We Are Not Like Them(52)
I take in the full force of Sabrina’s hair, which is just that—a force. A massive halo of natural corkscrew curls. If I hadn’t started relaxing my hair in the eighth grade, if I weren’t addicted to the “chemical crack” and my standing appointment at the hairdresser every twelve weeks on the dot, I’d want my hair to be exactly like hers. I’d also love to be able to pull off a bright magenta lip, as she does, even though Momma would insist this flashy shade was reserved for “hussies.”
Sabrina scans the room before she starts talking. “A lot of people don’t know that my grandmother used to clean houses here. On this very street. Hell, maybe even this very house. And who would have thought that one day her granddaughter would be here getting y’all to pay me, without dusting or shining a damn thing.” A pause. “Not this girl.
“Everyone loves the story Amina told you about me. Poor girl from the hood makes good. It’s the all-powerful myth of exceptionalism that people salivate over so they can use it to validate the rags-to-riches possibilities of America. If this Black girl did it, everyone else can too. So if someone doesn’t, or can’t, it must be a personal failing. Never mind the systemic issues stacked against people—brown people, poor people—all the barriers and disadvantages that keep the playing field in this city and this country about as level as a seesaw with an anvil on one end, and the American dream on the other. We gotta move that anvil, folks, and that’s why I wanted to be the district attorney and why I’m considering a run for mayor.”
She pauses as the crowd breaks into applause—the guy who handed me his coat whistles loudly—then continues. “Every one of you out there wants to change; you see yourself as social justice champions, am I right? Otherwise you wouldn’t have paid five hundred dollars to be here tonight. Thank you for that, by the way.” Her laugh is deep, husky.
“But as important as voting is, it’s the personal changes and accountability that matter too. You think racism is so awful. You want to level that playing field I mentioned. But are you willing to acknowledge how much you benefit from white supremacy? That every single social, political, and legal system in this country is built and maintained by white people, on the bedrock idea of white power, and that allows you to move through the world with a basic confidence in your sense of safety, opportunity, and respect. That as white people you are automatically associated with everything that is good and right and ‘normal,’ and everyone else’s experiences and value are weighed relative to that. A thousand books and movies and lessons in school have told you this was true, so much so that it’s seeped into your very soul. That wasn’t your fault, but what you do about it now is. So how will you confront the lie? What will you sacrifice? What are you willing to put on the line? Are you going to send your kid to the public school down the street? Are you going to rent your house to a young Black family? Are you going to hire more eager dark girls with kinky curls to be your junior executive? Because your well-meaning intentions, your woke T-shirts, your Black Lives Matter tote bags, your racial justice book clubs are not going to cut it.”
She stands at the front of the room staring out at the audience, letting them simmer in an uncomfortable silence.
It’s more than an hour before Sabrina can free herself from the claws of her admirers. I get lost looking for the bathroom and find myself peering into the kitchen—there are two Black or brown faces out there, including my own, but in here, there are dozens of brown people serving and washing dishes who smile at me warmly. As I wander back toward the living room, I’m about to give up when Amina appears, grabs me by the elbow, and ushers me down the hall into a quiet library where Sabrina has already made herself comfortable in one of the host’s leather club chairs. I settle into the one across from her in the dimly lit, wood-paneled room like we’re about to smoke some cigars and talk about our golf handicaps.
“Nice to meet you, Riley Wilson. Why’d you want to talk tonight?” Her brisk officiousness is intimidating. So much for the girlfriend-to-girlfriend vibe I’d hope we’d cultivate, hashtag BlackGirlMagic.
“Well, I’m new to KYX—”
“I know who you are, Riley. I watch you. You’re a good reporter. But what exactly can I do for you?”
“I’m glad you think so. Then you know that I’ve been front and center on the Justin Dwyer story.” When she nods, I say, “I want to interview you.” I can get straight to the point too. “It would be a special segment like I did with Tamara Dwyer.”
“I saw that. It was compelling.”
“Her story, Justin’s story, the shooting—it’s showing the deep divisions in our community. I don’t want it to get lost in the news cycle. This is an important moment. Things have to change.”
Sabrina nods in agreement. “Well, I’m with you there. As you just heard, I’m all about reform. And you know how these white folks just love to be chastised, like it’s their racial penance or something. Makes them feel like they’re learning. All they want to do is stay learning…” Her eyes roll with the word. “Like that does a damn thing. Let’s just hope it gets them to open their checkbooks though…” She trails off, then turns to look at me. “Before I decide one way or another about this interview, I have a question for you.”
“Yes?”