Chapter Text
Section One: The Unwanted Assignment
Chapter 1: KiMGO Monthly, Fall 2016 Issue
Marion Johnson used to be the best friend of Victoria Conrad, the woman FOX News called “brave,” “a cultural mastermind” and “a brilliant storyteller” for bringing Zora Neale Hurston’s work to mainstream audiences.
“Alice Walker might have rediscovered Zora,” a FOX pundit said, “but Conrad made her digestible.”
Digestible.
Even in Hurston’s time, her contemporaries charged her work as being too vernacular and crass for white audiences. They claimed her fiction and folklore aired the dirty laundry (sexual misconduct, bad grammar, dubious work ethic) and reinforced negative stereotypes they had worked to keep under wraps from their white counterparts. Despite the Harlem Renaissance being about black artists making black art, a lot of that art was created to showcase their talents to a larger (see: white) audience. Hurston was not that kind of artist. An anthropologist by education and trade, she sought to preserve the culture of black peoples in America and abroad to the ire of her more mainstream peers who were at the behest of white patrons.
For her efforts in standing proudly for black culture, Hurston died in obscurity and on the brink of poverty; she was buried in an unmarked grave. As the late 20th and early 21st centuries have given rise to cultural sensitivity and preservation, Hurston’s exclusion has been rectified. Credit is due to Alice Walker’s 1975 essay in Ms. Magazine, “In Search of Zora Neale Hurston,” which helped aid in Hurston’s works being added to the canon of “IMPORTANT BLACK LITERATURE,” and Oprah Winfrey tapped Halle Berry and Michael Ealy for the television version of “Their Eyes Were Watching God.” Walk into any Barnes and Noble cafe and you’ll see Hurston’s smiling face situated between the likes of Walt Whitman and James Joyce on the wall.
It was no surprise the amount of attention Victoria’s mainstream version attracted in early 2011. In Hurston's lifetime she was cast aside because her writing did not fit the narrative black artists wanted to portray. Eighty years later, Hurston’s defenders claimed white audiences are again saying what is acceptable black art and what isn’t.
Now five years later, the dust has settled—as have the lawsuits and book sales—and Marion says she is finally ready to tell the world why she, the self-described “Speaker for the American Negro Delegation,” endorsed a white woman’s interpretation of black folklores written by a black woman from the late 1930s.
Johnson lives a quiet life in the Seattle. Her one bedroom home, full of spacious lighting, books and two cats named Monk and Marsalis, is also becoming quite known around literary circles as a place for young writers to get critiques without shelling out MFA-like tuition. Trading on her Gertrude Stein persona to Victoria, Marion has sketched out a life and identity of her own.
“Moving across country, removing myself from the media and focusing on my writing has really helped me weather the storm,” Marion begins. She offered me lemonade.
“It’s too early for rum,” she said.
Marion’s originally from the South and was educated there as well. Her guarded southern accent slips in whenever Marion wants to add emphasis to a word or phrase.
“People equate southern drawl with a slow mind,” she said when I commented on her inflections. The last time we saw Marion, she was gracing television screens with relaxed, shoulder length hair and tasteful sweater sets. Now, she dons a natural hairstyle on a more electric color pallet. Her brown skin and youthful almond eyes have not lost their glow.
“When I left that media circus at Somerset, I wanted…needed a new beginning. So I cut my hair. That was as drastic as I could get. I looked for jobs, but I was too recognizable. In many places, I’m still a marked woman. Despite having a master’s in English literature, many see me as a joke. Just because I vouched for a controversial book doesn’t mean I’m less intelligent or my degrees don’t matter. I’ve never had a GPA lower than 3.8 my entire life.”
Johnson’s taken the steps to rebuild her professional career by teaching literature and writing classes on-line and tutoring. She has several articles out for review in academic journals and has even thrown around the idea of writing a book about her time in the spotlight.
“I never thought exercising my right to free speech would make me a pariah,” Marion starts. “No university or college wanted me, so I had to teach on-line, and the editing mentorship I provide is basically free. I’m having to prove myself over again that I can be an authority on literature and writing.” Her writing and teaching life is regulated to her nights and weekends, by day, Marion has been a technical writer for companies in the area. “I’m putting my skills to use in another way. I’ve been learning a lot about corporate America and how tech companies work.”
When Marion initially moved to Seattle, her notoriety cost her jobs. “Someone would Google me and next thing you know, a complaint to human resources would be filed. For a while I worked from home. I just couldn’t face the stares." Her blog, a tongue-and-cheek nod to her days as Victoria’s “black friend” is aptly titled, “Speaker for the American Negro Delegation (SAND)” has seen a spike in content and readership. On SAND, Johnson recounts her trials with submitting articles for publication, pithy comments her students make, comments on what she’s reading as well as her musings on race, politics and gender.
