by Kitt, Sandra
“What would you like to do, Megan?” her mother asked lightly.
Megan shrugged. “I want to come with you and Alex.”
Ross winked at Valerie. “Looks like you get that chaperone after all.”
“Sure you won’t join us?” Alex asked Ross.
Ross took a long moment to consider the invitation, but he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Three’s still a crowd. And I’m not counting Megan. Some other time, maybe,” Ross said, backing away toward the door.
Alex put out his hand to Ross. “Thanks, man. It was a good exercise today.”
“No need for any thanks. You know that.”
“Bye,” Megan said shyly. She’d pulled her hand up into the cuff of her oversized denim jacket, and merely waved the empty end of the sleeve at him.
Ross waved at her, and turned his attention once more to Valerie. “Have a good evening.”
“Yes. It was nice meeting you,” she said politely.
“Same here … I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”
Chapter Five
I sat next to a young black woman on the crosstown bus the other day. We got to talking and she asked me my name. First names are okay to give in New York for chance encounters. A full disclosure is an invitation you might not have intended. I told her my name was Dallas. “Like the football team?” she asked. Then she told me her name was Clinique … like the cosmetics. She was serious. I started making a list: Corolla, Toyota, Keisha, T’Keisha … Modisha. All actual names of women or young girls I’ve met. I can’t help but wonder, what does it mean when, in an effort to have an identity—unique, historic, individual, ours—black folks resort to total invention? Ultraviolet, Sahara, Tiffany, Ebony, Kenya. We invent ourselves by going down a list of consumer products and picking one from column A, two from column B. Dallas … because my mother was sentimental about her hometown. Why not Deborah or Diane? Is it because they are of European origins? Too white? Which is still better than being called a “Ho,” a bitch, a black bitch, zebra, oreo, pinky, high yellow … nigger. What’s in a name?
“I THINK WE’RE ALMOST done …” Letty Daniels said absently as she once more leafed through her agenda and checked off items already discussed.
“I’d like to know if anyone has any other ideas for future leads. And I’m telling you all up front I’m not interested in another ‘what’s wrong with black men’ thing,” the assistant editor, Peggy Rice, said.
“Damned if we know, anyway,” came back the caustic response of Nona Talbot.
There were knowing cackles from the twelve people crowded around the conference table for the Monday morning editorial meeting.
Letty, the managing editor, shook her head and glanced around the table. “I agree with Peggy. I’m serious. It always comes off as an indictment against them, no matter how objective we try to be.”
“Then to me that just means they don’t want to listen to the truth,” the ad exec commented.
“Let’s not bring the truth into this …”
Everyone laughed in amusement.
Dallas smiled. Around the table there was a healthy level of teasing and bantering, made possible by acceptance of one another.
“Well, as the only man here, I feel I should put my two cents in and say something …” Matthew Curtis, the staff photographer, spoke up.
Nona snorted. “Don’t even go there. You’re one of us and you know it.”
“Better-looking …” Matthew murmured.
When the ensuing laughter threatened to disrupt the rest of the meeting, Letty calmly rang a little bell she kept at hand. “We love you, Matty, but you’re not an example of what we would have in mind of black manhood,” she said.
“We can come up with a better idea than another article about men,” Brenda, the styles editor, said.
“You just say that ’cause you got a man.”
Brenda merely smiled complacently as a few of her coworkers again chuckled. “At least I’m doing something right.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s not throw down right here and start pulling hair. We’re getting off the track,” Letty said, regaining control of the meeting with the firm tone of her voice. “We’ll table that one. Dallas, do you have any thoughts?”
Several of them glanced thoughtfully at her, and she was aware that there were people she worked with who were waiting for her to fall flat on her face. To make a fool of herself. But Dallas had learned the hard way not to give anyone the chance. It had happened before, including the very first time she’d come for an interview as a staff writer at Soul of the City. She’d overheard someone say, “What does she know about being black?”
She’d had to prove that she knew quite a lot. But first she’d had to learn.
“I have a few,” Dallas responded. “If we’re talking about the July issue, how about something about freedom …”
There was a groan from the other side of the table. Several people shifted restlessly.
“… and how we keep reinventing ourselves.”
Dallas could tell by the polite stares that no one was following her line of thought. But she was not unprepared. She’d already given this subject some thought.
“For example, blacks opting to develop their own businesses as an economic base and keeping their money in their communities, rather than working for someone else. How there’s a trend toward more ethnic sensibilities, from Afro-Centric styles and accessories in clothing, to how we do our hair …”
“Excuse me? We?” Nona questioned with raised brows.
There was nervous tittering. She’d expected that, too. Her curly hair did not lend itself to the styles that some of her coworkers adopted for themselves.
Dallas nodded easily and arched a brow at Nona. “Exactly. Not all of us wear dreads or extensions or Marcels or relaxers. Some of us go natural.” She ran her hand through her soft hair.
After a bare second the table broke out into appreciative laughter, and several people applauded Dallas’s quick comeback.
“That’s what I mean by freedom of choice. How do each of us use that choice?”
