Black Girls Must Die Exhausted: A Novel for Grown Ups Read online

  “Ma’am. Get. Out. Of. The. Car. I am not going to hurt you. Do it slow and do it now. Unlock the door. Unlock the door. I am going to open it. You’re going to get out. Ok? Do that now.” I felt his growing impatience. Dear God. Please help. Please help me now. Please please please help me. Please. I’m going to unlock this door God. Please be with me. Please. Saying nothing, I managed to nod my head ok, and slowly, slowly reached my left hand down to unlock my car door. The officer took the outside handle and pulled the door open. “Now unbuckle your seatbelt and step outside please. Just here. Step outside of the car.” I replaced my left hand on the steering wheel and peeled my right hand off of the leather to slowly reach for the seat belt release. There I was again, reaching.

  “I’m just going to put my hand down to unbuckle,” I said. “I don’t have anything anywhere on me. I’m on television. I’m a reporter. I’m on television….I…” I forced the words out with heavy labor. Anything more than a whisper felt like I was going to unleash the scream of terror that was building inside of me. And I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream so badly with my entire soul—LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME ALONE! WHY WON’T YOU LEAVE ME ALONNNNEE! But I said nothing. I held it in. I held my breath and unlatched my seatbelt and let it release across my body. And slowly I turned and pulled my shaking frame upwards and outside of the physical protection of my car to face the officer. Oh God please help me. I closed my eyes and lingered in one final prayer that I released to float outwards on my exhaled breath.

  The officer stood in front of me briefly—I could tell he was considering me, even from behind the emotionless stare of his mirrored aviator sunglasses. He took in a breath and his rigid posture softened a bit.

  “I can’t believe it has come to this,” he said with his hand reaching upwards for his sunglasses.

  “What?” I said, frightened about what that could mean for me in the next moments. The officer shook his head and pulled off his sunglasses. Officer Mallory. M--A--L--L--O--R--Y. I tried to commit that to memory and looked for the badge number. 13247. Mallory—13247. Ok, got it. Oh no, I forgot the numbers. He looked at me with blue eyes squinting to adjust to the light. He leaned forward just slightly to repeat himself.

  “I just said, I can’t believe that it has come to this. This. Look at you—why are you so afraid?” he asked with seeming earnestness. “I’m not going to hurt you. Listen,” he hesitated. “I’m going to touch you. Is that ok? I’m not going to hurt you.” I paused, confused about what he was asking me to allow. I was not certain that I had any true agency or choice in the moment. I shook my head, saving my energy in case I would need to scream. He slowly lifted his hands up, placing them gently on my shoulders. I caught the glint of a gold wedding band on his left hand. Maybe he had a family—a daughter. Maybe he could understand what it was like as a parent to think about his innocent daughter not making it back home. “What is your name?”

  “Tabitha…,” I said, struggling with even my most familiar words against the violent trembling in my body. I felt unsteady in my heels. Strangely, his hands stabilized me slightly. “Tabitha Abigail Walker. I’m a reporter on KVTV news. I’m just trying to get to work…” I said, trying to make a case for my safety—to make him understand that mine was not a name that would just disappear. If that registered with him, I didn’t notice. He continued just as before.

  “Ms. Walker. Seeing you…like…I…I just can’t believe this. Look…” he said, searching for his words as he sought out my direct eye contact. He moved his head until his eyes met mine directly. “I’m a third generation cop. Ok? Third generation. My grandfather was a cop—and my dad. They’re the reason I put this uniform on every day. Every single day. To them…to me, this uniform means service. It means honor. It means everything opposite of whatever it is that’s making you stand here in front of me like this.” He paused again, and then continued. “And don’t think I don’t know—I do know…I’ve read the stories—seen the videos, too. The same ones you have. But that’s not what this uniform means to me. Ok? That’s not what it means. Do you understand that?” I struggled to take in his words. All I could do was look him in his eyes and let the tears fall from mine.

  The air hung heavy between us for a moment and neither of us spoke. I couldn’t say anything, even as some of the tension started to drift out of my body. There are just some moments where words cannot perform their duty. There are just some thoughts that are bigger than words. It was in this space that we stood, in consideration of each other until we could find the next space of our shared reality. It was my turn to speak.

  “I’m sorry…I’ve just seen so much…I didn’t mean...it’s not disrespect…I’m just…afraid…I know I maybe shouldn’t be this afraid…but I am,” I tried to explain. His words had touched me because I could see them echoed in his eyes. I wanted to believe him, so I started to allow his reassurance to calm my racing thoughts. “What happens now?” I asked. He took another long breath and dropped one hand from my shoulder but kept his eyes locked with mine.

  “I pulled you over because you were driving erratically. You missed a light back there and it seemed like you might have been on your phone.” He broke eye contact with me and glanced over into my open car and returned to meet my stare. “From the looks of things, you probably weren’t, but you also weren’t paying attention. I want to let you go—but I need to make sure that you’re going to be safe driving. You said you’re heading to work. Just take some time and collect yourself before you get back on the road. Can we agree on that?” He paused to search my eyes for a response.

  “Y…yess…yes. I can do that,” I managed to respond, grateful to not have to fully explain the distractions of my morning.

