Two
It’s time to put on my white voice.
My white voice says I’m friendly, non-aggressive, and cheerful like a Britney Spears concert. It tells everyone that despite my beautiful melanin, and car fitted with the hottest rims and limo-dark windows, I’m non-threatening.
I’ll be sure to smile a lot, be as bubbly AF, and when it’s all over, I go home so I can be the blackest version of me I possibly can.
It’s hard being a sista nowadays.
I have to black enough to be acceptable but not too black because you don’t want Becky With the Good Hair to be intimidated by you. So, I always gotta switch it up whenever I around them.
Today is my day to switch it up.
I arrive at the legal firm in downtown Los Angeles and pay way too much money to park in a garage I won’t be there for very long. I double-check my appearance one last time and hope I make a good impression on these white folks because I really do need to get out of the fucking hood.
I go up the elevator and walk out onto an open area shared by numerous high-rises. The sun shines down on the buildings, almost appearing like it’s streaming down like rain. The air even seems different here.
There are about a dime a dozen coffee shops, eateries, and little hipster joints that I’m sure the yoga pants crowd will absolutely love. In fact, if I try hard enough, I can already imagine in the near future, some white girl with a guitar is doing coffeehouse and will cover “Formation” because it somehow speaks to her.
I’m already in a different world. I see these executives in suits that probably cost more than my car, and these women in shoes that are probably the same amount. I’ve already counted too many Benzs, Beemers, and a few Bentleys.
I feel out of place like a motherfucker.
My eyes quickly scan the area and I know I’m the only black face. If not the only one, I’m one of a few. But that’s how they want it, tho. They want enough black and brown faces to they can claim diversity in their advertisements but they don’t want too many of us so they don’t become VH1.
I locate the building and check in with security. I even have to pass through a metal detector like I’m used to at the nightclubs. Word? I know niggas bring guns to the clubs, so that’s expected. But if white people are bringing guns to work, I might need to stay my black ass home.
I enter the offices of Ellison, Maeder, Jones, Miller, and Young (like, really? All of y’all need your names on the business card, huh?) and check in with the receptionist. I sit straight, ankles are crossed, and my phone is off.
I don’t pick up any magazines or brochures, I decline anything to drink, and I half-pretend I’m watching boring-ass CNN with a replay of Don Lemon’s headass talking about some political shit I don’t care about.
Now I have to bid my time.
My major is Political Science and eventually I would love to go into Congress and be that change in the world. My daddy balks at the idea I’ll be shucking and jiving with a bunch older white men whose ancestors probably raped ours and they’re still reaping the benefits from it.
On the flip side, daddy always talks about how fine Michelle Obama was and if there’s going to be a black female president, I should be the first. It’s like he gets frustrated with me but he also sees where I’m coming from at the same time. Weird.
“Ms. Jones?” An older white lady with blonde hair, a black suit with matching black heels greets me. She has a look about her that screams, ‘I run this place and I run everyone’s lives.’ I somehow fucks with that.
“Yes,” I stand up and firmly shake her hand.
“I’m Jessica Ellison. You’ll be interviewing with me today. Follow me.” She places her hand on a keypad and the door slides open. Damn, she got the juice.
We walk down this long corridor and I definitely feel like I’m Puffy back in the 90’s videos where he’s hogging up all the airtime. People are walking around in business suits, drinking their overpriced coffee, and talking about last night’s football game. Some others are in a conference room watching someone go over a PowerPoint presentation.
The firm looks, smells, and feels…wealthy.
There’s a drastic difference between rich and wealthy. Rich is you can afford to become a McDonald’s franchisee. Wealthy is when you are the McDonald’s corporation doing business.
Jessica leads me to her private office and I’m astounded by how it looks. She’s paid her dues and has the wealth to show for it. Corner office. Oak desk. A sprawling view of Los Angeles. Her numerous degrees on the walls.
And her face is blessed with the unmistakable, ‘You will not fuck with me.’ It is written loud and clear.
We talk about my resume and my accomplishments at community college. She likes how I volunteer to the at-risk youth during the weekends. I tell her about how I was inspired by Senator Kamala Harris to go into the legal field. We chit-chat about the weather and other nonsensical bullshit that rich people love to talk about but really, they just want to hear themselves speak.
And then my interview is over.
I firmly shake her hand and I’m on my way out. I feel like I nailed it but I don’t know if it’s an internship I want. Everyone keeps talking about how they can’t wait to get out of the hood but when the opportunity is presented, it’s not necessarily the best one at first, you know?
Just like that saying goes – not all money is good money – not all opportunities should be taken.
Whatever. I get back into my Honda, bristle at the fact I was only in my interview for no less than V-8 break, and head over to my Daddy’s home before I go to the home I share with my best friend and roommate.
And maybe I can call Jalen’s big dick ass to come over and break me off something.