From the posts and comments on Victoria’s blog, “Conrad’s Heart of Darkness,” it’s plain to see the women are no longer friends, nor do they agree on anything. A complete 180 degree turn from five years ago when Marion proclaimed on an NPR interview that she and Victoria were succinct in their thinking. When asked if she still defends Victoria’s book as much now as she did then, Johnson’s response was measured.
“What Victoria did was very controversial. It takes both bravery and stupidity to do what she did. I think asking if what her actions did were right or wrong is the wrong question.” I ask Marion what the question should be. “If it was good.”
ζ
Lloyd Garrison closed his eyes and prayed.
This is the assignment he does not want. The story no one wanted was still lingering on the assignment board. It was an easy enough piece, following up on a media sensation that had flamed out and moved to the area two years ago. Everyone had known the leper had rolled into town, but it was not until recently that Marion Johnson and Victoria Conrad’s blogs had become more aggressive and less passive towards each other. It had started with her blog first. Marion had, for seven days in a row, posted 900-plus word takes on the then former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s election bid for the White House. Within hours, Victoria Conrad had posts on her blog about Hillary Clinton as well. As the sole Black writer for the town’s newspaper and parent magazine, Lloyd was unofficially assigned to the “Black beat.” And while he was happy not to leave the complex lives of black men and women in the hands of people who got their slices of black life from reality shows, sometimes an interview with a person with the same hue as him could be done by someone else. Drowning out his editor’s voice, Lloyd looked at the sheet of paper on the assignment board. He had known people like Marion in school, people who were proud of their Blackness only if they were the only black person in the room. Their popularity was derived by being the purveyor of Black culture in a sea of whiteness. They would bring slang and music and dances into offices and parties, parcel them out like birthday cake and bask in the attention with their multicultural friends. In essence, Marion was the “Black friend” that white people claimed to have as a friend as proof of not being racist.
Lloyd had read Victoria’s thesis turned book, Hurston As Fairytale: Mainstreaming Lore for the Masses, as a senior in college. His Black Student Union president had written a long op-ed piece in the school’s newspaper—which was picked up by the local newspaper and shared over Facebook and Twitter—decrying how Black culture needed to be distilled for white consumption before it was deemed hip and denouncing anyone who’d buy or read the book. He had to be discreet with reading the book. He never took the book outside of his dormitory and when visitors came, he made sure to hide it.
On the surface, Victoria’s attempt to revise Hurston’s short stories and cultural reporting was bland at best. With the vernacular taken out and the passages of violence glossed over, Lloyd saw Victoria’s thesis as the equivalent of a book report written by someone who had only read a summary from a sketchy website. It lacked any literary merit; its only achievement was the book’s grammar, which Lloyd caught himself being envious of.
For the remainder of the staff meeting, Lloyd kept a low profile. When the editor asked for updates on the stories he was working on, Lloyd made sure to sound as if his workload was at its peak.
“Editing the pictures from the Girl Scouts’ bake sale, following up on those soccer players, then there’s the trial next week…” his voice trailed off. When he actually listed what he was working on aloud, it didn’t seem to him he was that busy.
“Good,” Gabe said. “I think that covers everything. See you all this afternoon.” Lloyd darted back to his desk, happy to have avoided the assignment once again. Sitting down, he clicked on his web browser and began typing SAND’s web address.
A new post.
Why the Next Black President Needs to be from an HBCU (And a Woman) Before Lloyd could unpack the post’s title, Gabe’s booming voice startled him. “Look at you, taking initiative. One of these days you’re going to replace me.”
“Sir,” Lloyd said, questioningly. He could feel Gabe’s round, stuffed belly pressing against his chair. “That’s that Marion girl’s blog. Transgressive stuff. I was just coming over to ask you if you could do a follow-up piece on her, kind of a where is she now, Seattle style kind of thing.”
Lloyd knew Gabe’s polite “asks” was his passive aggressive way of letting staff know he’d already made space in the next issue for it. Despite that knowledge, Lloyd was hopeful he could wiggle himself out of it. “I really didn’t have any plans on her. I know Amelia’s been following her since before she got here.” Gabe lowered his voice, careful not to make eye contact with Amelia. “I know she’s a big fan, but I thought you could do it since, this story is,” he paused, “delicate. You know.” Gabe’s favorite phrase to replace “it’s a Black thing, I wouldn’t understand” was with “delicate.” As well-meaning as he thought he was, Gabe’s insistence on assigning his writers stories based on their gender, religion, race, ethnicity or sexuality was stereotypical in itself. It was Gabe’s intention to let his “diverse” staff write the stories of their people, control the conversation and portrayals in the media. What he didn’t seem (or want) to understand, what everyone wanted to tell him, but was too afraid to say for fear of losing their job, was that allowing people to cover a spectrum of stories would enable his staff to morally grow. Gabe’s blue eyes stared back into Lloyd’s brown eyes.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll add it to my list,” Lloyd opened his notebook and began taking notes. “When’s it due?” “Let’s have this out for the next issue. So a draft in my inbox in three weeks.” “Photos?” “Yeah. Get one of her with that book, another one writing her blog and a few around the city. It’s more of a ‘where is she now’ type of thing.” Gabe looked at Amelia. “You can take the photos.” Gabe smiled as he walked away. Lloyd rolled his chair back to his computer, facing Amelia.