  “Ok. I’m going to let you go,” he said with a lingering pause, signaling that he was considering his next words carefully. “I can’t pretend to know what’s going on in your mind. I have no idea. But, we’re not all like what you guys are seeing and hearing about,” he finished, then turned and walked away heading back to his patrol car. I stood still, considering the moment and his final words to me.

  “Neither are we,” I said quietly. “Neither are we.”

  I turned slowly back towards my own car and allowed myself to drop into my seat and closed the door. With my hands back on 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, I let my face drop onto the center of it. The cascade of tears came with heavy sobs as the entire weight of the morning’s events released itself from my body with the force of a thunderstorm. It shouldn’t be this way—nothing should be this way. I should have more eggs. I shouldn’t have to be this scared. I should have been at work already.

  I am Tabitha Abigail Walker, a black girl in contemporary America, and I am personally and emotionally spent. It’s not even 11 am and I already feel as exhausted as my egg supply.

  Chapter Two

  I would guess that on some days, and maybe for some, every day, people other than me could be found walking into their workplace pretending to be someone they’re not. Somehow the composure of the outside, even if assembled in the privacy of a personal world of chaos, would manage to hide the storm-ravaged landscape on the inside. I’d accept that this could have also been me on other days, but today was the first time that I ever recalled being so acutely aware of the disconnect. I felt held together just as securely as overstuffed packing boxes sealed with scotch tape. After that episode with the police, and after my fateful appointment with that doctor, I should have taken myself straight home to nosedive into an entire bottle of wine. Instead, here I was, taking deep breaths in my car in the parking lot. I told myself that as soon as all the shaking and sniffling stopped, I would go in. I had no idea how I managed it, with the traffic and especially with the police stop, but I was at work and parked, only 10 minutes late to the newsroom meeting. If I could force a quick recovery, I’d make it in time to pitch a story, or at least get staffed on a good story team. Ordinarily, I loved our weekly newsroom meeting, wh
ere we discussed the stories we would cover and staffed the longer assignments to tackle in teams. I always tried to propose topics that had at least some connection to LA’s black and minority communities. Most of the time they got shot down, or twisted into an unrecognizable “broader” version that missed my point. Maybe the truth of it was that I needed to start thinking less passionately and more strategically, especially since I was up for my next promotion. With time on my side, and a built up confidence from enough success along my path, I had been choosing to be more authentic than ambitious. I felt like I could reach my Oprah dreams my own way, and still get there. But, if my plans for a beautiful “everything I ever wanted” life with Marc didn’t work out, I’d have to fall back on my relationship with my career and we needed to make more money. My house down payment was already going to be 100% of my savings, but at least with a house, I would have something to show for it. If Marc wasn’t ready to move forward, the only option Dr. Ellis gave me was to freeze my eggs. “Freeze my eggs??” I asked her with wide eyes. She spoke about it like it was the most natural thing in the world and gave me a referral card for a reproductive specialist—well, actually, an infertility specialist. “Isn’t it expensive?” I asked, already knowing it was by the ritzy Century City zip code on the card. Egg freezing? It honestly didn’t even sound right, at least, not for me. I’d heard about it, but never thought once about it because first, I was sure however much it cost, I couldn’t afford it on my reporter’s salary. Second, how could I even know if it would really work? And when would I have the time? I dreaded the thought of having to make that phone call to yet another doctor, to have a procedure. I’d never even so much as gone to the doctor for more than a checkup and antibiotics. But realistically, could I count on Marc being down to move forward so quickly? If he wasn’t, then I needed a raise, so I needed that promotion. As helpless as I was, as helpless as I felt, the only thing I could do today in the form of any kind of rescue, was to pull it together and perform well in that newsroom meeting. I promised myself that as soon as it was over, I’d make a beeline to my phone to set up happy hour drinks with my two best friends, Alexis and Laila. They’d help me figure out what to do about my eggs and maybe even more importantly, how to tell Marc about it. The card that Dr. Ellis gave me for Dr. Young sat at the top of my purse and mocked me. Daring me to call and risk even worse news. It hurt my head to even think about scheduling that follow-up, so it would have to wait, even though I didn’t even have a day to waste.

  Finally satisfied with the touch-up on my makeup, I closed my car visor, and exited my car for the third time that day, hoping for a better result than the previous two times. I used my clammy hands to smooth down my skirt as I walked through the doorway under that KVTV sign that I first crossed beneath two years ago. Back then, as a new hire, I was ecstatic to have a reporter position in Southern California and specifically in Los Angeles. Not only was LA a major market, and my hometown, but it was a place where exciting things happened with a steady stream of interesting news to cover. I’d heard stories from so many of my friends from grad school who decided to go into local television news only to find themselves feeling painted into some obscure corner of America. Now could really be my time to try to advance the ranks. I had paid my dues, worked the weekends, and missed the birthday parties, vacations and lazy Sunday brunches with my friends. My next step was most immediately to Senior Reporter, then, ultimately, an anchor role—weekend would be a start, midday would be amazing, and weekday evening anchor—6 pm, that was the Holy Grail. That was the time slot that all of my professional dreams and financial aspirations were made of. I let my imagining embolden and fill me up where the events of today had deflated my sprit. I kept my internal pep talk up all the way to the meeting room.

