blog

62

There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife’s right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. There is no act more wretched than stealing.
— Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner

Updated 5/16 (additions at the end of post)

I’ve been a blogger since I was 16. I started on Tumblr, and over a few years, I accumulated thousands of followers. I loved that other people were inspired by things I was inspired by. I loved that people were interested in what I saw, felt, thought. I loved the lessons I learned from interacting with people from all over the world.

The internet is a place for recycling ideas and pulling inspiration, which I have done much of during my 8 years of blogging. On that topic, I am going to tell you about a strange situation I've been in.

To start, I own that I am not the first person to come up with the examples I will show you, and I will not be the last. However, there is a significant difference between being inspired by someone and relentlessly and unapologetically copying his/her brand, identity, and image.

In this case, the frequency and level of detail are what continue to be disturbing. Plus, this person, whose name is Alexandria Andrea, was privately asked to stop on 4 separate occasions, but claims it all to be coincidence. Please feel free to read and decide for yourself.

4 months ago, I noticed my close friend’s girlfriend posting things that were familiar to what I was. I would put up a pointless Instagram, or make a reference to a blog post of mine, and within a day or two, she would post something oddly similar in composition, subject, and reference. (FYI, for the caption below, #MFW = my face when).

 

I was confused, but I left it alone and minded my own business. I did not want to interfere with my friend’s life enough to even ask him about it. This seemed dumb, and maybe I should be flattered? So, I passed it off as a phase.

It continued. Daily.  Alex Andrea would not only post on her own account, but on my friend's, drawing much attention to what was going on. She was going off of images from both my IG accounts, my blog posts, and even used similar editing apps to recreate images I had played with. I was getting texts from other people about her imitating me because it was so obvious and frequent.

 

 

I decided to ask my friend what he thought was happening with his girlfriend. He barely goes on social media, so he was surprised and thought it was weird. I felt better after we spoke and believed him when he said she was probably just inspired by me and would cool down/stop.

Well, sadly, it hadn't even begun.

 

After another week or so of images like the ones above, I no longer wanted her to look at my stuff. I told my friend this, and he understood. Alex Andrea has access to his Instagram, and she would look at my profiles using his account, so with this knowledge and his blessing, I blocked both of them.

He spoke with her, but she denied it with the skill of which I can only compare Republicans' willful ignorance in denying global warming. Was she as delusional as the GOP? Or was she just trying to save face? Either way, I thought her being aware of my opinion and my blocking her would be the end of it. Since, how much more obvious can I be that: 1. I don’t like what you’re doing. 2. I don’t want you looking at my stuff?

Get ready to sit down. She created a second account, spent a week or so moving over images from her old account, deleted her old one, changed the name to the same thing, so it looked like the account I blocked. Seriously, photos on her account now start less than a month ago. Did she do this thinking I would be ignorant to the fact she was unblocked and able look at my posts? You can decide for yourself. I have no idea what the motive was behind that extreme effort to make the same account, but my Instagram is now private indefinitely.

(The images here are only from the new account and a few previous screenshots I was sent. This is nothing compared to how many posts she put up before the deletion.)

With limited access to my Instagram, she was looking at my blog. I would put something up and sure enough, she would feature the same artist I did, take images from my collages, etc.

The madness did not end. So, I blocked her IP address. Did that relay the message? Nahhh, she went on with different IPs through her phone.

(Don't worry, I've been locking my door at night.)

Two weeks ago, I published an extremely personal blog post on getting back into shape after my weight gain. This is a narrative that has been spoken about thousands of times, and each woman’s experience is different. However, when you’re 3 months deep into imitating me so closely, there is no such thing as a coincidence. 2 days after my post goes live, she posts an Instagram relaying her opinion on a plus sized blogger’s experience on exercise and getting into shape. I was baffled. Throughout this entire situation, I’ve asked myself, “What is her end goal? What is she trying to prove?” Let me be clear, I know I do not own feminism or a sector of feminism. I am not even trying to take ownership of the opinions in my post. What leaves me speechless is that no matter what I put up, no matter how much it relates or does not relate to her personally, she within days, imitates it.

 

 

Yes. She hashtagged #fatandfit.

Still, I kept my mouth shut. I told my friends and followers to no longer let me know when she was copying me. Ignorance is bliss, so if I didn't know it was happening, was it? Until just a few days later, after I put up my photos from Coachella and was informed this happened:

 

For the third time, I contacted my friend. He spoke to her on two different occasions within a few days. Denial further ensued. Tantrums were thrown. Posts were deleted. And at last, Alex Andrea continued the next day without pause.

To say the least, my mind continues to be blown by every part of this... Which leads to why this blog post exists.

Throughout the last 4 months, I’ve felt conflicted. I have never met the girl, she doesn’t even live in the same state as me, so is it a big deal? How much harm is she doing even if she is mimicking my pose, caption, style or edit at a daily rate? Does it matter? I've thought about the many angles to this and yes, it does.

For the last 8 years, I have created a personal brand for myself across different online platforms. I have worked at developing my vision and committing to a unique voice and perspective. My brand has helped me throughout my whole life. One example, I created a website for a family friend and stylist that was so successful, I got offered my current job. My boss moved me to LA because he was able to see my vision and skill through what I created for her.

So, when it came to creating my own, I made sure every last detail was perfect. Kateccoffey.com has inspired me to be more frequent with my self-expression, and it has awakened a whole new area of my brand. I write 1-2 blog posts weekly. I research; take images; pull images; write; edit; find artists, writers, creators I am inspired by; and CREATE experiences that I enjoy and that others will enjoy. I am damn proud of who I am, work I do, and things I create. They may say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but when it goes this far, there’s nothing sincere about it. When almost every single thing I create is imitated in close detail, I am infringed upon. When my style, voice, and opinions are replicated, I am violated. My brand and image become less unique and less valuable.

I will not speak on her motives or agenda. For months, I tried to take the high road, handle this privately, and give the benefit of the doubt. Even still, this public post is not about being petty; It is about authenticity. Because of the years I have spent cultivating my own authentic self both online and in real life, along with her continuous actions, I felt I needed to bring this to light and say this:

My work, my ideas, my creations are to inspire others, just as they have inspired me. They are not to mimicked, outright stolen, or blatantly copied.

That being said, regardless of how often others try to recreate my art or image, they will fail. I will always be 5 steps ahead. Authenticity wins. Bullshit falls short. No matter how hard some will try to emulate me, they will never have my heart, mind or soul.


 

[Update 5/11: I have received incredible messages about this post in just the last 12 hours. I'm so happy this piece is making an impact already.

A part of my favorite message reads:

"As more of our personas are becoming digitized, this issue will only become more important. At the very least your story can act as a great case study for society to discuss Instagram culture, and the ethics of art. We should be discouraging blatant imitation as a means to increase ones self worth.
...

As for what to do about this, it seems like you’ve done all you can. The next step is to share the story, which you are. For me, I think this is a great reminder that I may need to protect my art a little bit more, be less relax about publishing, do more to legally own my content, and realize that there are people that will steal and reproduce without a second thought."

Please continue to send messages on what we "own" on the Internet, what is ethical/unethical when getting inspiration from others, and what rights we do and do not have online. Your insight and personal experiences with this are important. Let's create something useful and start a dialogue.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Update 5/16:

I confronted this to take power back. I handled the entire situation with dignity, patience, and understanding. It showed me good karma is real:
On a professional level, in just the first day, my post received 400% more views than any other I've done. Not just the post, but all of my website's content was viewed around the world. An amazing plus sized fashion blogger from London got wind of it and sent me videos to tell me her similar story. She now follows me on SnapChat, Instagram and Twitter (@calliethorpe).
On a personal level, I spoke with people I hadn't connected with in over a year. I was taught new perspectives when discussing what is unethical about this behavior both on and offline. Others reached out to say how much my blog, style, opinions, etc inspire them.
As I said, good karma is real. You can turn a seemingly only negative situation into something positive! Authenticity and true creativity will always win.
PS: Yes, my friend and I are still on great terms. *Cue Real Friends by Kanye* PPS: Someone tell Azealia Banks I can help her use someone copying her style and image to her advantage next time. I'm mad I didn't come up with, "Damn, you be mood boarding the fuck outta me."]

58

Physical fitness is not only one of the most important keys to a healthy body, it is the basis of dynamic and creative intellectual activity.
— John F. Kennedy

Skinny doesn't equal fit.


Fit isn't a number on the scale or a body type. It's a body feeling.

I used to be unbelievably fit. I would go to the gym 6 days a week and feel guilty as hell if I didn't make it 7. I would not leave the gym unless I burned at least 800 calories through cardio alone. After, I would do weights and floor work. I would run at a resting speed of 6.5- 7 mph with frequent intervals at 8- 8.8 mph for a solid hour. I could run and run and run and never ever get tired. I would stop when I felt bored enough. I was in incredible shape and even went on retreats to health spas and took tests to see how I could become fitter.

Despite my level of fitness, I've never been skinny, and I probably never will be. I have an athletic body type, as you can see in the pictures above of when I was in shape. I have a big butt, strong arms, and calves that are more muscular than I would like (thanks, Dad). Plus, I like to eat!!! Because I sprained my ankle CONSTANTLY in different sports and activities, including 3x during a varsity lacrosse season, I had to get ligament and tendon surgery when I was 20. This totally threw me off. Being unable to walk, I quickly gained 20+ pounds. I gave in to laziness and comfort, and I lost my fit body throughout recovery and the remainder of college.

Since I can remember, I have been praised for my looks and (after the awkward teenage years) recognized for my face and body. I grew up around people who preached the importance of looks, like how happiness stems from physical appearance. We, as women, are lied to from birth: we are not required to look like society wants us to; we are not lesser if we do not look like society expects. I've been UN-TEACHING myself all of the lies that were shoved down my throat and gaining weight surprisingly helped that process along. In fact, I think I have been in this spot for as long as I have been partially as a form of protest. It has been an interesting experiment. I am the manifestation of "FUCK YOU. I WILL LOOK LIKE WHAT I WANT, DO WHAT I WANT, EAT WHAT I WANT. You can either love it, and I mean ALL of it, or get out of my way."

Do I think being somewhat overweight is a huge burden to bear and I'm a martyr? Not at all. More than sending a message to anyone else, I figured out I've been trying to send a message to ME. The lies I tell and expectations I put on myself have been a battle my whole life. I've learned I CAN be overweight and still do everything and anything I want to. I can still have incredible sex, fall in love, have a ton of friends, feel sexy, go out in cute clothes, be a role model, and have an active lifestyle. Are there days where I feel self-conscious and fat as hell? Of course. Is it still a daily internal battle? It can be. Do I still think about and call out my flaws? More often than I would like. But I've come a long way with self-acceptance, and I am more confident today than I was 3 years ago in great shape and eating a can of raw tuna fish for lunch.

My worth is dictated by my soul, my intentions, my thoughts. This seems cliché, but it is something we women have to teach ourselves despite all odds and messages. With this growing change in mentality, I am interested in getting back into shape again. Not for vanity, but for new reasons: health and self-love. Enough with laziness and using my appearance to prove I can have it all no matter what. Like all other goals in my life, I'm going to do this. For me.

 

Now here's a funny video I adore:

56

I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you.
— Frida Kahlo

Beautiful, rainy April

I’m learning to talk less
An absence of voices to hear me
Is a lesson to be learned
Or so my therapist says

Learn to be alone
Stop looking for advice
The guidance you need is inside

I talk to myself
But I don’t care for the sound of my own voice
It doesn’t convince me the way it should
It doesn’t give me what I need
Yet

--------------------------------------------------------------

 

You obsess, stalk
Attempt to emulate creativity you do not possess
What stress continual imitation must cause
Far passed inspired,
you Suck from others' Individuality, foster a Stolen image
Stolen image after stolen image
At your best
you      F       a            i               l
In having any slight depth, voice, vision.
Do you see your luminous transparency ? Insecurity ?
Realization of your lack of identity
Leaves me vacant
So I quickly stop myself
Basic Falsities are
Undeserving
of my thoughts
of my breath
.
I smile
and Forget you

 

54

Even though you may want to move forward in your life, you may have one foot on the brakes. In order to be free, we must learn how to let go. Release the hurt. Release the fear. Refuse to entertain your old pain. The energy it takes to hang onto the past is holding you back from a new life. What is it you would let go of today?
— Mary Manin Morrissey

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

 

Still I Rise, Maya Angelou

53

Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.
— Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

Pretty by Katie Makkai

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother, “What will I be? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? What comes next? Oh right, will I be rich?” Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop. And the pretty question infects from conception, passing blood and breath into cells. The word hangs from our mothers' hearts in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.

“Will I be wanted? Worthy? Pretty?” But puberty left me this funhouse mirror dryad: teeth set at science fiction angles, crooked nose, face donkey-long and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting. My poor mother. 

“How could this happen? You'll have porcelain skin as soon as we can see a dermatologist. You sucked your thumb. That's why your teeth look like that! You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6. Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!

“Don't worry. We'll get it fixed!” She would say, grasping my face, twisting it this way and that, as if it were a cabbage she might buy. 

But this is not about her. Not her fault. She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade. By 16, I was pickled with ointments, medications, peroxides. Teeth corralled into steel prongs. Laying in a hospital bed, face packed with gauze, cushioning the brand new nose the surgeon had carved.

Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia, and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”

All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”

And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me. 

This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven't a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.

About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable. 

This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.

“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely 'pretty'.”