The Only Way Out

BigMama and LilMama, young Black identical twinfluencers, see Instagram as the only path out of North Houston. As life becomes a battle of realities on and offline, the twins seek solace and security.

When BigMama and LilMama pulled up to their mother’s apartment complex in North Houston, I noticed something off. Not with each other. As always, the 19-year-old Instagram twinfluencers, known as @HillsmanTwins, arrive in matching getups, down to the pastel nails and long straight hair. Their lazy Sunday, dinner-at-mama’s ensemble calls for denim jumpsuits, pink corduroy hats, and cheetah sneakers. But this afternoon, instead of filling in each other’s sentences while zooming through the bluelight vortex on their four shared iPhones (one for photos, one for vlogging), the zany twin stars wearily walk with me towards the courtyard playground, where the sound of playing children amplifies their silence. 

They got into a fight last night. BigMama lifts her hat to show me the missing eyelash extensions around her black eye. Scratches scatter around her eyes and down her nose. “This girl tryna dig out my fuckin eyeball, literally,” BigMama says about the party last night.

The twins don’t go out much these days. But it had been a while, and they were party-dressed and ready from their photoshoot earlier that afternoon in the Fifth Ward, where we first happened to meet while I was driving through. On a wooden stage made of spiraling wooden shingles, the twins modeled their new outfits for their 40k followers: patchwork skinny jeans, denim bra-tops, and white denim sneakers. The only visible difference between BigMama and LilMama (born Sandavia and Semonyia, respectively, three minutes apart): BigMama wears a ‘B’ necklace, and LilMama an ‘H,’ for their last name, Hillsman. Their photo crew includes their 17-year-old brother, DaiJohn, deputized as the photographer, and MissMamas, their white Maltipoo with pink-dyed ears, paws, and tail. Passing drivers catcalled them. 

Later that evening after some cocktails, the twins rolled up to the party held at a local Airbnb house. On entering, they said they spotted a high school foe. Trying to dodge any potential drama, the twins set up in the kitchen where the lights were off and party-goers wanted to take photos with the twins. The foe walked inside from the patio and bumped BigMama. The twins resisted the urge to eye her down. Then, about 20 minutes later, while LilMama was flirting with a boy and BigMama was chatting with their friend Dejia, the girl jumped BigMama. 

“Boom!” BigMama recounts. “She wasn’t even tryna hit me. She was trying to scratch my face.” Meanwhile, the cousin went after LilMama, pulling her hair. The lights in the kitchen went on. Their friend Dejia said she knew it was serious, because people immediately intervened. Usually, bystanders just whip out their phones. “Your face is bleeding,” LilMama told BigMama, with their backs up against the wall. Someone got them a napkin, while another found LilMama a knife in the kitchen. BigMama took it away, refusing to escalate the conflict. “You not gonna cut nobody,” she said. “You not gonna get that [criminal] charge.” 

Then a guy pulled out a gun. He drew on the twins and said, “Get the fuck outta here.” The twins retreated to the bathroom for 20 minutes while a guy friend of theirs intervened, trying to calm the gunman. The twins ran to their car and drove away. But just when the twins thought they were safe on the road, their attackers appeared in the rearview mirror. As the assailants chased them, the twins made a plan to keep driving through town until they found the very last point of possible safety: the police station. After 20 minutes driving, the twins finally lost them.

It wasn’t until later, when the foe took to Instagram live to rant about the twins that she revealed the trigger of the fight: she accused the twins of taking their guys and trying “to be seen.”

“How were we trying to be seen?” the twins say simultaneously. “People were asking to take pictures with us.”

“You want to fight us because you don't like us,” says LilMama. “Because you’ve got hate for us in your heart, but then God gonna get your fucking ass.”

Back on the playground, the twins tell me this is exactly why they rarely go out anymore. They’re annoyed by last night’s episode, but dismiss it as just another fight. Growing up, getting teased as twins was inevitable. But since they launched their social media career last year—an Instagram page largely inspired by Jayda Cheaves and the Clermont Twins (minus the plastic surgery)—the drama has escalated so much that they want to move away from Houston. On one hand, their peers love the twins. Requests for collaborations, business advice, or clothes from their online boutique flood their DMs. But they also get accused of “being bougie” and acting too good for their town. They get mocked for their stutters. When they go out, they sometimes alternate drinking nights so one can watch the other’s back. 

Social media is a love-hate relationship for the twins. To be sure, they love the attention. But in a town with such limited opportunity, the twins feel like the influencer industry is their only viable path to success. "It’s hood over here,” says LilMama. Looking around, they could point out the homes of drug dealers. In a neighborhood not far away, they saw their first shooting when they were 16. On the back of their hands, they have matching tattoos, the silhouette of a heart-shaped key, which they share with two other girls who they’re no longer friends with. One’s on drugs and one has a baby. Countless friends are either dead or in prison, including their dad, who did 14 years for selling drugs. 

“You either tryna be something or you tryna be nothin,” says BigMama. “This the best chance, hands down,” says LilMama. “This or doing something bad,” BigMama adds.

