The Other Black Girl(23)
Vera put down her pen and crossed her arms as if to say You’re on your own on this one.
Colin’s pen was down, too, and he was frowning and no longer chewing his ice. He took his cap off, then put it in his lap and crossed his legs. It was an act that sent his pen falling to the rug, precisely halfway between his chair and Nella’s chair. He didn’t move to grab it.
Nella reached up and gave a nervous tug on one of her curls as she reached for buzzwords that were less critical and more meaningful. “I didn’t quite connect with her. She felt a bit flat, I think. One-dimensional. Like one generalized experience—a particular swath of experience—that didn’t feel entirely genuine to me. She read more like a caricature than an actual living and breathing character, and I think a lot of Black readers will find her unsatisfying.
“And, I mean, the chartreuse thing felt too much like a joke. It felt like her mother was being mocked for not knowing how to spell, and I know that’s not—”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Colin interjected. He looked worriedly at Vera, gesturing for his manuscript. “Is that in there? Did I put that in there?”
Vera shook her head, handing the pages to Nella instead. “I’m not sure what she’s talking about, either. Nella, could you please point out a specific scene where you think Colin is mocking Shartricia?”
A few seconds ago, saying the word “unsatisfying” to Colin had felt really, really satisfying. Now, Nella wasn’t so sure. “Um… I can’t remember exactly what page the name thing appears on. I’m not even sure there’s something specifically said to point out. It’s just a feeling.”
“A feeling.”
“Yes. And ‘LaDarnell’? ‘DeMontraine’? That just read like caricature to me, too. And did she really need to have seven children?” Nella added, realizing how unhinged she was starting to sound. But she couldn’t stop. Rip off the Band-Aid! Angela commanded angrily. She was on a roll and didn’t feel like getting off it until she’d said everything she needed to say.
“I mean, isn’t that exactly what we’d expect from a Black woman who’s addicted to heroin? You couldn’t be a little more creative with your one Black protagonist?”
Colin was still paging through his book, a half-crazed, feverish blaze in his eye.
“Um, Nella,” Vera said, cocking her head diplomatically, “just to play devil’s advocate—couldn’t one say that’s just a tad bit racist of you to say?”
“I do kind of feel like she’s calling me a racist,” Colin agreed. “Or perhaps she just feels like I’m racist.” He wiggled his fingers around in the air, insinuating that the feeling of racist tendencies was akin to voodoo. His eyes never left Vera the entire time, as though it were just the two of them in the room now.
And that was exactly how Nella felt—like she’d slipped and somehow gotten lost beneath the hideous wall-to-wall carpeting. This wasn’t what she’d wanted. She hadn’t expected Colin to massage her calloused feet and apologize for all the sins of his ancestors, but she had thought he’d be somewhat grateful to have her take on his Black character. How many other writers published by Wagner had the benefit of a sensitivity read they didn’t have to seek out on their own?
“Colin, I’m sorry,” said Nella. “That’s not what I meant to—”
“I chose one particular depiction of a Black woman having a hard time. That was her hard time. Not an actual person’s hard time,” Colin said, each new word louder than the one before until Nella was sure, without a doubt, that people outside Vera’s office could hear the chaos. She wondered if Hazel was listening to everything from her desk, unsure whether it would be better or worse if she was. “I’m the writer. Jesus. I’m not a racist. Do I need to make her hair curlier, too? Or make her skin a little bit darker? Should I make her speak like… like Sidney Poitier, instead of a Black girl who grew up in rural Ohio without a father? Whose book is this, anyway?”
Vera finally found her voice. “Now, Colin, I wouldn’t—”
“No, Vera. No. Just a moment.” He pressed his multi-fabric cap with his fingers and closed his eyes, taking three or four deep yoga breaths. After the fourth, he stood up and plopped his pages on Vera’s desk.
Then, to Nella and Vera’s horror, he walked out.
Nella swallowed, unable to tear her gaze away from the wide-open door. A reprimand was coming; she was sure of it.
She waited. And waited. When nothing came, she retrieved the ballpoint pen Colin had dropped on the floor earlier and placed it on Vera’s desk.
Vera remained silent. She was still staring down at Colin’s pages.
And suddenly, it’s the end of the fucking world for these people.
“Vera,” Nella started after a few more seconds of gut-checking silence. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Not now, Nella,” Vera hissed. She wouldn’t look up at her. “Please. Not now.”
Part II
Kendra Rae
September 1983
Antonio’s
Financial District, Manhattan
“?‘Indian descent’ or not,” I said with a yawn, “My point is, if you saw Ben Kingsley walking down the street, you wouldn’t think, ‘There goes an Indian man.’ You would think, ‘There goes a white man.’?”