“Yup.” She pops the p. “I couldn’t stop reading. What you were saying, how movies by Black filmmakers are only valued when Black characters are suffering, it really resonated with me. I think I’ve always noticed the really difficult movies winning awards and the fun movies, like Coming to America, being excluded.”
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I wish every movie came out on an equal playing field. Like, when we have coming-of-age movies about Black kids just living, people don’t really pay attention, but when you have all the misery and suffering of movies like Precious, people eat it up. So are audiences just super interested in Black pain? I feel like we’re told that stories about pain are the most important. And they can be. They just don’t have to be the only ones.”
“It’s brilliant,” Monique says. My heart soars. I always think my pieces are important, but that doesn’t mean everyone else will. Monique’s praise literally fuels me. “And you explored it so well. I swear, you get better and better with each essay you send me.”
“Oh,” I say, shifting in my seat. “Wow. Thank you so much.”
Compliments are awkward because I’m not sure how to react to them. I want to be humble and sweet, but also don’t want to come across like I’m surprised. Writing is my thing. I know there’s always room to be better, but I’m good at it. I’ve known that since Monique first read my blog posts and emailed me about writing film essays for Essence magazine. I’ve known that since I told her I was seventeen and she freaked out. But it’s still nice to hear it.
“It has the potential to be really powerful,” Monique continues. I lean back in my seat and soak it up. “I wish you were getting more attention for this work, though, especially since you’re so young.”
“I guess so.” I pick at my jeans, not sure what else to say. “But I don’t want people to pay attention to me just because of my age, you know? I want them to like my work.”
“I get it,” Monique says. “But between you and me, you’re more talented than some of my coworkers.”
I laugh, but it sounds strangled. Am I that good? It makes me giddy.
“But anyway, I just wanted to call you so that you knew what I thought,” she continues. “I know I tell you how talented you are in my emails, but I need to make sure that you’re really aware. It’s not even a matter of potential, Josie. You’re already a writer. All you have to do is keep working. By the time you’re my age, you’ll have people eating out of the palm of your hand, if you don’t already.”
“I wish.” I snort. “No one cares about writing here. My parents think I’m strange, and my sister listens, sometimes, but I know she’s just trying to make me feel better. And I don’t talk to any of the kids at school about it. I don’t think they’d get it. The only ones who really pay attention are my Twitter followers.”
As soon as the words tumble out, I regret them. She called to compliment me, not to hear me complain about high school. I don’t want her thinking I’m just some petulant teenager.
But Monique doesn’t hang up. I didn’t really think she would, but sometimes these ridiculous thoughts are hard to shake.
“Oh, high school.” Monique sighs long enough for it to sound like a song. “Girl, I definitely don’t miss that. But don’t feel bad. Your people just aren’t there. That’s fine, all right? They could be anywhere, even the places you don’t expect, and you have so much time to find them. It’s the best part of growing up.”
I smile up at the sky through the windshield. There’s so much world I haven’t seen yet—movies I haven’t watched, brains I haven’t picked, countries I haven’t been to, people I haven’t met. The real world isn’t so small. Some days, this idea is what keeps me going.
@JosieTheJournalist: do you ever just read emails and cry
Maggie always has a thing. There’s always a new project—putting inspirational quotes all over the walls, doula training, even starting a raw food diet (which was truly the worst). The rest of us always get roped into it somehow.
But Mirror Time is something I don’t mind. I can’t really get out of it, either, since the three of us share a bathroom. And it’s just another way Maggie has tried to help. Like leaving Post-its with positive messages around the house or creating a quiet corner with beanbags and relaxing music for me in the room I share with Alice.
I appreciate the effort. It’s just that a lot of my anxiety comes from people paying attention to me. I can’t help but overthink it. Am I too much of a burden? Am I bothering them?
It seems like everyone is already downstairs helping Mom get ready. It means they’re too busy to come looking for me. It means I get the bathroom all to myself. I kind of need it.
After not hearing from the contest yesterday, I’m guessing I lost. I’m used to rejections—sending pitches to different magazines will do that to you—but it still hurts.
I push my hair away from my face, revealing myself in the mirror. There are lines under my eyes and a few crusty bits by my mouth, but I look fine otherwise. The rule is, we’re supposed to start off the morning by saying something positive about ourselves in the mirror.
It took a little while, but I do like my face. I have dark brown skin and plump lips and what Beyoncé would call a “Negro Nose.” This face is a very cute face, especially