“Congratulations,” she said. Lloyd clicked his computer, pretending not to listen. When he had first arrived at Kimberlin Media Group, Amelia sat in the very spot she was sitting now, her brown eyes peeking at him from behind her computer. Her desk was covered in knick-knacks from Arkansas. During his interview and orientation, Lloyd was constantly told his hiring was deliberate; he was there to get black voices in print. He had hoped the staff was not as politically correct as management. They were not.
“You think if I told Gabe that Marion was into girls he’d assign the story to you?” Lloyd said from behind his computer screen.
“A Black lesbian might just give him a heart attack.”
“A Black lesbian amputee with an Asian hearing impaired girlfriend would kill him.” Lloyd leaned back in his chair, jotting down notes in his notebook. “I’ll set up our interview for next Tuesday.” Taking a gulp of his green tea, Lloyd began reading Marion’s post.
“She has a point,” Amelia started, startling Lloyd as he read, peeking over her computer screen. “Obama’s not the secret radical people thought he was going to be.”
In two hours since the post went live, Marion’s blog post had gotten over 200 comments. Lloyd sat up in his chair as he digested what Marion had written.
“I don’t think sane people really thought he was a secret radical. He’s loudly vanilla,” Lloyd replied. “I think people, Black and white, are projecting their fears and hopes on him. You don’t get to where you are as a Black man in politics by being aggressive.” Scrolling through the comments, Lloyd saw the usual commenters: ardent fans of Marion’s who agreed with everything she sad; the leery fans who would swing between loving the old and new incarnation of the author; and the fans who made a career out of disliking and critiquing Marion’s past at Somerset. So far, nothing Marion had written had driven Lloyd to make a comment.
“You should blog,” Amelia started, swinging side-to-side in her chair. “You’re always talking about Gabe not letting you cover the stories you want, that could be a place for you to showcase your talent.” “I don’t do fake deep well, and I’m not self absorbed enough to blog about clothing.” Then he thought about it.
“I just don’t think my thoughts are that unique or funny.”
“Then be serious, or write the stories you can’t tell here.” Amelia was still looking at Lloyd from over their partitions.
“You really need to start branding yourself. Sulking doesn’t change anything.” He rocked from left to right in his chair. “You don’t have to be miserable at work and at home. Besides,” Amelia added, plucking her bright red lips to Lloyd, “who would take fashion advice from you when I’m standing right here?” Lloyd laughed and rolled his eyes. Taking another gulp of his green tea, he began to think of the type of blog he could start.
“You posted anything new?” He called out to Amelia.
“Just some photos of new fabrics I got in. It’s a light wash blue jean with purple and white polka dots!” After four years, Lloyd still found Amelia’s life fascinating. The lesbian commune farm wasn’t as shocking to him as it apparently had been to his co-workers when Amelia had told them ten years ago when she’d joined the company. From what she’d told him, Gabe had spent the next two days wanting to know everything about the farm (he wanted fresh eggs and milk on the cheap); if they butchered animals themselves (he wanted fresh beef and chicken on the cheap); and what else did they grow (again, on the cheap). He was disappointed to learn that most of the women on the commune were college friends of mine and Tommie’s who’d just moved in together on a farm because it’s cheaper to split the rent ten ways and have space than in a tight-ass apartment in the city. What puzzled Lloyd about Amelia, which he constantly chastised himself for thinking because as a 21st century man from a very progressive family and knew better but couldn’t help himself, was that for a lesbian who lived on a farm and was a photographer, she was really committed to her Rockabilly look. He found her to be a mix between Rosie the Riveter and a sexy librarian with a splash of Lucille Ball, a combination Amelia took as a compliment when Lloyd told her months after they’d become good friends.
“When I started my blog, I intended it to be a portfolio for my work. Then I started adding short captions to certain photos that needed context. Before long, I was posting about my life, the move here, our housing situation and life on the farm. Maybe that’s what you should do. Just start off with your hobbies and go from there.”
“Jazz and beer?”
“It’s the internet. People go there for worse.”