What I have learned this week is that I am overqualified for nearly every entry-level administrative job in New Haven, including all open secretarial and receptionist positions. My sister believes I should file for unemployment. But I see that as dishonest, since once this is settled, I plan to go back to work. Getting a part-time job is another alternative, but I’m qualified as a nurse, and my license is suspended. So instead, I’ve avoided the conversation.
“All I know is that when Tyana’s boyfriend got busted for larceny and went to trial, the court date wasn’t for eight months,” Adisa says. “Which puts you five months in the hole. What advice did that skinny white lawyer give you?”
“Her name is Kennedy, and we were too busy trying to figure out how I won’t go to prison to discuss how I can support myself while I’m waiting for a trial date.”
Adisa snorts. “Yeah, because that kind of detail probably never occurs to someone like her.”
“You met heronce,” I point out. “You know nothing about her.”
“I know that people who become public defenders are doing it because morals are more important to them than money, or else they would be off making partner in the big city. Which means Miz Kennedy either has a trust fund or a sugar daddy.”
“She got me out on bail.”
“Correction: yoursongot you out on bail.”
I shoot Adisa a glare and turn my attention to the bartender, who is polishing glasses.
Adisa rolls her eyes. “You don’t want to talk, that’s fine.” She looks up at the television over the bar, on which an infomercial is playing. “Hey,” she says to the bartender. “Can we watch something else?”
“Be my guest,” he says and hands her a remote control.
A minute later, Adisa is flipping through the cable stations. She stops when she hears a familiar gospel jingle:Lord, Lord, Lord, have Mercy!And then, the camera cuts tight to Wallace Mercy, the activist. Today he is lambasting a Texas school district that had a young Muslim boy arrested after he brought a homemade clock to school to show his science teacher and it was mistakenly identified as a bomb. “Ahmed,” Wallace says, “if you are listening, I want to tell you something. I want to say to all the black and brown children out there, who are afraid that they too might be misunderstood because of the color of their skin…”
I am pretty sure Wallace Mercy used to be a preacher, but I don’t think he ever got the memo that said he doesn’t need to shout when he’s miked on a television set.
“I want to say that I too was once thought to be less than I was, because of how I looked. And I am not going to lie—sometimes, when the Devil is whispering doubt into my ear, I still think those people were right. But most of the time, I think,I have shown all of those bullies up.I have succeeded in spite of them. And…so will you.”
Adisa gasps. “Oh my God, Ruth, that’s what you need. Wallace Mercy.”
“I am one hundred percent sure that Wallace Mercy is thelastthing I need.”
“What are you talking about? Your kind of story is exactly what he lives for. Job discrimination because of race? He’ll eat it up. He’ll make sure everyone in the country knows you were wronged.”
On the television, Wallace is shaking a fist. “Does he have to be so mad all the time?”
Adisa laughs. “Well, hell, girl.I’mmad all the time. I’m exhausted, just from being Black all day,” she says. “At least he gives people like us a voice.”
“A loud one.”
“Exactly. Damn, Ruth, you been drinking the Kool-Aid. You been swimming with the sharks for so long, you’ve forgotten you’re krill.”
“What?”
“Don’t sharks eat krill?”
“They eatpeople.”
“This is what I’m telling you!” Adisa sighs. “White folks have spent years giving Black folks their freedom on paper, but deep down they still expect us to sayyes, massuh,and be quiet and grateful for what we got. If we speak our minds we can lose our jobs, our homes, even our lives. Wallace is the man who gets to be angry for us. If it weren’t for him, white folks would never know the stupid shit they do upsets us, and Black folks would get madder and madder because they can’t risk talking back. Wallace Mercy is what keeps the powder keg in this country from blowing up.”
“Well, that’s all very well and good, but I’m not on trial because I’m Black. I’m on trial because a baby died when I was on duty.”
Adisa smirks. “Who told you that? Your lily-white lawyer? Of course she don’t think this is about race. She don’t think about race, period. She don’thaveto.”
“Okay, well, when you get your law degree, you can advise me about this case. Until them, I’m going to take her word for it.” I hesitate. “You know, for someone who hates being stereotyped, you sure as hell do it a lot yourself.”
My sister holds up her hands, a surrender. “Okay, Ruth. You’re right. I’m wrong.”
“I’m just saying—so far, Kennedy McQuarrie is doing her job.”
