The highly anticipated 27th season of Big Brother will premiere this Thursday, July 10, likely to millions of its loyal fans. Knowing that 16 new contestants have entered the house immediately takes me back to one of the most torturous weeks of my life.
It’s summer 2024. I’m curled on a flimsy cot, searching for shade against the sun’s glare. Sweat covers my chest and back, and my arms dangle listlessly as if attached to a forgotten corpse. The “shower” is a single public stall blasting cold water, stationed next to portapotties so rancid, I hold my breath while passing by. My only source of nutrition? A rotation of pizza and ice cream.
And just when I manage to go still, preserving whatever energy I have left, the speakers blast music. Now, like a circus act, I have to get up and dance. Not for joy. Not for fun. But because if I don’t, there will be game-changing consequences.
This, my friends, is Jankie Week on Big Brother, when some contestants are forced to live in the backyard for almost a week. From the outside, I’m sure it plays like peak reality TV: incredulous, ridiculous, hilariously diabolical. But as a player, I had not only reached my breaking point, but I was slowly unraveling.
I’ve always felt out of place. At age 7, I moved from the cobblestone streets of London to Chicago. Whether it was my blended accent, my obsession with crocheting, or my dedication to going to a top 10 university while my peers were funneled toward community college, I never quite meshed.
I was the quiet girl with earth-shattering dreams. The one who sat alone at lunch crocheting hats while my classmates talked about parties I wasn’t invited to. The one who got teased for choosing fictional characters I discovered in overly worn books over spending time with real people. The one who played the role of “nice and obedient” so well that I forgot I had a voice of my own.
I learned early that people don’t always know what to do with quiet confidence. That being different, especially as a Black girl, isn’t always endearing—sometimes, it’s threatening. So I got used to being overlooked, misjudged, or left out entirely.
And I carried that with me into the Big Brother house.
After college, I moved to Atlanta with no plan, job, or community. I was a 23-year-old sitting alone in an apartment I didn’t love, a city I never meant to stay in, quietly drowning in the directionless swamp of a quarter-life crisis. So when the DM popped up from a casting recruiter who thought I’d be great for Big Brother, the opportunity intrigued me.
I’d never watched the show. But online, I was a girl who crocheted bold fashion pieces and told stories inspired by Black artists, icons, and everyday life—centering the beauty, power, and complexity of marginalized communities. They saw my face, my style, and my storytelling and decided I had something. Even when I couldn’t quite name what that something was. At first, I thought it was a scam. But the more I sat with the idea, the more it felt like a strange, cosmic dare from the universe.
A big reason I said yes was I wanted to challenge my social anxiety. What better way to break out of your shell than by locking yourself in a house with 16 strangers and competing to be liked enough not to get kicked out? It was unhinged. Terrifying. The opposite of me. But maybe, just maybe, it could stretch me. Maybe it would help me find my voice again.
Approximately 94 cameras and 113 mini-microphones record our every move in “the house.” I spent those first few days listening to houseguests share their life stories: a stampede of the same voices flooding the room, vying to be heard—while I stood silently, waiting for a break in the flood that would never arrive.
Within the first week, players tossed my name around for potential eviction. The reason? I was quiet. Or in one player’s words, “[Put up] T’kor. She’s a nobody.”
Now that’s not the first time I’ve been called a nobody. And it definitely won’t be the last. Because in a house (and a society) that rewards volume, charisma, and control, being quiet can quickly translate to being disposable.
But the thing about strategy—real strategy—is that it’s not just about making moves. It’s about building relationships that provide access to the one thing more valuable than power: information.
My gameplay was simple: stay quiet, stay hidden, stay underestimated. Because softness is not the opposite of powerful. It’s simply a different kind of power. I remembered things, small details that told bigger stories. Like how a houseguest who claimed they weren’t a fan and had never watched the show suddenly started correcting others about past seasons. I let others think I wasn’t a threat. When everyone was enjoying a casual game of Mafia, I quietly studied their tells so I’d know when they were lying to me in the real game. I built trust in one-on-one conversations. My keen observation skills and disarming personality made people open up around me—verbally and physically—offering up insight without realizing it.
As the show progressed, that approach paid off. I built solid connections and landed myself in the majority alliance. In a game like Big Brother, that kind of security is gold. For a second, I thought I was finally part of the in crowd.
