I whisper out to the ocean wind. “Thank you. I really, really need you.”
We pull apart. She says, “I want to be a good cousin. You’re my best friend, no matter what... even if you refuse to come linen shopping.”
•••
In the car,one door open, letting the ocean breeze in, I see I have a new e-mail notification on my phone. So I swipe to it, and see, oh boy, another e-mail from a magazine. Almost certainly another rejection. So far every time I’ve received a publisher’s e-mail, I’ve experienced first this rush of hope, followed by an angry voice shouting that hope away because high expectations always lead to disappointment. Let’s see if their rejection is a nice one or a mean one.
Hi Nareh,
Thanks for submitting your piece to us. I love your voice in this essay, and the way you balance the seriousness of the issue with notes of humor is refreshing.
Well, that’s a nice detail, now let’s get to the “but... we’re not going to accept it at this time.”
I read on.
Your timing could not be better, as we’re publishing a series on sexism in the workplace tomorrow. If you can get us an author photo and bio (third person) inthe next few hours, we can slide your piece in. Otherwise, we may have to wait a month or two until it’s topical again. We can offer you $350 for this piece, which is our standard rate for 1,500-word essays.
Thank you! Mel
My body starts to shake, nervy, like I got a shot of caffeine straight to the arm. I read it again to make sure. Holy shit, they want it. To publish it. Tomorrow! I’m getting paid for it, too. A fair rate. And they need something from me. I read again, and this time the bio and photo solidify in my mind. Okay, okay, be calm. No! Don’t be calm. They need it from me ASAP, otherwise I’m not going to make it into their issue. And I’d have to wait two months? Hell no. I need Erebuni to see this now; it could be the difference between us having a chance and never having a chance.
I shut the door, and allow the urgency to fill my body with adrenaline. A bio and a photo. I’m mentally starting to write it, mentally sorting through a bank of recent professional photos. When I turn on my car, I smile inwardly. Years of navigating San Francisco’s worst traffic jams has prepared me for this moment. I roll down the windows; I want to feel the wind on my teeth.
26
An honest man keeps his promise.
????? ??????? ???? ?,????? ????? ?? ??????:
—Armenian Proverb
I submit ontime. True, I had to shout at my mom, over her protests to stop and tell her about what’s happening, that everything was fine and that I needed some completely silent time to finish something important. I slammed and locked my door so I could concentrate. Then I altered my work bio so it was less about the news and more about me as a whole. All my work photos have a perky quality to them, but I found an outtake where I’m barely smiling and the angle doesn’t make me look like a Miss America hopeful.
While I was holed up, Mom knocked on my door, which I didn’t open, but she informed me she was going to her friend Nora’s house to make pastries for her daughter’s baby shower. That stopped me. Mom hasn’t done a casual hangout like that with anyone but our family in a long time. This is a good thing, and I want to be happy for her, but there was bitterness in her voice, since Nora’s daughter is only a year older than me and is marriedand having a kid. But I didn’t say a word back except goodbye. I couldn’t be thrown off from submitting my materials. And if it meant Mom would be gone for several hours, I could avoid talking to her tonight.
•••
When I wakeup the next morning, I play the refresh game. I brush my teeth and refresh. Wash my face, moisturize, and refresh. Bang out some pushups and refresh.
Then, as I bend into downward-facing dog, I lift up one hand to refresh, and I see the update, a massive banner advertising their series on the workplace. Oh my God. I collapse out of the pose, on all fours, staring at my phone. No, I need to savor this on the big screen. At my desk, I pull it up on my computer, and I scroll past fascinating, rage-inducing headlines. There’s my article,Fired for Interviewing a Congresswoman and Other Stories from the Newsroom, against a tasteful backdrop of an abstract of Armenian flag colors (I have no idea where they got that, but I am loving it).
I speed-read it once and see they’ve printed it, unedited, in its entirety. This is wild. I mean, I’ve been on the air more times than I can count, and article versions of my segments have appeared online almost every day, but this feels different. This is a piece of my story I’m sharing with the world. I’ve shared my face, my body, my voice before, but never my opinions, never my history. It feels good. Scary, definitely, but good scary.
Then I read it again from the eyes of Erebuni and how she might feel if she reads it. I’ve done this a thousand times while drafting, but I need to do it again, in this font, with this spacing. She doesn’t know I was fired, so I imagine her eyes getting hugewhen she reads the title. My brain also picks out the paragraph where I show pride in my home country (I may have called it the “motherland”), how Erebuni might feel proud of me. I know I need to send it to her.
But I can’t, not directly. Silence since the banquet. She’s sent a clear message that she doesn’t want to hear from me. I should text Vache about it, and then there’s a chance he’d send it to her? Should I ask him to send it to her? No, that’s so desperate.
The articles on this site don’t allow comments (praise Jesus), but I did link my personal Twitter. My Twitter got the full pre-article safety sweep. I removed all mention of my news station, rewrote my bio, changed my photo, and altered my name to be N. Bedrossian, matching my name in the article. I didn’t want to bring too much scrutiny to Richard and the station specifically, though anyone who cared could dig into it. On the off chance the article went big, I didn’t want people showing up at Richard’s house, pelting rotten lettuce at him, or more likely, flooding his Twitter with hatred. I’m writing this for me, not for revenge.
People have started sharing. Nothing too extreme so far, a couple of “You’ve got to read this” and “Wow” comments on retweets. I decide to send it to some Armenian online outlets, wondering if there might be a potential collaboration with them down the line. Maybe I could be a freelancer. Leaning into the Armenian angle might be the way to go.
Once that’s done, I know I can’t keep procrastinating sending this to Vache, since he was instrumental in getting the article to this point. I won’t mention forwarding it to Erebuni. If he sends it to her, great. If not, well... maybe I can ask him in a couple of days.
I scroll down to find Vache’s name in my texts. I write,It’s live. Thank you again for all your help with this.
I tap over to Instagram, wondering if I should post it there, too, but instead get sucked into my feed, peering into other people’s perfectly curated homes and café flat lays.
Then my phone dings with a text. And I see her name: Erebuni. Just the name makes the entire room drop away, shoved out of my vision so that all I see are the letters that comprise her name, reaching out to me. Did she see the article? How in the world would she have known to look for it?
