Queenie

by Candice Carty-Williams

“It’s constant, with you. It’s too much,” Tom said, his voice cracking. “You’re too much, Queenie.” I opened my mouth to speak but closed it again. “Hope you get home okay,” he said, turning to walk away. “Do you know what?” I shouted behind him. He stopped walking. “I hope your next girlfriend is white, Tom. That way she won’t be too fucking much for you.” He stood still for a second before continuing on, disappearing into the darkness.

“Oh, am I meant to laugh at that?” I smirked, feeling my face cool down. He truly wasn’t very funny but: 1. Apart from Kyazike, who is ten times as funny as me, I don’t find anyone as funny as me, even in this, the darkest period of my life. 2. Actually, no man is as funny as me or any woman I’ve ever met. 3. Does funny matter when over the course of the evening I’d been able to stop thinking about Tom for more than three minutes? 3a. AND been reminded what it was like for a very attractive man to speak to me like I was more than an orifice or someone hugely inferior?

When I asked why else I’d be here in the middle of the holiday break when I could be at home, his continued line was: “Because you might be a troublemaker.” I’d forgotten my pass at home, but eventually he let me in after I forced him to take the lift up to the fifth floor and look at the poster of me that was in the cafeteria. I didn’t want to take part in it, but the paper had been doing a whole “we are diverse” initiative and asked if I would be on the supporting images, as I am one of four diverse members of staff who don’t work in the service divisions. The poster shows me, Vishnay from the finance supplement, and Josey from music all standing awkwardly underneath the words THE DAILY READ: NEWS FOR ALL. Zainab in digital had refused to take part. When, in my induction, the Spanish HR assistant quite literally said to me: “You are very lucky to be working here! There are others like you, except not the same color,” I wasn’t sure that I was hearing her properly, so asked her to repeat what she’d said. “You know! There are darker ones, but they’re in IT.” I’d opened my mouth to respond (though still have no idea what I was going to say), but she jumped in with: “Don’t worry, my husband is black, so I know about you and your people.” She’s gone now. Was she fired? I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Maggie! I don’t feel nauseous or anything, but I feel like something is going to come up out of my mouth,” I said, flapping my hands frantically. “I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like something really bad is going to happen, I feel like I’ll never feel better.”

“Let her go, nuh?” he said to my grandmother. She stopped washing up immediately, but carried on looking into the sink. “Maybe if all ah we had learned to talk about our troubles, we wouldn’t carry so much on our shoulders all the way to the grave.” He turned to walk out, his stick hitting the floor with purpose. “Maybe we haffi learn from this new generation, Veronica.”

Twenty-six, and this is my life, I thought, looking around at the teenagers leaning on tackily decorated walls, all staring at their phones. Three years from now and I was meant to have been getting married. I was meant to be stable, and loved, and . . . I looked back down, and the words on the page started to blur. I looked over at the loo door. If I ran in there and had a panic attack, I could at least not let Diana see me fall apart again. I was meant to be getting better, and if she saw me having a panic attack she’d tell my grandmother, and then there’d be a whole thing about me going to therapy and it not working so bringing shame on the family for no reason.

“Let me tell you something,” I said to my cousin. “You’re going to go through a lot in your life. Us black women, we don’t have it easy. The family, they come with their own stuff—” “You don’t have to tell me about that,” Diana cut in. “And school, university, work, it’s all going to come with its stuff. You’ll meet people who ‘don’t see race’ and are ‘color-blind,’ but that’s a lie. They do see it,” I explained. I knew how my cousin’s attention span waned when being taught anything, so I tried not to sound like I was lecturing her. “And people should see it. We’re different, and they need to accept our difference,” I continued, and Diana nodded along. I kept going while I had her. “We aren’t here for an easy ride. People are going to try to put you in a mold, they’re going to tell you who you should be and how you should act. You’re going to have to work hard to carve out your own identity, but you can do it. I’m not going to tell you about the men until you’re older, but that’s a discussion we’re going to have to have,” I told Diana. “Or women. Whoever, whatever, it’s your choice.” “You think with Grandma I’d have a choice?” Diana pursed her lips at me. “Anyway,” I said, “I’m here with you. Remember that.” “I know, cuz.” Diana smiled. “I hope I can grow up to be as strong as you are.” I clambered over boxes and hugged Diana. “Queenie,” she said. “Yes, Diana?” “Can I come and stay with you when Mum gets on my nerves and I need somewhere to just kick back and relax?” “No.”