Stevie Wonder’s timeless melody, “My Cherie Amour,” with its opening lines, “My Cherie amour, lovely as a summer day / My Cherie amour, distant as the Milky Way,” is a song of tender adoration. For many, it evokes feelings of sweet romance and innocent charm. However, for me, growing up, this classic tune was a source of considerable embarrassment.
My given name is Sheri, intentionally pronounced with the French inflection, a nod to my parents’ Francophile tendencies and the meaning of the name itself: “darling.” Yet, outside of my mother’s careful enunciation, the world insisted on calling me “Sherry.” The inevitable serenade of “My Cherie Amour” followed, and with it, a wave of childhood discomfort washed over me. Despite the loving intent behind the song and my name, I didn’t quite embody the “pretty little one” described in the lyrics, at least not in my own eyes.
Elementary school was a battlefield of insecurities. My darker skin tone and burgeoning curves became targets for playground taunts. “Blackie” was a common jeer, and unwanted pinches accompanied by fleeting footsteps were a regular occurrence. Hindsight allows me to recognize these as clumsy, misguided attempts at childish affection. But at the time, such attention only amplified my self-consciousness. Compliments came with caveats: “You’re pretty for a dark-skinned girl,” or “You have a pretty face for a big girl.” The qualifiers chipped away at any genuine sense of self-acceptance. It wasn’t until a young man genuinely admired my skin color that I began to see its beauty myself. This newfound appreciation extended to “My Cherie Amour.” The song transformed from an embarrassing anthem into a personal serenade, a reflection of how I finally felt about myself – worthy of adoration, my own “Chérie amour.”
My burgeoning love for Paris, initially sparked by glossy fashion magazines, was solidified by my high school French class. Madame, our teacher, was the epitome of Parisian chic. With her stylish short haircut, bold red lipstick, and an undeniable air of confidence, she commanded our attention despite a physical challenge that required her to use a cane. I vividly remember her, one hand firmly planted on her cane for balance, the other outstretched to receive a wad of chewing gum from a misbehaving student, her voice ringing with playful disdain as she scolded them for “ruminating like a cow!” I was captivated by her and by the language itself. French ceased to be just a subject; it became a passion, a hobby pursued through college courses and continuing education classes long after graduation.
Learning of my Detroit compatriot, fashion designer Cedi Johnson’s crowdfunding efforts to showcase his collection at Paris Fashion Week, resonated deeply with me. Cedi has been a consistent and visionary force in fashion for over two decades. I recall being mesmerized in his loft above Nikki’s Greektown Pizzeria, watching him craft exquisite pieces for luminaries like Aretha Franklin, Anita Baker, and Angela Bofill. He is a true hometown treasure, possessing an innate sense of fashion’s future direction. Supporting his dream of showing at Paris Fashion Week on March 4th at the iconic Ritz hotel, Coco Chanel’s Parisian home, felt imperative. Cedi’s work is a vital contribution to Black history in fashion, and you can explore his designs on Instagram @cedicollectiondc or contribute to his journey at CediGoestoParis.com.
Paris: A Legacy Forged by Black Americans
The narrative of Black Americans in Paris is a rich and enduring one, stretching back to literary giants like James Baldwin and Richard Wright, jazz musician Sidney Bechet, and the incomparable Josephine Baker. These luminaries, seeking refuge from the pervasive racism of America, found a welcoming haven in Paris. There, they were celebrated for their groundbreaking contributions to music, literature, and undeniably, their unique style. The allure of Josephine Baker was so potent that European women reportedly sought to emulate her dark complexion, and banana-skirted dolls in her likeness became ubiquitous throughout Europe.
Cedi Johnson stands on the shoulders of fashion icons like Stephen Burrows, the pioneering Black designer who participated in the groundbreaking Battle of Versailles Fashion Show in 1973. This historic event, held at the Palace of Versailles to raise funds for its restoration, pitted American ready-to-wear designers against the established French couture houses. Invited on short notice and with limited resources, the American designers made a revolutionary decision: they hired ten African American models. Witnessing the documentary of this event, the profound influence of Black culture and creativity on the fashion industry is undeniable. It’s essential viewing for anyone passionate about fashion history.
The Battle of Versailles fundamentally reshaped the fashion landscape. While French designers focused on elaborate, traditional couture presentations, deemed by many as stiff and outdated, the American contingent, spearheaded by Burrows, Anne Klein, Oscar de la Renta, and Halston, delivered a show brimming with energy, innovation, and a distinctly American spirit. Josephine Baker’s opening performance set the stage, but it was the American ready-to-wear designs and, crucially, the Black models – including Pat Cleveland, Billie Blair, and Bethann Hardison – who captivated the audience. Hardison’s powerful, fierce walk, closing Burrows’ show, was unlike anything the Parisian fashion elite had witnessed. The American show was a celebration of beauty, music, passion, and accessibility, and the audience, comprised of royalty and celebrities, erupted in enthusiastic applause, stomping their feet and tossing their programs into the air.
Eleanor Lambert, the influential American fashion publicist often compared to Anna Wintour, aptly described fashion as “history in fabric,” reflecting “the time you live and the place you live, and the mood of people.” The Battle of Versailles show encapsulated the spirit of 1970s America, a period of cultural and sexual revolution, civil rights activism, gay pride, and women’s empowerment. It placed American diversity squarely in the spotlight. Anne Klein collaborated with Bethann Hardison on the African-inspired motifs in her collection, while Oscar de la Renta’s designs were set to the soundtrack of Barry White’s “Love’s Theme.” From Pat Cleveland’s mesmerizing twirls in layers of chiffon to Billie Blair’s dramatic “Voguing” finale, the Black models delivered performances that ignited a newfound appreciation for African American culture and spurred a push for greater diversity within the American fashion industry.
