Eden Sade

The conversation proceeded over the soundbooth desk.

"I do not think it is a surprise, not at all, to find that, now that they can, companies are firing black women. It would appear that bigotry will never find a day it can rest. We have seen a decline in employment in any case, but the numbers bare out the fact that black women especially are being targeted."

As the interlocutor, the interviewer, he needs to keep the conversation moving through set paces, so he asks: "Why is it that black women are being fired at such an accelerated rate?," which is a mistake. He heard is; it should be could it be. He receives the look: why did you say that? He glances to the booth; his producer looks blanked into a state of shock, like a man with Alheimer's recognizing that he is back here.

"I think it's fair to say," she begins, "that since DEI has been eradicated, the old racism, the kind that this country was founded on, never left. We can see that now. Only with these measures in place did black people get anywhere in this country. It is sad and true."

She looks at him: There. I did you a favor. The next one will cost you.

It is 11:08; time for a break.

They are off-air. She looks down into her purse, rifles through it for something. He drinks his coffee and pretends not to notice her. They can get through this together; he knows she is a kind woman. He recognizes it is a lot of pressure, especially now, and to not strangle every beautiful liberal white man who wants blacks to progress, but whose questions always betray how little they know about it. The truth is is that black people can be shitty too. He has lived in DC just as long as she has. The truth is is that for some reason, it isn't happening. All the work has got them nowhere. Now Cosandra Philips has to bury all that and project. Keep up the fight and wait. Wait for black people to act right.

He cannot tell, or he will not allow himself to conclude, but everything he knows about people tells him that she is tired of waiting. He noticed when she walked in: the Louis Vitton purse. A wallet, really. Long, brown and stamped all over. It is a lot to ask of a person, to rehabilitate an entire race. To soothe all the trauma, hold the children right; find the fathers. She is not a holy person; she is a bureaucrat. For all her lumps, she should have nice things too.

At the :09 they return. He speaks clearly and quickly into the microphone: "We are back and talking with Dr. Cosandra Philips, head of The Washington Square Initiative. Thanks again, Dr. Philips. Before the break we were discussing the fight to reintroduce DEI policies, some initiatives you yourself have introduced, applying to black women especially. Please, if you could, explain the nature of these complaints as you have heard them from those women you fight to help."

"Thank you, Mark. Yes, I would be happy to. The patterns are shocking. We hear the same story over and over. Once DEI was removed by the Trump Administration, big companies started cutting back their workforces, targeting black women especially."

"Now, why is that?" The mistake is unforgivable. She appreciates the support. She appreciates the air-time. But this is sabotage, idiotic and unforgivable. She begins.

"It is obvious that once these companies had the chance to fire black people, they rushed at the chance. Tolerance was never tolerance. It was never what it should have been. An equal chance."

The short speech was intended to attack him and her glare insurance that it land. Max is signalling him from the booth: Please. Just wrap it up.

This is probably the last chance he will have, at least at this level. If he is lucky, they will just move him. There is no way that this doesn't draw attention.

He sips his coffee in the silence and can hear Sade. The cellos at the end of No Ordinary Love. Synthesized, but so tasteful. The song, he can hear: a love like that won't last

That impression, softness and strength, seismic depth, her voice hovering above the clouds: I gave you all that I had inside and you took my love you took my love

It has been a difficult year—he deserves to be able to make a mistake and not lose a job over it.

The pressure of the room is a moment away from lasting too long, where the words no longer register as a statement, when they become a criticism. He must act to save them both, though he wonders if Cosandra wants to be saved. She may just want to be done with the whole thing; no one person can fix this.

He speaks: "Yes, I can certainly see that reasoning. How exactly are the justifying these terminations?"

Quick pivot; good job. "They defend their actions by the number of complaints lodged against black women during the DEI period, where black women were accused of being manipulative, refusing to do their work, of threatening lawsuits, and it's the lawsuits, I think, that really are the engine behind these actions. It is clear to see that companies had long ago decided that black women were undesirable, that they will not be bullied " I keep crying I keep trying for you. Theres nothing like you and I baby—

THIS IS NO ORDINARY LOVE NO ORDINARY LOVE

"Yes, I am sure there was a log of names. And what is being done to help these women find some kind of justice." Again, nice; easy handoff.

"There will be unlawful termination lawsuits. We will make these companies pay for the disruptions and suffering in the lives of these women."

"It would appear that the very thing these companies sought to avoid has come back around to bite them!" he replies.

"Hoisted by their own petards! Yes!" She nods; they are back on the same page.

"Of course, if there is nothing backing these claims, then The Initiative will make sure justice will be found."

With the words, the air changes. Like a switch from hot to cold. There is a hesitation in her face. Like she has been punched in the guy. Her look troubles him; she herself appears troubled. An incomplete blankness, across her face. Panic, if there was a sweet spot. Then he sees it himself: what if the complaints were true? He can feel the sensation coming up his leg. Preet language; synthesized alarm. Skies of gold. What if these companies had to endure decades of the worst kind of lazy. The worst kind of attitude. Dropping platforms; breath left behind. The videos on YouTube; cops pulling them over. The jibber-jabber. The absolute defiance. Now give her a job. Give her that stress. It is not supposed to be that—it is supposed to be what we all know as true. What if the racism was not racism KEEP CRYING FOR YOU KEEP TRYING FOR YOU what if the racism was a justifiable position

AND I'M FALLING

Those fellows he saw on YouTube. There are four of them; they react to videos. They like Trump. They think the Muslims should be shot. The one with dreadlocks has more compassion, but not much more there finna be God in school again

"Thank you, again, to Dr. Cosandra Philips, director of The Washington Square Initiative. I hope you will please visit us again, Dr. Philips."

"Yes. Of course."