  If I could land the role of Senior Reporter, it would mean rather than just basic day-to-day assignments, I would get a team of people to help me research more in-depth investigations and longer-term reporting assignments. It also meant that I’d get more of a say in the topics that I covered and how they were presented to the viewers. It was important to be represented in the newsroom, that was for certain, and on any other day, that’s why I usually pushed myself so hard in those weekly meetings. Communities that were underrepresented in the newsroom were underrepresented in the news. And sometimes the news was as important as life and death. Like today, what if Officer Mallory wasn’t so honorable? It was some person’s journalistic work that even made him aware of why someone like me might be afraid. That’s why I was never any good at a sole focus on just my own professional ambitions, even if I wanted to be and even if it were in my better interests. There were no African-Americans, male or female, leading any of the reporting teams at KVTV. A pity, because our perspective held value, especially about the goings on in LA. Still, even without my own cultural representation in the news team leadership, I believed that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. So I made it my responsibility each week to try to be heard, even if I sat around a table full of cutthroat competitors, like my colleague Scott Stone, who was up for the same promotion as I was. He always gave me the impression that he’d step over anyone to get there—and I was the one person in his way. Now that I knew just how badly I needed this promotion, maybe I also needed to learn how to start following his lead.

  Scott Stone had fewer years in news than I did, but he was the epitome of ambition and confidence. He always contributed ideas, always gunned for the best assignments and didn’t ever take anyone else into account. If I slipped, even at all, he’d be there to take the food right off of my plate. So, he was the other reason that in spite of puffy eyes and completely melted mascara, making me look like a raccoon on its worst day, with a head spiraling with proclamations of my failing fertility and worst-case scenario flashbacks of a terrifying police interaction, that I still womaned up before I put my hand on the door knob to walk in the conference room. I knew I had to. Because if I didn’t, he’d use the opportunity to throw me under the bus. So, with a shield of concealer and a fresh coat of lipstick, I marched my way into the newsroom meeting only 15 minutes behind schedule. It was no surprise that when I walked in, Scott was the one talking, but I shored up my bravest face.

  Our boss and the executive news director, Chris Perkins was an old-school news guy. Over his multi-decade career, he had made his rounds at several stations and was known in the industry for being tough, but fair and had shepherded some of the best careers in the business. Plus, he got ratings. He was deathly pale, pudgy, balding and short, but he had a commanding presence, and could certainly run a meeting. The glassed-in conference room, with its light grey conference table and standard-issue pocked acoustic tile on the ceiling, would always take on a new life as every corner and crevice filled with the energy of the brash discussions that we, reporters, anchors, news staff researchers, lent to the discussion of “what next?” On the best day, it was like the most spirited family conversation around a Holiday dinner table—except spanning all the topics you should avoid if you wanted to keep the peace: politics, religion, you name it. I’d normally spend days preparing for these meetings—what to wear, how to say the exact right thing, not too much, not too little—how to get it just right, with as much focus as an opening night theater performance.

  Sitting around the table, we’d review ratings and discuss new stories. Reporters like Scott and me who were up for promotion to the more senior positions would try to get placed on support teams for the best assignments. The visibility and ultimately good ratings were known to be positive tick marks in your column for the one-up. So, for all of these reasons, it was critical for me to be there—because my absence would be like the sky opening up and the heavens above smiling down directly on Scott.

  I walked in the room with my hurried “sorry I’m late Guys,” and headed toward an open seat in the ring of chairs encircling those at the table. Scott of course didn’t stop talking, but everyone else shifted their eyes to study me as I crossed the room.
I was never late and I was never not perfectly presentable. I realized that on today, my cream silk blouse was wrinkled and not even close to being neatly tucked into the back of my black pencil skirt. My concealer was doing its best work though, hiding those bags and circles under my still-bloodshot eyes. My only pair of red-bottomed black stiletto pumps dug their way across the standard-issue office carpet as I made my way to my intended chair. From the usual agenda, we had already gone over the ratings and it looked like we were well into brainstorming with a list of team stories on the board. Everyone got an opportunity to pitch and then the best of those made the board to be assigned by Chris to a senior reporter and a team. We sometimes informally called this portion of the meeting the “gauntlet” because it could get pretty brutal. An open session like this meant that everyone was allowed to speak freely without the constraints of regular meeting decorum. Chris seemed to feel like it fostered better creative energy that way. All I felt was embarrassment for being late and anxiety about doing well.

  Because I was up for the Senior Reporter role, my contributions to this portion of the newsroom meeting were all that much more important. Chris told me in my last review that to be successful there, on that news team, he expected my ideas and team assignments to reflect my insight and skill for identifying news, but at the same time to connect to our audience and most important, to draw ratings. Our news team was competitive all the way around—everyone was trying to move up in some way.

  I took a look at the white board. The topics had already been thrown out and assignments were being made. I was disappointed to know for certain that I’d have no choice but to hold on to my ideas until the next meeting. I still had a chance to get placed on a good story though, so I studied closely what was left: