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Our current pandemic reframed how we view one another. Overnight, family members became friends, friends became family and estranged roommates became a delightful combination of the two. During this time my roommates and I became relatively inseparable. We found comfort in each other’s company and depended on one another in new ways.

One person’s short trip to the store became our household supply run, another’s quick meal became dinner for everyone in the house, and someone’s TV time became family TV night.

Out of all the series we watched, we found ourselves constantly returning to The Real Housewives of New York City, also known as RHONY. Initially, our consumption was born of an ironic fascination, but as the months went on I realized we were returning to the show when we were most in need of a serotonin boost — somehow finding comfort in watching these affluent white women lead pseudo-dramatic lives.

Recently, I found myself questioning the reasoning behind our collective desires. Why would a group of Black women gain so much joy from watching rich white women do their rich white women things? Why did we cry laughing when Ramona did her first catwalk? Or when Sonja performed burlesque? Or even when Aviva threw her leg across the table? What was it about these absurdities that kept reeling us back in? And why did we feel so great at the end of each episode?

The answer to all of these questions lie within Thomas Will’s theory of downward comparison. Downward comparison is the process of comparing yourself to another person, who is of equal or worse standing, in order to make yourself feel better. His groundbreaking article reveals that this tool is utilized by individuals when their self image is under threat. In order to restore their sense of self, they point their attention to others who are in a comparably lower position. These safe targets deliver humor, increased self esteem and strengthen in-group allegiance, all of which were beautiful side effects of our RHONY consumption.

For context, around the time that we started watching the Bravo TV original, three out of the four women in the house were unemployed. Our usual activities and work environments that granted us comfort and shaped how we viewed ourselves were immediately stripped away from us. We were forced to engage in homebound activities. The endless cycle of days and the looming threat of financial insecurity resulted in a collective depressive episode. However, we were not alone.

A recent study found that rates of depression increased among individuals 18 to 39 years of age during the pandemic. Furthermore, an individual was more likely to experience mild to moderate depressive symptoms if they were low-income, had little to no savings or were exposed to stressors, like losing a job. Our collective household ticked most of these boxes. We began our pandemic lives with a floundering self image and in desperate need of a “safe target.” The Real Housewives of New York producers graciously presented us with such.

The Real Housewives of New York creates a counter-narrative for the white elite and encourages audience members to actively judge its personalities. Producers and editors intentionally format the show to expose the hypocrisy of these wealthy women through a method called “The Bravo Wink.” This technique primes audience members to be hyper aware of cultural expectations surrounding class and gender, only to expose their stars defying these explicitly defined standards. The wink acts as an invitation for the audience to join in on the joke that is rarely told and allows downward comparison to occur in a very unique way.

In this sense, the audience — and more specifically, myself and my housemates — are not comparing ourselves to people who are objectively in a worse situation. On paper, the stars of this reality show are better off. They own multiple properties, have successful careers and can afford to take luxurious group trips whenever they like. They are white women with wealth, prestige and power, and we are just working class Black women attempting to survive a pandemic.

Fortunately, this show emphasizes how even with all of their privilege, these women's lives are still in shambles. Each season’s story arc is littered with divorce, bankruptcy and major cat fights — all of which are absent from our lives. With the end of each episode, my roommates and I are reminded of the pitfalls of subjecting oneself to society’s unreachable standards surrounding gender and class. Besides just bonding over mutual physiological needs like groceries, we found a solace in the downward comparison of these high class white women. And, to that, I say, “Thanks, RHONY (not to be confused with ‘Rona).”

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