“That’s not bad,” Letty said slowly, adding a note to her page. “See if you can flesh it out in more details, Dallas. Any other thoughts on her suggestion?”
“Yeah. I think we should lighten it up a bit. Freedom of choice sounds so … serious. So political, like abortion.”
“Well, it is.” Brenda shrugged. “Everything in our lives is politicized.”
“But this doesn’t have to be,” Dallas urged, glancing around the table. “We can have some fun with it. Getting back to the hair thing, because it still is a hot button issue for some of us, one article could be called … ‘Girl … what did you do to your hair?’”
The laughter began this time when Dallas did an on-target imitation of Nona, complete with her dramatic mannerisms.
“Now, let’s see you do Dallas, Nona,” Matty said with a smile.
The room erupted into more laughter.
Nona grimaced at him, ignoring the challenge. “If it comes to that, we can have Dallas write the one on skin color.”
There was an uneasy pause.
“I could,” Dallas agreed smoothly. “But it might make for better copy to have someone write a piece on that who has a problem with it. I think we all know that some of us do.”
Dallas knew she’d scored her second point when several pairs of eyebrows shot up. But Letty jumped in before the focus was lost again in escalating personality conflicts.
“Let’s keep this idea on the list. I want everyone to think of other areas to explore that would fit the theme. Anything else?”
“How about a July issue on children? We can include …”
Dallas let her body relax as the conversation carried on without her. She scribbled notes and continued to follow the line of ideas that went around the table for discussion. Despite what some of her colleagues felt, this was a job made in heaven for her.
Soul of the City was a
small magazine for women. It had a relatively young staff willing to challenge traditional thinking of black women about their lives, presenting new ideas for thought and a reaction. When she considered that she’d started out in an enviable position at a publication with an international reputation and readership in the millions, Dallas asked herself, how did she get here?
She still sometimes wondered if she’d made a mistake. She didn’t make as much money at Soul. The magazine was still not high profile, but it had a talented and dedicated staff. What Dallas liked about it was that there was a lot of energy, and a willingness to experiment. Still, she had not been universally welcomed. She’d come from a better-known magazine, risking her future because of a need to write honestly about things no one else was talking about.
The voices in the conference room were like a background buzz in her head while she considered that wanting to be a writer had all started with a journal when she was twelve years old. And then somehow had lost it when she was fifteen. Of course, that conjured up a house several blocks from her own. She had written about it in her journal. About Lillian Marco, Vin, and Nicholas.
“Isn’t that blackmail? They’ll give us two comp tickets to the benefit if we write a story about it?”
“That’s business,” Letty corrected. “It’s done all the time. Besides, I think we should cover the event. Other than the Mother Hale House, I don’t know of another group that’s doing noticeable work for pediatric AIDS in the black community. This gala is a fundraiser, so the organization could use the press, and our readership needs the information.”
“Where is it being held?” Nona asked. “The Studio Museum?”
“No. It’s downtown … I think the Public Library on Fifth Avenue is giving the space.”
Dallas made another note, and went back to her reflections.
She wondered sometimes what her life might have become if she’d stayed with the other magazine. They had accepted her from graduate school. They had trained her, published her regularly … but mostly subjects suggested by editors. Her father had been so pleased, and Eleanor had been so impressed.
She’d stayed nearly three years. When she’d quit, her father had become silent on the subject, but obviously disappointed. Eleanor had told her she was out of her mind. And ungrateful. All of which was probably true, Dallas was willing to concede. Except she had known instinctively that had she stayed at the other magazine, she might have suffocated.
“Before we end the meeting I have to say something about that last piece that Dallas wrote …”
At the mention of her name Dallas blinked out of her reverie and glanced at the speaker, Peggy. The assistant editor was observant and quiet, hard to get next to. Dallas had never been sure if Peggy liked her very much although she was pleasant enough when they were together.
Peggy idly jangled the half-dozen heavy silver bracelets on her wrist before comfortably clasping her hands together and letting her gaze move slowly around the room.
“You know which one I’m talking about.”
“Ummm—humm,” Nona said, nodding. “Probably the one about big butts.”
“It wasn’t about people’s butts,” Dallas responded quickly.
“My mother read it and she got real upset,” Matthew said.
“My sister thought it was hilarious. I don’t know …” someone else said.
“It wasn’t about anyone’s rear end,” Dallas insisted again.
“I wasn’t sure. But I read it several times, and I realize that Dallas had a point,” Peggy said.
“It was insensitive,” a voice murmured.
“Maybe because we’re all so sensitive to begin with about our bodies. Especially women. But that’s not what I wanted to say.” Peggy shook her head. “I figured out that I believe Dallas was writing about how we walk and carry ourselves. It was more about carriage—attitude—than it was a criticism about any part of the body. Now you have me staring at everybody’s behind,” Peggy said ruefully and without any sign of humor, but everyone chuckled.
Dallas nodded.
“I have to admit, after I read it a second time I saw more in the piece, too,” Letty added. “Did we get any mail on it?”