As the Hillsman twins gain recognition, their lives have become a battle of realities on and offline. On Instagram—a feed of coy poses donning club and streetwear—they feel judged, misunderstood, and not totally themselves. But as their budding social media brand grows, so too does a feeling of alienation, if not outright danger, from their hometown. That leaves them living at the intersection of reality and social media, retreating from real life while trying to capitalize on the gold rush to the digital frontier, hoping success in that world will one day convert to real life currency. In the meantime, the twins are navigating a collision of realities, trying to find the place they feel most themselves. 

That their foe accused the twins of “trying to be seen” would seem on point with their influencer mission. In fact, it’s considered one of their most important childhood lessons: “It’s better to be seen than heard.”

They learned that from their mother Tamika Johnson, who works in a nursing home, and is the twins biggest supporter and volunteer photographer—even at 2 am. The mantra echoes down from Johnson’s grandmother to the twins as a lesson in what it means to be “ladylike,” Johnson tells me. It's an uncharacteristic lesson for such bold young women to espouse, which is an Old English expression devised to keep children (and later women) quiet at the dinner table. But for the twins, it’s about staying out of drama and protecting their personal life. Being seen is the way to draw most good attention (though not foolproof). Being heard runs the risk of the bad. 

And so the optics of their twinship have so far guided their career. Since leaving jobs at Kroger supermarket and Wal-Mart, the twins launched their business together, which is lucrative enough to pay their rent. They had plans to meet a YouTube manager on Sunday, but postponed until BigMama’s cuts heal. They want to be brand ambassadors, entrepreneurs, household names. They want storefronts and homes in LA or Atlanta. They don’t sing or dance, but want to break free from home in the same fashion as their fellow Houstonians: Beyonce and Megan Thee Stallion.

But privately, when they talk about their long term aspirations, it’s clear they have plenty to say—they just don’t know how yet. “It's more than us,” says BigMama. “We have people that have people that have people.” At the top of their goal list: a home in Houston for their family. They’re enrolled in the Art Institute of Houston for fashion, hoping to further their clothing business. After seeing so many friends get evicted over the years, they want to build affordable housing and a shelter. “We’re the first in our family to really try and help our people, to do something for ourselves,” says LilMama.

The phone rings and the playground set vibrates. “Hello? Yeah yeah,” BigMama answers. “The code is uhm, fuckin 3739.” 

She hangs up. “That’s some more twins,” says BigMama.

Across the lawn, another set of identical twins, Allie and Sway, emerge in matching black leggings and crop tops. The @famo0us.twinsss, as they’re known online—formidable fellow twinfluencers, with 223k followers on Instagram and 586.6k on TikTok—had messaged the Hillsman twins soliciting some patchwork jeans.

Through the backdoor of their mother’s house, we enter a dim-lit dining room where the smell of Sunday night dinner wafts over: mac & cheese, oxtail, and okra. The Hillsman twins pass the new twins the jeans to try on overtop their leggings. Too tight, Allie and Sway strip down to their underwear in the dining room. They all burst out laughing when they realize their uncle is sitting on the couch in the dark. Allie and Sway slide two one hundred dollar bills over the kitchen table.

When you’re a twinfluencer, you’re wired to see life as content. As if telepathy was kicked into high gear, all their eyes lit up: Tik Tok collab. All twins march to the backyard. They perch an iPhone against a barbeque grill, and spend the next 30 minutes rehearsing dances. I tap record. Bounce, clap, alternate. Pairs? Solo? A 15 second clip of the song plays over and over again: Which one of you hoes wanna fight? It’s really two of me. Sway instructs them to stagger and reappear. “Get it?” Squat, hug, rewatch. Like a double helix unwinding and replicating, it was a moment of identity fusion, dissolution of self. 

“Twins,” says LilMama when they leave. “It’s a vibe.” 

It’s nearly dinner time, and the twins want to take me to Raising Cane’s, a fast-food joint where LilMama used to work, but someone stole their car. They suspect it was taken by the person with whom they share it. Instead, we hop in their mom’s car, a charcoal colored Dodge sedan, for a tour of their hometown. BigMama drives, LilMama in the passenger seat, me in the back. Neither of them buckle-up. We pull out of the driveway with the alarm dinging, as it will for the next two hours.

Apartment blocks roll by until we hit a jam at an intersection. The car is surrounded by traffic, and all I can see through the front windshield are flashing red and blue lights. My heart starts racing. I look to the right, and see hundreds of protesters streaming down Pinemont Drive chanting, “No justice, no peace!” At least five police cars encircle protesters holding signs as they lie down for a sit-in on the street.

LilMama rolls down the window and FaceTimes their mom, who answers immediately. “Mama girl mama they protestin right here! It’s a lot of people!” She hangs up quickly to start an Instagram live. BigMama navigates around the cop cars to make a U-turn at the intersection. “That’s good, that’s good, we need to make a change,” says BigMama, shouting out the window. “Let’s go!!!” she says, erupting into claps. “Black Lives Matter!!!” “Fuck you!” she shouts at the police and drives away. 

