Black Girls Must Die Exhausted: A Novel for Grown Ups Page 4

  LA Mayor Race

  School Lunches—Nutrition Concerns

  New Football Stadium—Progress and Displacement

  LA Real Estate Trends—Who’s Buying and Is it Enough to Avoid Another Crash

  What does Silicon Beach offer to LA’s Women and Minority Population

  The Newest Developments in Cosmetic Surgery

  Assignments had already been made for school lunches and local politics. That was fine with me because for this meeting, I really wanted to investigate the story of how a changing LA was making real estate unaffordable for the minority communities being pushed out of their homes by one or another type of development. The new football stadium was a prime example. It was great for the new residents of Inglewood and those who could afford to grow along with the increasing economic base. But for others, what was happening to the longtime residents who weren’t beneficiaries of the economic boon? Yep, this new stadium was a story I could really sink my teeth into and it was just coming up for discussion as I walked in the door. Even though Scott was talking, there was still time for me to get staffed on the team.

  Chris, standing at our white board, addressed the room of us, congregated like petals around the long oval conference table. “So right now, we have Marlee as Senior Reporter, Drew and that leaves room for one more on the reporting team for the Stadium topic. Who’s in?” I shot my had up almost as soon as my butt hit my seat—I’m sure it looked like I was half standing like kids in a classroom “ooh, Ooh, OOH!”-ing for the teacher to call on them when they were certain they had the right answer. I wanted that assignment. As I felt myself catch Chris’ eye, out of the corner of my peripheral vision, I also caught the one and only Scott Stone looking at me, and raising his hand as well. Of course.

  Chris continued, “Ok, Scott, Tabitha—make your pitch for the spot. What’s your perspective on the topic.” Oh crap. Sometimes Chris would do this “Thunderdome”-style run off when more than one person was vying for the last open position on a reporting team—he said that it built and showed enthusiasm within the team for the news that we covered. Ordinarily, I’d be all over it, but after the morning I’d had, I was kind of spent. No matter how I felt, I still wasn’t going to just hand it over to Scott without any effort.

  “I think that this is a great opportunity to wrap in some of the surrounding Los Angeles neighborhoods that have been traditionally minority-dominant, and see how the character is changing. What is the new stadium bringing and maybe more importantly, what, or who is it leaving behind?” I offered, pleased with myself.

  “I think the story could be bigger,” Scott interrupted as I had barely finished. I turned to look at him and felt my eyes narrow in his direction. He didn’t notice and kept command of the room. “I mean, I would go into the history of football in Los Angeles, the original Rams, the role that the Coliseum itself played in them leaving—you know, how the dangerous area around it really hurt home game attendance, and then, now the hope that’s returned with the possibility of a new Championship. This city is ready to win—especially after that painful loss in the 1990 AFC game.” The room groaned in sympathy with Scott’s sports trivia that went way over my head. What AFC game? What about people’s actual homes, Scott?

  “Well, Scott,” I said. “That dangerous area was actually peoples’ homes and neighborhoods and was often a matter of perception…not actually…” Chris interrupted before I could really get going.

  “Tabby, it seems like you’re pretty passionate about the real estate angle. Why don’t you take the next story and Scott, we’ll give you the Rams Stadium. Let’s pull some of the sports history into it.” I was seething, but it seemed pretty clear to me that Chris had made a proclamation without room to protest. I knew I could learn the football trivia if that was the direction that he wanted to go in, but I wasn’t going to be able to spew it in the next 2 minutes in that room, and certainly not enough to run the circles I needed to around “Golden Boy” over there who had stolen my story. How was this going to help me get a promotion? I thought about raising my voice to object anyway, but couldn’t find the courage, or the energy. With the room seemingly settled, Chris crossed off the stadium topic and moved into discussion of Los Angeles real estate.

