Queen Move

“Ain’t that the truth. Never send a man to do woman’s job. You’re right. It is a queen move. Thank you.”

“Just the truth,” he says. “Now you'll text me when you’re on your way?”

“I will.”

“And you’ll spend the night?” he presses, the timbre of his voice going a few shades deeper and darker.

“Gladly, Dr. Stern.”

“Ms. Allen!” a young lady with a clipboard calls from the end of the hall. “Five minutes.”

I nod and smile. “I gotta go.”

“Are you nervous?”

“You know I am.” I touch my forehead. My fingers are trembling. “Every time I have to do this, I’m scared I’ll stutter or somehow—”

“You’ve got this. I’ve seen you enough times to know how poised you are. I’m so proud of you.”

The door at my back opens and Kayla pokes her head out. “Did I hear someone say five minutes?”

“Yes, bat ears,” I say with a grin. “You did.”

“Well, hang up with lover boy, and let’s do this.”

“Did she just call me lover boy?” Ezra asks.

“You don’t have to sound so chest out about it.” I laugh. “I’ll call you later.”

“You’ll be fantastic. You always are.”

“Thanks, Ez,” I whisper, catching sight of the producer. “I gotta go.”

“You know I’mma need this full story later, right?” Kayla asks.

I roll my eyes, shake my head and hand her my phone to keep during the interview. “I do know that, yes.”

Kayla walks with me as far as she can but has to wait in the wings. No matter how much support and encouragement you get from the sidelines, when that red light on the camera flashes, it’s just you. The anchor, Chelle, begins the segment by setting up the story, so I have a few moments of reprieve before I’m on camera.

“Some disturbing news today about Georgia gubernatorial hopeful billionaire businessman-turned mayor Burton Colson,” Chelle says, looking steadily into the camera with enviable poise. “Accusations of discriminatory practices in the workplace based on hairstyles. Not a new problem, but one several female executives formerly employed by Colson’s corporation hope they can bring to light.”

A video package runs interviewing several of the women, all shades of black and brown and gold, wearing a range of natural hairstyles and head coverings from ’locs to braids to hijabs to natural curls like mine in varying textures. A pattern emerges from each of their individual stories—one of a toxic corporate environment that required complete compliance with an anglicized standard, and if they didn’t, penalized them.

“We have on-set with us Kimba Allen,” Chelle says once the video package ends, “well-known political advisor and the campaign manager for President Cade’s successful run. Kimba, thanks for joining us.”

“Th-th-anks for having me.”

Dammit. Not now. Don’t you dare.

I draw a deep breath and relax the muscles under my tongue, willing myself to calm down and not get overwhelmed.

“What do you have to say about these accusations, Kimba?” Chelle asks.

“I’m disappointed.” I slow my words deliberately and concentrate on steadying my breathing, slowing my heart rate. “But can’t say I’m surprised. This is the kind of thing I and women like me have dealt with all our lives. We’ve been held to a false standard of beauty, one that’s impossible to maintain. I grew up, like so many, believing I had to press, perm, weave—do whatever it took to make my hair what those who wanted me to assimilate said I should.”

“Is that something you’ve faced working in politics?”

“Oh, certainly. I’m used to being one of the only in many of the circles where I’ve served the last two decades. And the microaggressions are many and never stop. The awkward questions about my hair, people touching it without my permission. Those things are unacceptable, but practices like these cited by the women who