Kimo Apaka thought so, too. He was my closest friend in the house—a Native Hawaiian and Asian man who can quote Into the Woods line for line. He was one of the only people to make me feel fully seen. I mean, quite literally, the first thing he said after “hi” was “I like you,” and he meant it. He listened more than he spoke, asked about my story, and never made me feel like I had to earn his attention. We bonded over shared roots—me growing up with gay parents, him navigating life as a gay man—and that connection became an anchor.
Then we both learned about The Pentagon: a tighter alliance hidden within our own, where five people called the shots behind closed doors.
And neither of us were in it. That kind of exclusion always stings. But for me, it cut deeper. In a season where only four Black people were cast and the other three were in The Pentagon, suddenly, it didn’t feel like gameplay anymore—it felt like an extension of the exclusion I’d face throughout my life. The dark-skinned Black girl who’d been called “an Oreo.” Who never quite fit. Who’d always been too quiet, too quirky, too different.
I knew this feeling. Kimo did, too. The one that sent us back into our high school gymnasium—outcasts picked last in a game of dodgeball. We weren’t the most physically fit. We didn’t posture or plot loudly. And because of that, we were seen as floaters. Numbers to be swayed, not players to be taken seriously. Two peas in a pod, both shackled by a quiet, familiar truth: We weren’t seen as valuable enough. And that made us angry. So we seethed silently, pretending we were cool. And when our closest friend, Rubina Bernabe, got put on the block, we were told to accept it.
Spoiler alert: We didn’t.
No, we weren’t in power. No, we weren’t winning competitions. But we had each other and the truth: that The Pentagon was orchestrating things behind the curtain, steering eviction decisions, and expecting the rest of us to fall in line. And by eviction night, we flipped the vote. Rubina stayed, a member of The Pentagon went home, and just like that, the people who thought they were in control realized they weren’t.
Kimo and I didn’t gloat. We didn’t need to. The look on their faces said enough.
This was more than a move; it was a mirror: a reflection of every space we’ve ever been in where people like us were made to feel small, invisible, and voiceless. And when I think about the world we live in—where ICE is ripping families apart, where bodily autonomy is stripped, where history is erased, where bombs obliterate entire populations in Palestine and Sudan—I think about how powerless it can feel to be at the bottom of a system where you didn’t get to choose your placement.
Of course the indignities of reality TV can’t compare to the atrocities of war, but what we did in that house proved you don’t need authority to make an impact. You need audacity. Community. And the clarity to see that nobody is a nobody. Because sometimes, power doesn’t trickle down—it rises from below.
But even a budding rebellion can be shaken by a well-timed twist. Big Brother is the ultimate game of “pick me.” The nomination block represents isolation. It means you weren’t chosen. It means you are expendable. And after fighting for eight weeks straight, Jankie Week finally got me.
The physical discomfort of dancing in the sweltering heat was nothing compared to the emotional toll of being on the block. I was next to my two closest allies. The only people left in the house who made me feel truly safe. And I was still trying to maintain a straight face. Still trying to be strong. Still putting my own emotions on mute so I wouldn’t make anyone else uncomfortable.
My positivity gave way to dread, anxiety, and exhaustion. That week, I barely campaigned. Instead of making a compelling case to my houseguests on why they should keep me over my best friend, I found myself retreating to quiet corners, isolating myself in the ache of my own emotions. Not because I didn’t care, but because I had nothing left to give. I felt hurt. Not just in that moment but in every moment like it: every time I shrunk myself to be palatable, every time I smiled through betrayal, every time I was left out and told to be okay with it. Not just in the house but in life.
But I was never just a player. I was a person. Young Black women are expected to always be strong.
Quiet Black women don’t go viral. We don’t make headlines unless we’re exceptional or explosive. I fought to be neither. I threw comps. I bit my tongue. I stayed calm in the face of chaos. Not because I wasn’t emotional but because I’d spent a lifetime learning to shrink.
So as you start picking favorites on Big Brother this season, I hope you’ll pay attention. Not just to the loudest voices or the flashiest moves but to the players who occupy the room differently. I know what it’s like to be the introvert in the BB house. To wonder if anyone notices the small ways you’re surviving. To wonder if your value only counts when it’s big and bold and undeniable.
I still think about that moment during my eviction, a moment of stillness some might’ve seen as me giving up. But I know now, it wasn’t that. It was the first time I gave myself permission to be fully human.
