![]() It made sense! I still had no way of knowing if the product was still safe for me, but I didn’t know it wasn’t. I went back to Twitter, where I found Black chemists writing threads explaining what the product changes actually meant for the products and the business. I thought about Carol’s Daughter and the speculation it brought, before it was confirmed that it was sold to Unilever. It was coming from Black women on my feed who had loved the products and thought they knew what they were purchasing: Many users thought it was completely organic (it never was), and that adding any preservatives to the formula made it unsafe for sensitive skin (according to Honey Pot and chemists on Twitter, it doesn’t).Īs a person who is only recently conscious of wellness products and organic care, I had no clue how to understand what was going on: Had Dixon sold Honey Pot to white people who wanted to poison my vagina? I Googled: “Honey Pot sold,” and found a 2020 interview with Dixon talking about the unfair shame that Black entrepreneurs absorb when they want to sell their companies, and how it was her ultimate goal for Honey Pot. Nevertheless, sales increased by 50 percent.īut this feedback was different. That means a lot to me.” People left angry comments on the product reviews. In February 2020, a Target ad featuring Dixon was called “racist” for stating that her company is for Black women and girls: “The reason why it’s so important for the Honey Pot to do well is so the next Black girl who comes up with a great idea could have a better opportunity. It was white women’s anxiety about Honey Pot that brought it to my timeline in the first place. As people shared the video and other users started to get word of the change, rumors quickly began to spread that Honey Pot was no longer “Black owned” but “Black founded,” indicating a supposed shift in ownership.Īt first, I didn’t think much of it Honey Pot has long been a target for online harassment. ![]() On Sunday morning, I saw a TikTok from a health-conscious user, breaking down their understanding of why the new ingredients were harmful. And for the last year and a half, I’ve been a dedicated Honey Pot customer - from the products to the educational Instagram posts to the mailing list - and vocal fan. I then went home to put them on my vagina. While I am unendingly distrustful of direct marketing and all the good tactics of consumerism, I enjoyed being spoken to in such an intimate manner from a brand selling me a product from a product that I’m supposed to put on my vagina. I went straight to Target (and I’m not even a Target girl), where I bought three of the washes, tampons, and wipes. From altars to bone throwing, I know the kind of healing that can come from picking up your ancestral telephone. I have always had an active relationship with ancestry, and I bond with the Black people - especially Black women and Black trans women - in my life over this consciousness. The design for each product was inviting and direct, and included a note that manages to speak almost exclusively to Black, Black queer, and Black trans women: “An ancestor gave me the ingredients and gifted me with a vision to heal myself.” Dixon and her team made it clear that the ambition of her brand was to make sure that Black women and girls could see themselves in her story. The products were marketed as plant derived, with no artificial fragrances or added parabens backed by a team of female gynecologists and, most important, owned by a Black woman. Honey Pot, a line of “feminine care” and sexual wellness products founded by Bea Dixon, arrived on shelves in 2014 with the glint of something godsent. Photo-Illustration: by The Cut Photos: Retailers
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