With the car surrounded by BLM protesters, the livestream evolved into an argument, ostensibly over civil rights leaders. “This what I believe—put me in there,” BigMama says to LilMama, holding the iPhone. Gripping the steering wheel, BigMama goes on a tirade about the strategies of Malcolm X versus Martin Luther King Jr. “Don’t get her started on stuff like this, she just goes,” LilMama interrupts. Someone honks at us. BigMama honks back. “Fuck you hoe,” she mutters.

“Be quiet BigMama for real!” says LilMama.

“Why?! She interviewin us! I can talk about this stuff,” BigMama replies. LilMama ends the livestream.

“Why would you end the live bro? That’s good shit for a live,” says BigMama.

BigMama finishes anyway. “MLK was for peace and Malcolm X wasn't for the peace. I would be more on the Malcom X side,” says BigMama. “Because we already tried peace.”

Beneath the surface though, what I really saw was two young women trying to find their voices. Later, I press them. Here they were, jumping in their seats, shouting out the window, lifelong pain and hope bursting at their denim seams. How can they say they just want to be seen when they clearly have so much to say? During the height of the BLM protests this summer, they posted stories from demonstrations in Houston. Once they were teargassed. They spend free time reading and learning about civil rights. But when it comes to publicizing those views, they feel like their fan base just wants cute and benign, which, in times like these, is another heavy and conflicting expectation.

“We don't wanna sound like we're smarter than people,” says BigMama.“I want change but I'm not in a position to make a change in the moment and if I do it too early then I can get knocked off. We don't have the money or the power to even talk about stuff like that.” I ask them how many followers would embolden them to speak out more. “It’s not even about 100k followers,” says BigMama. “But one hundred thousand dollars.” 

When I asked them which presidential candidate would best address the change they wanted, I was surprised to hear BigMama say Kanye West. It was a joke, but their justifications were consistent: money and power. In a place so betrayed by the promises and protections of American life, their way out is not pragmatic or political. It’s using the cryptocurrency of social media to short circuit the system that’s shortchanged their community for so long—one post at a time. 

“I guess [America] means the land of the free, but you know,” says BigMama, looking around at the neighborhood. “It’s not really free.”

We finally get to Raising Cane’s, a bland building like all the other fast-food joints on the strip. Dine-in was closed for Covid so we hit the drive-thru and placed an order for a 3 finger combo to share: chicken tenders, fries, special sauce, a lemonade, and Texas toast. “Extra toast, butter on both sides,” BigMama yells into the drive-thru menu board. The greasy goods arrive and we park in a handicap spot where LilMama demonstrates how to eat it. “Look,” she explains: sauce the toast, tender on top. They let me go first. I used to be a Wendy’s girl, but there’s no turning back from that crispy cradle of juice. 

Wrappers crinkle, and BigMama tells me she wishes kids around Houston had decent after school programs—a place to go to pursue creativity and not get sucked into trouble. She’s seen so many talented people over the years just wind up in jail, like their cousin. He can really draw, she says, but he’s in jail. He robbed a Subway, and got 12 years. When they were just 16, a friend died in a police pursuit. His head cracked open. A bunch of guys they used to know are there, as well as some involved in the Houston meat market robberies. As one of their teachers prophesied about a group of boys in school, most of them would either end up dead or in jail. 

“[People say] they the thugs. They’re not the real thugs,” says BigMama. “The real thugs is the people in the office and shit that really know about poverty and don't make a change to it.”

I’ve lived abroad for the last three years, and yet I've never felt so foreign than sitting in that parking lot. In my America, prison is a distant and unlikely outcome. But in their world, prison has a gravity that pulls men off the street and away from their families. There isn't much to hold onto and it shows. An after school program may not have saved their cousin from his actions. But maybe, it would have offered him something to hold onto.

It’s dark and we still have a few more stops. We exit the parking lot, fill up on gas and head to their second home, an apartment which they were evicted from after friends of twins vandalized the laundry room. We drive by the homes of their first loves. We drive through Acres Homes and Homestead, neighborhoods at war ever since a local rapper, Band Pacino, was killed in February. Passing a convenience store with a few men huddled around a car, BigMama remarks, “Those guys probably be selling some drugs.”

With trepidation, I ask the girls if they’ve ever experimented with any dru—

“Oh naa,” says BigMama before I even finish the question. “Especially crack. We, honestly, our family came from that shit.” While their dad was in jail, the twins’ grandfather helped take care of them. He was using crack at the time. “We always just knew that shit has a huge impact on people, family and shit,” says BigMama. “The first time you do it, you’re hooked. You’re stuck.” If there’s one thing the Hillsman twins refuse to be in this world, it’s stuck.

We drive back into the parking lot of their mom’s home. They offer to drive me home to my hotel, but I refuse. They’re already late for dinner. They await my Uber anyway to ensure I get a “lady driver.” We chat for a little while longer as they swipe through Instagram videos of meat-marination and wood-blocking, cruising the never-ending digital freeway that keeps them everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Usually the twins hit the strip club on Sunday nights. But the cover fee is $40, and they know last night’s attacker will be there. Instead, they’re laying low at home, where the lights are on, their grandpa’s inside, and their mom’s got hot dinner on the table. At home, they can just be.