Page 7 of Yours, For Good

Subject: Good and Bad things

Dear Mr. Beanpole,

You'll be pleased to know that the mentors had great feedback for me in one of our check-ins. They said they liked how I'm envisioning my business and that they look forward to my benchmark reports.

It's quite the relief! I wasn't sure how my business would fit with the plans my peers had in this incubator. One of them is into mining a new mineral from the bottom of the ocean, and I'm here talking about education for children? Having one of our superiors give me words of encouragement did wonders for my confidence.

Anyway, this was meant to be me sharing the good news. I'm in the middle of writing the first report, with the general summary of the state of my target market. It looks promising, Mr. B! Children will always need support to grow to their full potential. While upper echelons in society can outsource this job to a modern governess, I won't only be doing that. My business will also cover the needs of so many families that want the best for their kids but can't supply it directly. And young people always need sustainable jobs! My employees will be nannies on steroids and it'll be glorious.

Wait. They will not actually be nannies nor be on steroids. I hope you know that, and I hope the potential investors see it my way, when the time comes.

In any case, I also wanted to give you an update on my social life. If you're a part of the network of people who are allowed to refer prospects to this program, I assume you think like them somewhat (just like I assume you are different from them, too, if you would refer me to the program despite (or because of?) my background). Therefore, my social network would be of interest to you, right?

You can see how I've rationalized the fact that I'm telling you about the friends I'm making, Mr. B. That tells you how much I want a Real Friend, right? So here it goes:

A. In preparation for the outing, and for once in my life, I bought clothes for the joy of it. Your generous allowance enabled me to update my closet based on

what I loved, and not what I could afford and find in a thrift store. So thank you, Mr. B., for helping me feel pretty.

B. Flirting was a bust. Sally had the phone numbers for two guys by the end of the night, but I left with zero. And it's not like I didn't try! I'm just

i. Rusty as hell

ii. A bit too… eager? A bit too joyous? Who knows. I don't know that my vibe matched the nonchalant, bored vibe of the people I met

iii. Unimpressed. See point ii)

C. Sally got the numbers but didn't like the guys, so she also considered the night a bust, and we'll try again soon

D. Sally and I got closer in the process, and that makes me happy :)

To recapitulate (one of the mentors says this every ten minutes lol), my dinner with Sally went well. I don't know why I was so nervous; she's such a kind person and she makes every interaction a breeze. We connected through our tendency to take joy out of the little things. What a wonderful kind of friendship we might have! On the other hand…

Julia. Ugh. We were in the middle of a workshop in small groups and, out of nowhere, she goes, "what are you?"

What are you? Really?

OF COURSE I knew what she meant. I've heard the phrase before. People seem to try and fail to place me in their Mind Maps of Ethnicities and think nothing of asking me. So first, they're trying to place me, that's a thing in itself. But then, through thinking processes that befuddle me, decide it's perfectly okay to ask. And that's not all! They also think that asking in terms of "what you are" makes complete sense.

But questions like this are precisely what make me feel like I don't belong and separate me from the most privileged folk, and make me an outsider. They are evidence of how people in your group think about people in mine. It puts me in my place in three words. Then it goes and reinforces it through public policies and structures.

And what a terrible question to ask of someone like me! Because I don't know the answer.

If you have read my report, you probably know what I mean. I'm pretty sure I'm latina, thanks to my name and my coloring and the few hints my mom dropped through the years. But until the day I have the resources to hire a private investigator and maybe do one of those DNA tests, I will not know anything for certain.

I didn't say any of that to her, of course. I don't want her to know my story, nor how much her words hurt me. I get to choose who learns how little I know, or how alone I am, or how tough it's been to get here. So instead, I gave her a bland I'm latinamerican. Then I changed the subject.

It's not the work that's going to be difficult, my dear Mr. B. It's going to be the game and the blatant microaggressions that come with it.

Sincerely,

A Bruised Nora

Javier

NORA'S LATEST EMAIL GOT me out of my townhouse and into a bar. It wasn't even about drinking; I had a fully stocked wine and liquor collection in the basement. No, the reason her words had pushed me out of the comfort of my home was because I had promised to try to see the world through her eyes.

Sitting on a stool with a glass of dark beer in front of me, I gazed around and imagined Nora next to me. I had decided not to search for her picture, so that her looks didn't influence my thoughts. As a result, the hologram of her I placed on the empty spot to my right was unclear, its edges fuzzy.