  When the meeting finally ended I took myself into the ladies’ room again to check on my makeup job and to get a small breather alone without having to head straight to my office cubicle. If I could make my way to Senior Reporter, I would also have an office where I could close my door for at least a little bit of privacy. Until then, this was my sole escape to try to regroup before again heading into a fishbowl. I placed my hands on the rim of sink that sat just beneath my hip level and used the leverage to push myself forward so that I could inspect the bags under my eyes. Just as I did so, the door opened, ushering through Lisa Sinclair, our midday anchor.

  Lisa was everything that you’d expect of a Southern California anchor. She was lithe and statuesque, blonde and beautiful, with unnaturally perfect teeth that were set in a perfect mouth under a surgically-tweaked nose. She came from a St. Louis station a couple of years ago, and fit the part so well that they cancelled the other interviews on her first camera test. She and I had not spent much time talking except a hello in passing in the halls. This was the worst time for that to change. On any other day, she’d be a great ally and mentor, but today I wasn’t thinking clearly and needed to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

  Lisa walked in and looked at me. She came over to the mirror to fix her hair and touch up her lipstick, which happened to be of exact perfect color. Who ever finds the exact perfect shade of lipstick to…”Tough meeting in there today,” she said, interrupting my thoughts.

  I thought for a minute, looking for a politically correct answer to hide my true thinking: Yeah, I hate that jerk Scott Stone. “Not so tough, just the usual,” I said.

  “Well, I couldn’t help but notice how Scott slimed his way onto your story. That sucked,” Lisa offered. I offered a slight smile back at the possibility that she could see through him as well.

  “Yeah, but he does that all the time. Like I said, the usual,” I said passively.

  Lisa finished the last flourished swipe of her lipstick and then turned to face me. “Look, this place isn’t easy—not for any of us. It’s definitely a battle to get your voice heard—especially as a woman. I remember before I made anchor, as a senior reporter—I had to always fight the guys for the better stories—and if it involved sports, well, you could forget it.” I nodded and she continued. “I’ve been talking to a few of the other women and we’ve been putting together a women’sissues group for the station. It’s part for support, but really to amplify our voices here and to get our concerns on the table…do you know that our healthcare plan…” Our healthcare plan? I could see her preparing to go into a rant of her concerns. I just wasn’t in the mood and I was already late to my desk. I needed to find an escape.

  “Yes!” I said hurriedly. “Our healthcare, whew—really bad—could be so much better.” I moved to place myself on the other side of Lisa to reach for the door handle. “Lisa, I would really love to hear about this, but I have to meet with the Senior Reporter on my news team. Maybe we could talk later?” I said sheepishly as I pushed my way out of the door, knowing I was being awkward, but saving a larger embarrassment. “Keep me posted on the developments?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I just left Lisa Sinclair standing there, like a perfect statue with her beautifully decorated mouth slightly agape in bewilderment as I made my move. Crap. She had the security of an anchor position and seniority that I didn’t. What she brought up sounded like an unnecessary distraction and I just needed to focus on getting that promotion. Why couldn’t she be offering something that wouldn’t jeopardize that for me? Like being my mentor or something easy? Maybe she could afford to make waves in her women’s issue group focused on our healthcare plan, but I needed a raise. I needed Scott
Stone to stop stealing my spot. I needed to stop my ovaries from quitting on me and I needed to learn how to feel safe in my own city. My mind drifted back to this morning’s traffic stop. I pulled out my phone on the way to my desk and sent a text to my friends Laila and Alexis.

  C

  Me: Drinks tonight—Post & Beam?

  Alexis: Yes! Robert has the boys tonight—6?

  Laila: 6 is good—I need a damn drink after today.

  Me: Me too—last nerve officially just severed.

  Alexis: LOLz—I’ll buy the first round!