“We sure did,” Janine, the executive assistant, said. “But it was about half and half. Some people agreed with Dallas, and the rest wanted her fired.”
“If we get mail pro and con, then Dallas is doing her job. Anything else? No?” Letty answered her own question before anyone else could.
People pushed back chairs and stood up. Dallas exited the conference room in front of Nona, and she could still feel her coworker’s displeasure at having been used as the brunt of teasing in front of others.
The dispersing staff passed by the receptionist’s desk to pick up Express Mail envelopes and packages. Dallas was moving with the flow of traffic toward her desk when the receptionist called out, “There’s a delivery here for you, Dallas.”
She was about to respond when she saw someone sitting at her desk. He was engrossed in an issue of Soul. The other women, recognizing him, greeted him with familiarity as they passed by and settled down to the day’s routine. For herself, Dallas felt wary. It was rare that her brother didn’t want something from her.
She was not pleased as Dean put aside the magazine and then turned to play with her keyboard, altering the image on her computer screen.
“Dallas, wait a moment.”
She stopped short and turned to the assistant editor. Peggy was tall and statuesque. Intimidating, actually, because of her size. Her mouth was full and large. Her nose was a broad flattened pug shape, showing her flaring nostrils. Her brows were naturally arched, but drawn together so as to make her appear constantly impatient. The severity of Peggy’s features, however, were relieved by two things. A surprising set of dimples in her cheeks that appeared and disappeared as she talked, and her beautifully modulated voice that was both calm, clear, and commanding.
“I hope you don’t think I put you on the spot in the meeting,” Peggy began.
Actually, she had. “No, it was okay. I … I just assumed you were trying to make an editorial point.”
Peggy shook her head. “I wasn’t. It was personal. We don’t like to be criticized. The we I’m talking about is black folks …”
Dallas felt excluded. She considered that it might not be deliberate, and tried not to give her reaction away.
“I guess I’m not different,” Peggy confessed openly, “except that I really do think you raised some good questions about how we see our bodies, given our history and our heritage.”
“Maybe my point was too subtle,” Dallas said.
“Maybe. When you’re subtle, sometimes people don’t get it. It’s confusing. I guess that’s really my comment. But it’s probably better not to tiptoe around the thing. If you have something to say—even if people take offense—just say it.
“I probably really didn’t like how you made your point. But I applaud that you did,” Peggy finished.
“Well … it helped that you would print it despite that,” Dallas said.
With a brief nod Peggy walked away. Dallas’s gaze followed her, understanding full well her editor’s ambivalence. The thought occurred to her that maybe she should write something more toned down for her next piece. Being controversial more than once a month was more than she could handle.
“What are you doing?” Dallas asked irritably, coming up behind her brother. Her presence did not deter him in the least from interfering with her things. It never had.
“Dilly-Dally …” he drawled in greeting, concentrating on the screen.
Dallas could see that he’d gotten into her games program, something she never did, and was playing solitaire. She no longer went into a huff when Dean referred to her by the nickname he’d given her when he was about four years old.
“I have work to do. Get up,” she ordered, looking over his shoulder to see the indicator light on her phone flashing. Messages waiting.
&nb
sp; “I’m almost finished …” Dean complained, and proceeded with his game until he had. With a few deft clicks he got back to her main menu. “All yours,” he said.
He got up from her chair and transferred himself to the edge of her desk. He picked up a framed newspaper photo of her and Burke at a media conference the year before. Next to them stood the mayor and the governor.
“Hey,” Dean began thoughtfully, “I ran into Burke just a couple of weeks ago. He was …” He stopped.
“Did you?” Dallas asked, distracted. “Where?”
Dean didn’t answer right away. He shrugged, pursing his lips. “I don’t know. A club someplace maybe. He was … er … with some folks. He didn’t see me, so I didn’t say anything.”
“Probably some clients,” she suggested.
“Yeah, probably,” Dean murmured, looking at the picture in his hand. “You two still tight?”
Dallas sighed. She was still feeling angry at Burke. “Depends on when you ask.”
“As of right now.”
“I guess. We have our differences. Good days and bad days.”
“So you’re not interested in any other man?”
“There are no other men to be interested in.” Or who are interested in me, she almost added. She turned on Dean. “What is this? Why are you asking about me and Burke?”
“No reason.”
The question had, nonetheless, made Dallas uncomfortable. Probably one of the calls on her machine was from Burke, calling to monitor her mood. Good. Let him wonder. Dallas looked at Dean. “I can’t lend you any money, so don’t even ask.”
“That’s not why I came,” Dean responded, putting the framed photo down. He stretched out his long legs and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m serious,” he insisted as he returned his sister’s skeptical glance.
After a moment she was willing to believe him. He was good at convincing people of anything. Five years younger than Dallas, he was tall, athletically proportioned, and very fit. His skin was a rich smooth brown. He’d never actually had to shave very often, and Dallas knew that as he aged he would always look young. Dean had inherited the best from his parents. He was a very good-looking man. And he knew it. Worse yet, Dean had always known just how to play on it. And yet … Dallas could honestly admit that she liked Dean.
