Honey Girl(66)

She talks about seeing face after face that was not like hers in the department, and once, a lab manager asking if she was lost, because this was for astronomy students, and liberal arts was on the other side of campus.

“I had to work so hard,” Grace says. “I couldn’t mess up, because they weren’t messing up. They didn’t think I was supposed to be there in the first place.” They said as much, and she knows it is twisted privilege that her lighter brown skin kept them reserved to sly remarks only.

“Even when you came back here, you were always working,” Mom says. “Every summer and break you came back. I left you alone because I didn’t want to break your stride. I didn’t want to interfere.”

“I wish you had,” Grace says. “I should have told Colonel, because he’s dealt with it in his own way, but I wanted to handle it myself.”

She remembers presenting research in her master’s program. She never told anyone, not a single soul, about how they ripped her apart. About how multiple academics complained to the board and said there was no way the work was her own. About how the conference kindly and quietly and firmly asked her to leave a day early. She would be refunded for the remainder of her trip to avoid further confrontation. Ximena and Agnes asked why she was back early, and Grace locked herself in her room for two days.

It was worse, Grace remembers, in the doctorate program. It was worse, because Grace remembers all the academic recruiters’ events. She watched as white people in ironed suits and pencil skirts glanced over her résumé, her list of achievements. Queer and Black and under the tutelage of their favored professor at the university. Professor MacMillan said, This is my shining star, Grace Porter, and she watched as their lips folded and their smiles turned brittle.

I think they liked you, Professor MacMillan told her. Kid, you’re going to have your pick of any institution in the country when you’re done here.

That hasn’t been true. Grace knew it wouldn’t be true, even though she wanted it to be so badly. She wasn’t what the recruiters had in mind. She was not the future of the sciences they wanted.

Mom rubs her back, the motion soothing and calm. “I wish I could fix it, Porter. I wish you didn’t have to feel like you can’t make mistakes. I wish people weren’t so caught up in maintaining their status quo that they don’t see how things could be so much better. How you could be so much better than anything they’ve ever seen.”

“I have to be perfect,” Grace says. “I have to be excellent. I have to be the best. I can’t be anything else. It makes me feel sick that I’m not. It makes me feel worthless.”

“None of that,” Mom says. “No more of that talk, okay? I listened—I listened to you tear yourself down, Grace Porter, and now you’re going to listen to me. You can do whatever the hell you put your mind to, just by being you. Fuck anyone that disagrees. You are not worthless.”

Grace takes a deep breath, burrowing her face in her mother’s shirt. She feels helpless and tired and aching. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this.” She’s twenty-nine now, and she’s spent so long this way.

“Can I ask you something?”

Grace nods.

“Have you ever talked to anyone about how you feel?” she asks. “Not your friends. I mean a professional. Have you talked to anyone like that?”

Grace thinks, Wouldn’t you know if I had? That is the inky poison and sludge talking.

“No,” she says instead. “I was too—” Scared. Terrified I’d find out I’m stuck like this. “Busy. I thought there was something wrong with me, because nobody else seemed as hell-bent on succeeding as me. Nobody else seemed like they couldn’t handle the pressure. It’s just me, there’s just something wrong with me.” She wraps her arms around her torso, feels her nails dig into skin, and she presses hard. Grounds herself.

“Okay,” Mom says. “Can you just hear me out for a second?”

“A second,” Grace tells her.

Mom smiles, and they both pretend it doesn’t waver. “You know Kelly used to be a crisis counselor. He knows a lot of people that could help. It might be hard, but maybe we could look for somebody. Maybe you’d prefer a Black therapist. Someone that understands what I can’t.”

Grace blinks. She’s too old for this. Too old to be held. Too old for this crisis of self, but it persists nonetheless. “You think I should talk to someone?”

“Maybe give it a chance.” Mom tilts Grace’s head back so she can meet her eyes. “It’s not exactly the same, but I was like you for a long time.” She smiles at Grace’s suspicious look. “I know, I know. But when you were younger, I thought plans and lists and perfect organization would give me control. It didn’t, though. It just made me worry more.”

Grace nods. “If I control everything, it can’t go wrong. At least that’s how it feels.”

“I know,” Mom says. “So what do you say? Will you let go of that control for a little bit, and talk to someone about it? Even if it’s just to make your poor mom feel better?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. It can’t make anything worse.”

“Okay, then,” Mom says decisively. “We’ll talk to Kelly. He doesn’t need to know the details, but he’ll help you find somebody good, I promise. Now,” she announces, groaning as she reaches up to stretch. “These old bones are hurting from being on the ground for so long. How about you and me head in and whip up some breakfast. French toast?”