María and I spent the day in a spacious conference room overlooking the quarry. We read through the script, practicing lines and rewriting passages. She treated me with patience. “This must be difficult,” she said, even when it no longer was. Rather, less difficult than she assumed. It had been months since I’d spent time with other women. The tension weighing on me at The Atmosphere was not, I realized, normal in everyday life. I knew the men far better than I knew María; nevertheless, our silences didn’t cause me anxiety. I didn’t clench my teeth when she spoke. She smelled nicer than the men, a subtle, fruity scent reminiscent of Cassandra.
Over lunch, we talked about her childhood in the suburbs of Houston. She had been raised by staunchly middle-class parents. “Office to coffin types,” she said. As a child, she loved dismantling and rebuilding gadgets—cameras, TVs, radios, toasters—and built computers for her parents, her brother, her sister, herself. She used programming terms but was polite enough to explain when I looked confused. She said, “I know DAM might seem weird. I know the people here seem a little too happy. I felt the same way when I arrived. This isn’t how people are supposed to act at their jobs. But Sasha: This place has been wonderful for me. Roger hires based on skill alone—the diversity here, it’s not part of some grand PC conspiracy; he doesn’t check boxes or chase percentages, despite what some people think. DAM is how a company looks when people are given the chances they deserve.”
“Your husband doesn’t seem to approve.”
“He’s a white guy. He thinks a certain way about things. He’d kill me if I told you this. But after that cult stunt—and I’m sorry again—he deserves it.” She looked over her shoulder, to check for her husband. I was pleased she was inviting me into her confidence. She whispered, “He applied to work here, positive he’d get a job on the graphics team, and he didn’t. He didn’t have the skills or experience and it’s taking some time to get over that.”
An employee stepped up to our table rambling about an “urgent matter” he was reluctant to describe. He turned toward me and, with contrived shock, said, “Oh, my god, you’re Sasha! I’m Raúl. I’m on the accounting team—assistant to the director of finances, really.”
“Weren’t you telling me something?” María asked. “An urgent matter.”
“I can take care of it,” he said. He smiled at me.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said.
“May I sit down?” he asked.
“We’re eating,” said María. “And you have to finish whatever made you interrupt us.”
He gave a slight bow and departed.
“Starfuckers,” she muttered, smirking.
“Can you blame them?” I waved a hand in front of my body, feigning vanity. “I’m joking. I’m really much more modest than this.”
“Don’t be,” she replied. “I mean what I said. And everyone here: they really are starstruck. You’re an inspiration for the employees.” Part of the fun of being a star, María knew, was being reminded of your importance. She was flattering me, imploring me to dive headfirst into DAM—and I dived, just as she wanted.
Roger and I shared dinner at DAM’s fanciest restaurant, a dimly lit Italian place where the chefs made pasta from scratch and waiters smiled like they had guns at their backs.
“You must love it here,” he said.
“It’s been one day.”
“Imagine more days, even better than this one.”
I took a long drink of wine. “Roger, why are you doing this?”
“I told you: to make the world safer.”
“But that’s not the mission.” I’d spent the whole day memorizing lines, absorbing the purpose of DAM. Their mission sounded nothing like the safe internet he described. “You’re selling this as a way to protect sexists and racists from themselves.”
He set down his fork. “Come with me on a journey, Sasha.”
I pretended to buckle up.
“Imagine a father who learns his son is gay when his son isn’t home. He sees something his son posted online, or is told by the father of a friend. What matters is that he’s furious—he’s regressive; some fathers are—and texts his son something cruel like, Come home right now, you… insert the word. Imagine the pain that boy has to live with for the rest of his life after reading that message. What if he feels so unloved, reading that text from his father, that he never comes home again? He runs away or—god forbid. Can you imagine the pain of that boy and the pain of the father? But what if that father, before he sends the message, is shown how hurtful that message would be to his son? A boy he truly loves. What if there’s a program that directs the father to photos of him and his son enjoying each other’s company, reminding the father how much him loves his son, no matter how the boy chooses to live? And now imagine that father deletes the text and writes: I love you I’m here if you ever need to talk.”
“Were you that boy?”
“Whether I was or wasn’t the boy doesn’t matter.”
“So you were the boy?”
“I wasn’t the boy, Sasha. My parents are wonderful, loving people, and they aren’t the point. The point is that in situations like the one I described, you and I, we understand how important those moments are. They really get us right here.” He knocked a fist on his chest. “But they don’t appeal to investors. Because if you’re rich enough to invest in a start-up, you’re likely racist and sexist, a homophobe, definitely a dullard and wimp. That’s how people make money in a world like ours. And: I admit. We focused our campaign on how DAM might help sexists and racists. I wish we didn’t have to pander to get money—but we do. That’s the reality of the industry, Sasha. It’s abhorrent that no