Left Bank Dreams and Parisian Style Realities
Inspired by this legacy, I yearned to experience the “Left Bank” excitement of Paris firsthand. In 1996, my dream materialized when a close friend, a successful pharmaceutical sales representative, generously shared her Paris trip-for-two bonus with me. Serendipitously, just weeks before our departure, I received a significant promotion with a substantial raise. Feeling flush and adventurous, we decided to immerse ourselves in Parisian life for two weeks, alternating tourist days with days spent exploring the city as locals. My rudimentary French proved sufficient for basic translation, and my friend excelled at navigating the Metro. Equipped with francs and a healthy budget, we were ready to indulge in Parisian shopping.
Packing for Paris, the fashion capital, presented a unique challenge. What does one pack when the primary objective is to shop? Packing always felt restrictive to me, a limitation on sartorial spontaneity. What if inspiration struck and I desired an outfit not included in my meticulously curated suitcase? I’ve always approached dressing as a creative endeavor, unlike those who could simply grab whatever was clean. And then there were the crucial accessories – jewelry, shoes, bags, scarves, hats – the essential components that transformed an outfit into a look. These, of course, added significant weight and volume. This was in the pre-lightweight, upright rolling luggage era. My new suitcase at the time rolled precariously on its side on four undersized wheels, prone to tipping over, especially when fully packed – as it inevitably would be.
Back to the packing dilemma: what to bring to Paris? The two-week trip with a strict two-baggage limit seemed laughably inadequate. I needed ample space for shopping, for acquiring Parisian treasures and souvenirs. My solution was a foldable, unstructured bag, ready to be deployed for the return journey, should my Parisian haul necessitate extra luggage. Lost in the logistical whirlwind of packing and shopping strategies, I completely overlooked one crucial detail: my body size.
A Curvy Girl Navigating Parisian Chic
Channeling Carrie Bradshaw, we arrived at the airport in our carefully chosen travel ensembles, Evian facial mists in hand. We savored French champagne and filet mignon on the flight, dutifully walking the aisles to mitigate circulatory issues and swelling. Upon checking into our Parisian hotel, a sense of slight unease began to creep in. Our “room” felt more akin to a cruise ship cabin, with two petite twin beds, a minuscule closet, and a bathtub that seemed designed for dolls. Our first meal at a Parisian brasserie further heightened my awareness of my size. Noticing the scarcity of overweight individuals, I felt a flicker of self-consciousness as the waiter maneuvered the table to accommodate me. Living in New York now, I recognize this as standard practice in cramped eateries, but in that moment, in Paris, I felt larger than life.
Leafing through a brochure for Le Printemps department store, I envisioned runway shows and endless racks of chic clothing awaiting my perusal. Naively, I hadn’t considered that being plus-size might impact my Parisian shopping experience. This was Paris, after all, the epicenter of global fashion. Stepping into Le Printemps, we were immediately captivated by the store’s grand architecture and the dazzling cosmetics counters on the ground floor. We indulged in silk scarves and explored the shoe department, accumulating boxes and bags until we felt like visiting dignitaries.
Suddenly, a petite, impeccably dressed French saleswoman approached me. With a sympathetic smile, she uttered, “Quel Dammage! Vee don’t have no-ting pour vous here.” Then, gesturing with her hands as if encircling a large beach ball, she added, “Vous êtes grande taille.” The translation was clear, if brutally direct: “Too bad! There’s nothing here to fit your big American butt in Paris!” This starkly contrasted with historical accounts. Karen Karbo, in The Gospel According to Coco Chanel, described 1920s French women as “sumptuous with ample breasts shooting out one way, a small waist, and large bottoms protruding in the opposite direction.” This silhouette, apparently, inspired Coco Chanel to liberate women from restrictive corsets and garters, creating comfortable jersey garments that allowed for movement and freedom. What had become of the curvy French woman? Surely, their bread and butter consumption hadn’t entirely vanished all curves.
Sadly, it seemed the “fashion capital of the world” offered little stylish for a curvy girl like me. Fortunately, years of navigating fashion as a curvy woman had equipped me with resourcefulness. Long before “plus-size fashion” became a recognized term, I had honed the art of utilizing accessories to create the desired look, inspired by the pages of fashion magazines. In Paris, I compensated for clothing limitations by indulging in shoes, scarves, hats, gloves, and French perfume. I even purchased my first piece from a luxury brand: a stunning red pebbled leather briefcase by Lancel Paris, a venerable French leather goods house. Today, this vintage piece serves as an oversized clutch, a cherished and often-envied accessory.
Reflecting on the saleswoman’s words, I considered the possibility of misinterpretation, much like the childhood teasing that initially colored my perception of “Cherie Amour.” My French was functional but lacked nuanced understanding, and perhaps something was lost in translation. Given Paris’s rich history of embracing Black style, her words might have carried a different connotation. Perhaps her expression wasn’t disdain, but rather empathy, a shared disappointment in a fashion capital that failed to cater to diverse body types. Perhaps she wasn’t criticizing me, but lamenting the lack of trendy options for a stylish curvy girl in Paris, a missed sales opportunity. And perhaps, in my disappointment, I overlooked the very Parisian solution: to seek out an oversized or extra-large luxury piece, a timeless treasure to cherish long after my trip.
Quel Dammage! Regardless of size, perfect fit is an elusive ideal. Cultivate personal style, for as Coco Chanel famously declared, “Fashion changes, but Style endures.”