  And just like that, I had something to look forward to. At least I’d see my girls. Six o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

  C

  Evening announced itself with a spectacular orange and pink wash of sunset. The soft pink made me think of an eraser, which is what I needed Happy Hour to be. I hoped for it to blur the fresh sting of a very tough day. As I walked into the door of Post & Beam, I immediately felt the sense of being at home. The place brought to mind the familiarity of “Cheers” mixed with the contemporary, yet warm, clean and neutral décor of an urban trendy restaurant. The open kitchen and glowing pizza oven in the center made it feel like a hearth of soulful offerings, southern comforts and general good vibes. I can’t remember a time being there that I didn’t see the owner walking around with greetings for everyone. Sometimes, when he recognized me or one of my friends, and we chatted with him a bit, he’d comp our first round of drinks.

  It was one of the first new restaurants to open at the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza, which sat at the effective entrance of both the Baldwin Hills and View Park neighborhoods. In the 50’s these communities were predominately Jewish, but with the real estate patterns, and agent-driven “white flight,” these palm tree-lined enclaves became tony hosts to black professionals and celebrities. Living here was a true sign of having “made it,” especially if you lived amongst the “Dons”—the high-up streets in Baldwin Hills with near 360-degree views of Los Angeles. And in nearby View Park, there were still million dollar plus homes that sat on top of their side of the hill, with everything you could imagine in fancier parts north, like tennis courts, pools and even household staff. The renewed interest in View Park/Baldwin Hills brought increased opportunities for new businesses, like our beloved Post & Beam, but nobody could say they weren’t worried about losing some of the rich history and character of the area as well. Coming back was like revisiting my best memories—when I was a kid and everything seemed good and easy and on its way up.

  Gentrification was changing the neighborhood, certainly. Each time I went back, I saw fewer and fewer of the people I knew from my time growing up there before my parents divorced. My friend Alexis had been my neighbor down the street, and that’s how we originally met. She still lived there, in a house a few blocks from her parents, married to Robert, her high school boyfriend. Robert, after a wild ride through high school and college, became a proud, card-carrying member of the married man club when he and Alexis were still in their twenties. As a complete departure from his younger self, he became one of those men who considered marriage and family an accomplishment worth having on his way to the new promised land of old-man Kangol hats, jazz festivals and social security checks. His parents were still married, as were Alexis’ and hers still lived in the same house down the street from my old one. We had been friends since our earliest memories and still had pictures of us together back in times that we were too young to recall. When we were younger, we were always thick as thieves and never had any problems until Robert came sniffing around at the end of middle school. Where I was the studious one, getting straight A’s and acting like a debutante even before I was one, Alexis filled out early, leading into her nickname “Sexy Lexi,” which is what all the boys, and I do mean all of them, started calling her. She was the first to develop breasts and a plump booty. She had all the curves that I could only imagine while my body stayed straight up and down, front and back as flat as a pine board. When my mom moved away, and I went to stay several miles away with Granny Tab in the Fairfax district, Lexi and I didn’t get to spend as much time with each other, because we also wound up at different high schools. Robert took the opportunity to fill in for my absence. He was a popular athlete and before long, he got “Sexy Lexi” to wear his cheap little gold chain with the fake-assed diamond name plate on it that his parents bought him at his insistence for legitimacy with his rap career that lasted 5 minutes and never went much past our neighborhood. Robert always swore up and down I didn’t like him. Honestly, it wasn’t that I didn’t like him, it’s just that after a certain point of drying Lexi’s tears, it seemed clear to me that Lexi could do better. But, evidently, she didn’t want to. She loved herself some Robert. They made me godmother to their boys, first Rob Jr. and then little Lexington. I hate to pick favorites, but that little boy Lexington, with his big brown eyes, curly woolen hair and mischievous snaggly smile would have you looking in your purse for candy that wasn’t there. If she weren’t married to Rob, Lexi would be living a version of my dream family life. She had a stable, helpful husband, two kids, and still-married parents who lived just down the street.

