with his mom, Hopi Morton, isn't a true Snob, but he's definitely Snob-adjacent. The lo-fi hip-hop-producing Bed-Stuy native knew Martha's Vineyard wasn't affiliated with Martha Stewart because he's been visiting the island with his family for most of his life. Not the fancy part, though. He just got to the fancy part recently.

The first episode features a chat with my friend, Christina Blacken of The New Quo Foundation and her storytelling platform, Change My Mind. During our interview, we talk about everything from how we met to her career, growing up Black in Utah, and how she knows so many uses for JELL-O. (The Black Snob Podcast)

GET THE NEWSY GOSS: If you’re a paid subscriber, this October you're in for a treat, and not of the Halloween kind. I'm talking a nosey treat. This past summer, I wrote a viral Thread about the time I blew up my relationship that I didn’t know I had with Roc Nation. I told folks I’d come back with more stories from my career about what goes on behind the scenes in newsmaking, and so I’m starting a new series on THE BLACK SNOB called STORY TIME. Story Time will launch in October and will be for paid subscribers only. I will also feature Q&As and video content. So become a paid subscriber today so you won’t miss out when Story Time launches next month! (Subscribe to The Black Snob blog!)

Living the Champagne Life In Chocolate City

The Snob is missing the days when young bougie Black transplants took over Washington, D.C., chasing their Barack and Michelle Obama dreams, as the city tailored its restaurants, nightlife, and parties to our overly educated tastes.

In the summer of 2009, I came to D.C. with nothing but my giant afro and a dream, living in a garden apartment on Maryland Avenue in Capitol Hill. I came to witness history—the first Black President, and I stayed in D.C., off and on, from 2009 until the end of the Obama Administration in 2016.

I also came to party.

Meaning, I dodged and denied drunken marriage proposals from Nigerian businessmen on Marvin's rooftop.

Meaning, I almost went blind drinking the rum punch at Stan's, praying those chicken wings would soak up something.

Meaning, I watched the sunset and tried not to fall into the pool on the Donovan Hotel rooftop with my best friends—artist Jada Prather and former HR rep-turned-blogger, Yesha Callahan.

We partied here. We parited there. We partied at that one warehouse club in northeast that looked like the opening scene in Blade to dance to DJ Stylus or Adrian Loving.

I always thought I was going to get murdered cutting up in the middle of no man's land, but somehow I always got home safe, usually by the grace of God, as there was no Uber.

It was in D.C. where I discovered that Congressional Black Caucus Foundation Week was just Freaknik for old people. The annual gathering is currently kicking off today in D.C., where it's a miracle Park at 14th is still standing, considering the unspeakable things that happened between those old, sweaty walls.

Those CBC misadventures inspired these "bars" I dropped back in 2014:

These are black America’s “best and brightest,” now dressed in their finest, dropping down and hitting that “nae nae.” Which is just dandy, because everyone knows that when you drop that nae nae with your graduate degrees, it looks more sophisticated. And degrees also improve twerking—twerking while having papers is pretty much the Bavarian waltz. Those degrees and elaborate job titles class everything up, no matter how low you plan to go with your CBCF debauchery.

My then-editor, Lyne Pitts, had to change the original headline on my piece—"CBC Week Is Freaknik For Old People" to the bland "My Week at the CBC Convention" because the congress critters had the gall to complain! The audacity!

Sure, there was a high-powered summit going on where people fought to have a black-tie chicken dinner with Obama, and you could hear Roland Martin and Rev. Al Sharpton talk about how we were going to overcome or whatever. But you could also get shitfaced and drop it low with Roland Martin in some grand, historic building built by our formerly enslaved ancestors along Constitution Avenue!

It was magical. It was life!

And my article for The Root on it was fire. It went triple platinum that week!

During CBC Week in the age of Obama, I successfully lied my way into party after party—including Essence Magazine's coveted and highly exclusive Evening of Excellence, where one year my plus-one ticket magically became a plus-three due to a "clerical error" I orchestrated by having two different friends put my name down on the RSVP list twice.

That year I danced with El DeBarge at the after-party.

And all my outfits, save one, were Millennial-coded office wear due to the strict (racist) dress codes, but it was truly worth it.

Even if I hate 90 percent of my old photos now.

Party's Over

D.C. used to be where the beautiful, brainy Black people got day drunk at six-hour-long brunches on U Street and the H Street corridor. There was no rooftop I didn't dance on, including the W Hotel's rooftop lounge, where I fell from RoboCopping too hard while being woefully out of shape.

From choking on cigar smoke at Ozio's to grabbing a late-night bite at Kramerbooks & Afterward, no hot spot was left unturned. And you could hear jazz or house music everywhere, from Bohemian Caverns to Kristi Riggs' parties at Little Miss Whiskey's.

It was great. It was a time. It was beautiful.

But the party's been over for a decade now.

When I had to move from D.C. in 2016 to become editor-in-chief of The Root, I cried.

I ugly-cried real tears because it was really over. The Obama era was over. Partying on a school night on U Street was over. Going to Howard Homecoming when I never went to Howard was over.

Never mind that my "fun" era in D.C. technically ended in 2014 when one of my closest friends died of colon cancer. The extraordinary Toya Watts introduced me to this fabulous life. She was like a big sister, 11 years my senior, and a fellow Midwesterner who grew up in my hometown of St. Louis and nearby Chicago. We bonded quickly and became inseparable. It was Toya who got me into a lot of these parties and misadventures when I first moved there. It was Toya who took me under her wing and introduced me to the life—that D.C. life that only she knew so well.

We were "fancy broke people" who did everything together—from being unemployed to going to Eastern Market for weekend brunch to going grocery shopping at Harris Teeter in her little white 80s Mercedes. We spent almost every day together at her Capitol Hill condo.

Toya didn't even make it to 50.

She died at age 48 on August 24, 2014. And I was there with her family and friends when she took her last breaths. They had her funeral at Howard University, and it seemed all of Black D.C. was there—she was so beloved. Even though I eventually made peace with her death, it still stings. She was so vibrant and still had so much life to live, but her story unfortunately must always remain unfinished.

We only had one fight the whole time we were friends—it was over me not eating enough vegetables.

But after 2014, she was gone. And two years later, the Obamas were gone too, and D.C. wasn't the same for me anymore.

All good things must come to an end, but the end of that era felt like a murder. Because so many of my peers had already planned out their "Hillary Clinton Administration" lives. They were already talking about what they were going to wear to the White House parties and Black History Month observances. We thought that party, and the progress it brought to our country, would never end. Things were just going to keep getting better and better. And we would all ascend.

That is until November 2016 came and we didn't.

So if you're going to CBC Week, be sure to tip your servers and try not to take home any married men. But I won't be there. It's just not the same.

RIP to the party, y'all.

A decade full of poverty, pandemic, and war later, it's most definitely over.