The Bennet Women

by Eden Appiah-Kubi

“This is . . . exhausting.” She groaned, rubbing her eyes. “What?” EJ asked. “Misogyny!” Jamie said, waving her arms. “There’s just . . . so many flavors.” “Internal, external, cool ranch,” EJ offered sardonically. “Some days being a woman is choosing the cherry for your shit sundae.”

Unfortunately, when she flirted brazenly, she got a blushing rejection that embarrassed them both. When she was subtle, guys just thought she was friendly. At Longbourn she was romantically invisible. It was a phenomenon most black women in white spaces had experienced—dark-skinned women especially. She had to live with it the way she had to dodge the occasional stranger trying to touch her hair.

the opening notes of “Canned Heat” began to play. “Fun throwback,” EJ chirped, pitching her voice above the music. The song always made her think of the movie Center Stage and doing fouetté turns in a red tutu.

The night sky wasn’t black at all. It was purple, and blue, and crowded—and the stars . . . they were so much more than distant diamonds; they were a glittering snowstorm frozen in midair. Points of light were scattered across every bit of the sky: some pulsed, some winked.

“We’re going to be honest, we’re going to put the work in, and we’re going to make it happen.”

You only get this lesson if you have black parents: Talent can get you into the room, but it won’t help you stay; hard work can keep you in the room, but it won’t win you any prizes. To soar high, to get noticed, you must be consistently excellent.