The Color Of Money

The particular financial stress of being young, professional, female—and black

- Erika Stallings

IT WAS AN enviable dilemma. Two galas on the same night. Luckily, they were at the same place, Manhattan’s gleaming, glass-paneled Time Warner Center. First stop: the fourth floor, for a party raising money for school reading programs. Tickets cost $1K a head for a cocktail reception in a lounge with sweeping views of Central Park. I wore a one-shoulder black Tahari dress and strappy Stuart Weitzman heels. On arrival I was greeted by an acquaintance known to make five-figure gifts to the organization. After some small talk about summer plans (mine: a rental house with friends in Montauk, the Long Island fishing village that’s become more swanky than shanty—Malia Obama celebrated her 19th birthday there a couple of summers ago), I tucked my Ferragamo clutch under my arm and rode the elevator up to the second event. Also $1K a ticket, this one supported a charter school network. More canapés, more Champagne, more celebrities (hi, Katie Couric!). Although I was one of very few black faces in the crowd, I was pretty sure my polished appearance, my degrees from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and Georgetown Law, and my career as an attorney signified that I was just like everyone else. I dressed the part, I talked the part. With my Narciso Rodriguez perfume, I even smelled the part.