“That would be amazing.”
Kieran and I talk about my time on the farms this week and the Afro-Indigenous practices used to cultivate the land in an effort to repair the earth and the communities harmed by generations of predatory practices. There’s so much to unpack.
“That’s something.” He scratches his chin. “Commendable, but it won’t fix the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Black farmers are barely a blip in the industry. Working against a billion-dollar industry isn’t a good use of time or resources. You won’t produce the changes you want to see without corporations’ support.”
Time for a side-eye. “I’m no expert, but even I’m aware of the effects of unchecked power on agriculture and the environment. The pesticides we ingest. The poor conditions for workers and animals. Don’t you want better?”
He scoffs. “Of course I do, but we live in reality, sweetie.”
My lip coils at the pet name. It’s a pat on the head, a sign to not step out of line.
“I thrive in possibility,” I counter. “Create solutions to improve reality.” I already have ideas about how to enhance infrastructure through design to make farming more sustainable.
Teaching kids engineering at the community center is only the first step. We’ll put what they learn into urban farming efforts around the city.
A small piece of a larger ecosystem.
I use the opportunity to peek at my phone and stifle a laugh when Kieran excuses himself to take a call.
Video of the Steel in the locker room after last week’s win replays during the PSN segment. Half the team is shirtless, wearing grins wider than their chests. The camera pans througha tunnel of biceps and chiseled torsos until it reaches the star of the show. I snort as Antonio gyrates to “Atomic Dog.” He flexes for the cameras with his tongue on display.
He’s in his element and doesn’t miss a beat winking for the camera. That lip bite and those muscles rippling across his hard body will send half of America into a hot flash—assuming his thighs in the team’s rugby shorts don’t cause instant cardiac arrest.
All of him is a work of art, but it’s Antonio’s aura that will make him a household name. Everything about him is magnetic.
I minimize the screen and text him.
Look at you on prime time! I’m so proud.
We’re not in the best place right now, but I’ll always root for him.
The clip fades to an empty locker room. Antonio sits on a stool in his team travel gear with a mic clipped to his collar. Light catches on his waves and his smooth caramel face splitting into a wide smile.
I enlarge the video as he pulls Kenya into a hug. She’s camera ready, with straight black hair flowing over a sleeveless blouse. I have no right to be upset—that’s the wrong word. What am I? Disturbed by the weight in my chest at their exchange of laughter and thebe my manin her eyes. But Antonio isn’t my man, so what do I care if two old friends demonstrate affection in front of millions of viewers?
They’re familiar with each other, the same way we are.
Friendly.
Bet his mouth is real friendly.
“Antonio Knight, impressive start to the season.” Kenya crosses her legs, angling herself toward Antonio.
“The Steel aims to please.”
The pain in my jaw from clenching my teeth becomes a full-blown scowl. They look good together, like one of those couples who post unblemished photos and cutesy videos involving a surprise trip to Greece and a Bichon Frisé.
Jealousy isn’t a shade I wear often, but my growing appetite to choose violence over tiramisu says otherwise.
I reopen my messages to the thread with Marcela.
Is it too late to go to Toronto with you this weekend?
Marcela
