When I came to America I joined an industry which, to an outsider, looked like a glamorous and lucrative business: the silent world of modeling. But even calling modeling an "industry" reveals its internal realities, and I soon found it was steeped in corporate quotas, hidden agendas, and pure two-faced racism. In spite of my much-celebrated success, mine was--and still is--a niche market. The secret mantra of the day was that the business would accept only one "beautiful nigger" at a time, separating us the way slaves had been and creating hostility among black models. Who will be the chosen "one?" Who will be the house nigger?

As a political science student, I understood the old strategy of divide and conquer, no matter how well it was disguised in couture garments. I knew black models had no power and I viewed everything as a political statement. I came into that business justa s these political statements had become all the rage, increasing in number until they became almost a movement. But it's no satisfaction to know that not only your look but your very racial identity is simply a trend. The insult was constant.

Beverly Johnson was the only truly well-known black model in America when I arrived, and she had worked hard to get there. She was a true pioneer, being the first black model to appear on the cover of Vogue in 1974. Her stardom was also a total anomaly at Ford Models, which in hte sixties was nicknamed the "White House" because of the lack of diversity among their girls.

Beverly Johnson had formerly worked with Wilhelmina, but Eileen Ford had nicked her, and now she was the most famous African-American model in the business. Both Beverly and I became pawns in the ensuing battle. Wilhelmina went to Africa and came back with a black diamond for her own: me.

This rivalry between Beverly Johnson and myself was set up bevore I ever visited America, before I even egan to consider a career in modeling. But the history of black models making it onto the pages of such magazines as Bazaar and Vogue was so limited that the politics were tremendous. It was 1975. Muhammad Ali was floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee in Zaire. Toni Morrison had wowed the wold a few years earlier with her literary dbut, The Bluest Eye. Judith Jamison had made dance history with her heartbreaking performance in Alvin Aily's Cry. But the fashion world was stilll arguind about whether black was beautiful, and there was a sserious quotea: only one black model made it to the top at at time.

The real competition was between the agents. I had no idea who Beverly Johnson was. I'd never seen a picture of her in Kenya. Never heard of her. But from the moment I arrived in the country, the fashionistas were fanning the flames of rivalry. Everywhere I went, I kept hearing people say that Beverly should be very careful or she'd be dethroned in a minute.

But I wouldn't compete directly with Beverly, and in fact I shocked her and the rest of the industry b referring her for shoots. We became friends. Our act of defiance was a statement that the old rules didn't apply anymore. There were going to be two of us, not one, and many more to follow. Now, twenty yearslater, there's Naomi and Tyra and Alek and Kiara, and they are alll very different girls. Their individual styles are accepted, because there's room for more than one. They don't have to compete for the ridiculous title of being the only exception, the one beautiful black girl. IMAN

Excerpted from I AM IMAN (Universe) published November, 2001