The Other Black Girl(70)
“Anyway, it felt big, what I was asking of Richard. But to my surprise, not only was he enthusiastic about it, he donated ten thousand dollars.”
The audience hollered. “Sweet Baby Jesus,” a bald-headed woman sitting in front of Nella said, to nobody in particular. Malaika tried to catch Nella’s eye, but Nella didn’t latch on.
“I am also thrilled to say that for every dollar we make tonight on hair product sales, Richard plans to match it! And—” Another round of applause befell the crowd. Hazel waited for it to peter out, smiling and closing her eyes contentedly, seasoned politician–style. Once the noise finally ceased, she continued on.
“I know, it’s great. Money is great. But there’s one more thing. Something even more lasting, and more valuable. Richard Wagner has also pledged to rethink the way editors at his company hire new candidates. He’s going to do this by focusing on new criteria. By using a more holistic approach. And he’ll be doing a full analysis of every book Wagner has bought in the last ten years to see how it compares with the demographics of our country.
“Y’all—for those who aren’t aware of just how much the publishing industry has struggled to address its diversity problem, this is huge. Huge. Wagner has been predominantly white for some time, and, well… we all know we’ve been waiting for our next Burning Heart for far too long.
“And since Wagner is at the front of the curve, it will no doubt impact the way other publishing houses think about publishing, too! My people—this is Just. The. Beginning.”
“Wow.” The lilt of surprise in Owen’s voice was barely audible over the thunderous ovation that had seized the audience. He grabbed Nella’s knee as he said, “That’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it?”
Nella nodded, even as her blood turned cold. For the second time that day, she felt her eyes start to burn as people clapped their hands high above their heads. Those with plastic cups smacked their thighs wildly, cheering Hazel on. Even Malaika was smiling and snapping her fingers the way she did whenever she listened to The Read.
Nella was supposed to be ecstatic, too. No, not just ecstatic—she should have given Hazel a standing ovation, complete with foot-stomping and hip-shaking and one of those two-fingered mouth-whistles that she didn’t know how to do but always wished she did. Or she could have really made a statement by strolling up to the front of the room, grabbing the mic from Hazel, and spilling all the sweet tea. She could tell everyone all about how she’d tried and failed to start a diversity committee at Wagner, about how the one time her coworkers were particularly attentive toward the notion of diversity was during Black History Month, when they’d asked her to blackify Wagner’s Twitter and Instagram accounts during the month of February. She could tell them all about the small group of people who were making big decisions about which books were and weren’t worth publishing, and how this, in turn, affected which kinds of books the public would see on bookshelves for years to come. She could tell them all about which titles hadn’t made it through the front gate, simply because that small group of decision-makers could not foresee a certain demographic buying it.
She could tell them about Shartricia.
A few times—mostly when Nella first started working at Wagner—she’d tried to advocate for books written by Black writers about Black people. Kindly, she’d been overruled. White voices of dissent came not just from Vera, but also from other editors, as well as Amy. Their reasons were vaguely specific enough to quiet her qualms—at least, they were until the next time she met up with Malaika to rehash the latest. Over drinks, she’d deliver her best imitation of these white voices—which, for some reason, often meant putting on a posh British accent, even though none of her coworkers were British. From a financial standpoint, this book just doesn’t seem worth the gamble. I just didn’t connect with the characters. The writing just wasn’t strong enough.
Nella found this last excuse particularly amusing, since it was a phrase that could be and often was said by literally anyone who read anything, ever, at Wagner. As if all writing weren’t subjective; as if anyone who read an early draft of any book could be 100 percent sure that it would become a bestseller. The way her colleagues would “run numbers” had surprised her—how they compared books they were thinking of buying with books that had already been published, as though culture were something static and predictable, as though one set of past numbers could dictate any future success.
But Nella had kept her mouth shut. Slowly but surely, in the hopes of making the ride a bit smoother—in the hopes of getting a promotion—she’d accepted every excuse. She’d picked her battles, if she dared pick any, wisely. After all, that was what she had been taught: to stand still for so long that when you started to run, they’d be so dumbfounded that they wouldn’t even follow. Well, that was what Nella had been doing. Standing still.
And now here was Hazel, miles ahead.
In that moment, it didn’t matter that her new coworker had single-handedly discovered how to turn the status quo upside down in just a couple of months. Nor did it matter that Hazel had found a way to open the door for other people of color at Wagner. All Nella could think was that she felt redundant.
Utterly and painfully redundant.
* * *
It was impossible to get Hazel alone after the reading. Nella tried twice.