  I was the first to arrive, so I secured a place at the center-situated communal tables for Alexis and Laila. I figured that Alexis would arrive first and Laila would come at her standard fifteen minutes late. Laila Joon was always late, but always worth waiting for. Laila was from the Bay Area and I met her in undergrad at USC’s journalism program. I was focused on broadcast news and Laila had intentions to be a syndicated newspaper columnist. She was all the way Oakland with her “hella” slang and long mane of bohemian dreadlocks. She never minced words, but was still as mysterious and enchanting as her name, “Laila,” which was pronounced, Lah-E-Laa, and was a version of the word that meant night in Arabic. Her mother, who came from a Black Muslim family, gave her the name to mark that side of her heritage, as she would automatically carry the Korean last name of her father, “Joon.” She looked black, she looked Asian and she never failed to look at people with extreme side-eye when they inevitably asked her “what are you?” with unrelenting frequency. Laila, who as a writer was quick-witted and basically fearless, once said to that question, “I’m mixed…” to an unsuspecting inquirer who pushed their luck, pressing for the second with what? follow-up. Laila said defiantly, “I’m mixed with black and mind your business.” What I loved about Laila beyond her fearlessness, was her ability to always be herself, even when it wasn’t comfortable or popular. Laila was the one who convinced me to apply for the job at KVTV and spent every weekend with me practicing my interview until I was as sharp and polished as a brand new razor. With Alexis married and with kids, when I moved back to LA, she became my wingwoman as we navigated the wilds of LA nightlife together as single girlfriends. This made tonight a rare occasion, with the three of us, because it was usually beyond difficult to get Alexis out at all.

  To my surprise, after 10 minutes of waiting, with no sign of either one of my friends, at the door, Alexis finally appeared, walking in right along with Laila. They rushed me at the table, wrapping me with our customary big hugs and cheek kisses.

  “Girl!” Laila said with her usual frenetic energy. “You sent the bat signal and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet! I knew some bulllll-shiiiiit must have gone down today. Where’s our waiter—I need a drink ASAP.” Signaling for the waiter with a raised arm, she turned back to look at me, “Um, hm, I see you. You couldn’t even wait for a sista, you’ve already been sippin’!” she said with her big wide grin.

  “How you doin’ girl?” Alexis asked with her motherly sincerity. Even though I’d known her practically forever, but still couldn’t believe how much she’d changed from the “Sexy Lexi” that she was in high school. Her figure-8 curves from back then had rounded out significantly, and more so with each of her two children. She was still beautiful, brown and carried herself with the confidence of a longhaired siren, but you
could see life lived and the obligations of family in her figure. Laila on the other hand, still had the physique of a track star. She was naturally beautiful, with freckles and honey-colored skin that always seemed to carry a glow of the California sunshine with it. This day, she had pulled her shoulder-length dreads up into a wide bun around the crown of her head.

  “Girl, you won’t believe….” I started in, ready to tell them everything.

  “Wait, just one second—Tab” said Alexis, settling her wide and supple hips onto the stool in front of me. “Let me just text Rob and the boys and let them know what time I’m coming home. I know they’re going to ask me to bring dinner—they act like they don’t know how to use an oven or a stove….”

  “Or Postmates—or Uber Eats—doesn’t Rob know how to use his phone?” Laila challenged. Alexis just threw her a look.

  “You would think…” she said, instantly immersed in her phone, while her fingers danced quickly across the screen. “Ok. That’s done. Tab! What happened??” said Alexis, throwing the entire weight of her attention back to me.

  “What didn’t happen today. First, y’all do you know anything about ‘ovarian reserve’? Evidently, I have like, none—my ovaries are just like, ‘yeah, girl, we out.’” I said, weakly making my very best attempt at humor.

  “Whaaaat? What does that mean?” asked Alexis.

  “Wait, so you ain’t got no eggs?” spouted Laila.

  “Shhhsssshh!” I tried to bring the volume down to keep my personal issue out of ear hustling distance of the couple at the far end of the shared table. “Basically, yes, that’s my situation. The doctor told me today. I have six months to do something drastic and if I don’t—I have basically zero shot of having my own biological child…or family.”