Yela Cortez

Every morning on my way to the office, I pass the same bus stop. There's a huge poster of a girl who could almost be my twin—same skin tone, same curls, same gap between the front teeth. She's advertising something ridiculous, like oat milk or sunglasses, but that’s not the point. The point is that ten years ago, a girl who looked like her—and me—would never have made it onto that poster.

I’m 26 now. I live in Copenhagen, in a small apartment not far from where I grew up in Amager. We used to live in one of those blocks where everyone knew each other's business and nobody locked their front door until someone’s bike got stolen. My parents came from Angola in the late ‘90s, under circumstances they never talked about in detail. I was two. My dad used to say Denmark gave us peace but not always kindness.

In school, I wanted to model. I even went to a couple of castings. The agencies smiled politely and said, “You’re beautiful, but we already have someone like you.” Someone like me. One black girl was apparently enough. It wasn’t rejection I couldn’t handle—it was the way they made me feel like a quota.

So I went to law school. Not because I dreamed of courtrooms or legislation, but because it felt like the responsible thing. My parents were proud. I think they were scared too—scared that if I chased something unstable, like modeling, I’d fall too hard when it didn’t work out.

Now I work in a firm in Østerbro, mostly corporate clients. It’s not thrilling, but it pays. And every week I see more posters—dark-skinned models, Afro hair, glossy smiles. Representation, they say. Diversity, they call it. But when I talk to friends in the industry, they tell me how quickly trends shift. One month it’s afros and freckles, the next it’s porcelain skin and androgyny.

It’s strange—this mix of pride and irritation. I’m happy for the younger girls who might feel seen now. But I can’t shake the feeling that we’re being used, turned into symbols to sell something. We’re not trends. We’re people.