Queenie

by Candice Carty-Williams

but I wished that well-meaning white liberals would think before they said things that they thought were perfectly innocent.

Food Is Love is my family’s unofficial motto. Pity that the motto is also Have You Put on Weight?

“I can’t wake up and not be a black woman, Janet. I can’t walk into a room and not be a black woman, Janet. On the bus, on the Tube, at work, in the cafeteria. Loud, brash, sassy, angry, mouthy, confrontational, bitchy.” I listed off all of my usual descriptors on my fingers. “There are ones people think are nice, though: well-spoken, surprisingly intelligent, exotic. My favorite is sexy, I think? I guess I should be grateful for any attention at all.” My voice was getting hoarse.

“The road to recovery is not linear. It’s not straight. It’s a bumpy path, with lots of twists and turns. But you’re on the right track.”

“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.”