The Other Black Girl(18)
“Why not?”
“Because he’s just going to think I’m calling him a racist. You know how white people get when they think you’re calling them racists.” Nella sighed, remembering how, shortly after the bout of Diversity Town Halls, she’d overheard a couple of Wagner employees in the kitchen chatting about the idea of being forced to hire nonwhite people. “Let’s just go and do exactly that,” Kevin in digital marketing had said indignantly. “Exactly that. And then let’s watch what Richard does when we start hiring unqualified people here, and things start getting screwed up. I’m sure he’ll change his song then.”
Kevin’s back had been to Nella, as had been the back of the other unidentifiable white guy he’d been talking to. But even if they had seen her, Nella sensed that neither would have said anything differently. Her colleagues, strangely, had made it clear very early on that they didn’t really see her as a young Black woman, but as a young woman who just happened to be Black—as though her college degree had washed all of the melanin away. In their eyes, she was the exception. She was “qualified.” An Obama of publishing, so to speak.
Sometimes, she saw this as a blessing. They never really bothered asking her for sensitivity reads, and they rarely asked her about “Black issues”—either because they didn’t want to offend her by doing so, or because they simply didn’t care enough to ask. But other times, she found it almost demeaning, as though accepting Wagner’s job offer had also meant giving up her Black identity.
“Girl, you’re speaking my truth,” Hazel said, tapping her plate with her fork. “Even when you just subtly imply that a white person is racist—especially a white man—they think it’s the biggest slap in the face ever. They’d rather be called anything other than a racist. They’re ready to fight you on it, tooth and nail.”
“It’s basically their version of the n-word,” Nella agreed.
“Which is hilarious, because Black people have been called niggers for years, and they’ve always just had to keep it moving. Always had to just stay walking down the street without complaining. For centuries,” Hazel said, hitting the table with her fist, “we’ve been called niggers, man. And for maybe thirty years, we’ve been calling white people racists—I mean, the word didn’t really mean shit in our English vocabulary until fairly recently, and even now some people still don’t count it as a disqualifier. But suddenly, it’s the end of the fucking world for these people.”
Nella sat stock-still, taken aback. Everything Hazel said rang true with what she and Malaika bemoaned after hearing the latest newsflash that yet another politician had been caught doing or saying something racist, but Nella hadn’t expected Hazel to get this passionate. She’d done so well keeping up with Maisy and Vera’s Boston chatter that time they first met, seemed so good at keeping her cool.
The well-dressed Korean couple sitting at the table beside theirs hadn’t seen the outburst coming, either. Nella noticed they’d stopped speaking to one another and were curiously looking over at them between bites of food.
Hazel seemed to register the change at the nearby table, too. She unclenched her fingers and breathed out a small sorry.
“No. It’s fine. Actually, it’s really refreshing,” said Nella. “So… thank you.”
“My parents are pretty big in their community for social activism,” Hazel added quietly, “and my grandparents were, too. My grandfather actually died in a protest. It’s in my blood, I guess.”
Nella gasped. “Oh, wow! Hazel, I’m so sorry. When?”
“1961. He was protesting one of the new busing bills. ‘Excessive police force.’?” Hazel used air quotes for these last few words.
Nella’s hands found her cheeks. An amalgamation of Civil Rights Movement footage flashed through her brain in black-and-white, complete with an angry rush of police batons and a soundtrack of somber Negro spirituals. “Wow,” she repeated, at a loss for a better word, even though there were many. She settled on an added “I’m sorry.”
Hazel shrugged. “Thanks. But I’m here, ain’t I? I don’t think he’d be too sorry about that.”
Nella nodded and chewed her food. The two women sat in thoughtful silence long enough for the Korean couple to get up and be replaced by a slightly older, vaguely European-looking pair. Meanwhile, the ghost of Hazel’s grandfather hung over their table, daring Nella to say something that carried as much reverence as the words his granddaughter had just said.
Finally, she swallowed her last bit of sandwich and said, “Maybe I should say something about this book to Colin and Vera. Harder sacrifices have been made, right?”
Hazel looked up at her. She nodded once, solemnly.
“The question is, how, without jeopardizing my relationship with Vera? I don’t think either of them would really get it. A Black girl telling one of Wagner’s bestselling authors that his Black character is written a tiny bit racist? C’mon, now. I could get fired.”
“You think?” Hazel asked, considering it. “Well, maybe. But Vera seems way smarter than that.”
“She’s smart, but I’m not sure Vera is that… ‘enlightened.’?”
“Really?”
“She came from money,” Nella said.