I yearned to be in New York with the bulk of media and literary people. Despite the fact that I was getting steady work, I still felt like that was not enough. Since I was stuck in New Jersey, I assumed that I was not as respected or visible as my contemporaries because I did not have a 212 or 718 area code. Many days were spent driving forty-five minutes to the nearest Bolt Bus station, another two and a half hours to midtown Manhattan, then another twenty to thirty minutes to interviews for staff writing and editorial assistant positions that would last no longer than fifteen minutes. I knew that I didn’t get the job because of radio silence on the employers’ end, despite many promising me that I would at least get an email. It was the most psychologically and financially draining time of my life. I couldn’t understand why, despite my growing portfolio and Ivy League background, I could hardly get jobs in New York that required an undergraduate degree. But I was still expanding. I found my literary agent, took a coediting job at an indie lit magazine, and wrote widely.
In the months leading up to my move to New York, I was beginning to be followed on Twitter by a Who’s Who of New York media, and it felt damn good. People were noticing me, those who I had only dreamed would less than a year earlier, and now I felt like I was moving closer and closer to the elusive “popular table” in this behemoth of a city. But I didn’t have many friends in these circles, especially not black women. I hoped that those whom I connected with online would reach out to me once I moved (and I made it known through multiple tweets that I had arrived), but nothing really stuck. Each time I saw photos of brunches with black female writers or long chains that I was not included on that discussed the day’s topics, I felt like I had missed my chance. I was too afraid to ask if I could join their hangouts since they were more powerful and successful than I was. Why didn’t they reach out? Nevertheless, I made friends and gained mentors, those significantly older than me and people of color, but the vast majority of them were nonblack. I figured that I should give myself time and that many of these people must have known one another for years. I needed to work my way up to become friends with people who held so much clout. It wasn’t so much that I wanted contacts but rather a unit of black women who worked in the same industry where we could express our frustration about its blinding whiteness, share our successes, and, of course, help one another through listening or networking.
One day, however, I summoned up the courage to ask another black female writer for a contact at The New Yorker. I don’t know where I found the confidence to go for such an elite publication, but my mind was turning into somewhat of a boiling pot and I was bubbling over. I needed to move over to larger pots, and my drivenness was igniting the fire that pushed me to go for places within which I had rarely heard of those my age or complexion published. This black female writer was someone who was in the circles that I could only bounce around but never infiltrate. This woman had commissioned an essay from me before, even writing me an extremely adulatory email that I have retained to this day, so I assumed that since she knew my work and her spheres were vast, maybe she could help me get more work. But when I asked her for a contact, she told me that it is better if they—meaning the editors—reach out to me, and I was gob-smacked. Why would The New Yorker, of all places, come after me when they could get literally anyone they wanted to grace their publication? I was a twenty-three-year-old writer without a staff position or a book deal. Yes, I was growing in my career, but what the hell would they want with me? How else could there be a space for me there if it were not through some kind of pushing? I believed this pushing could best be done with help, and especially from a black woman at that. I expected this because I had been helped many times before.
At Princeton, I wanted a space to call my own. I had access to every book I wanted, every professor; my mental appetite was always sated. Socially, however, I was struggling, and even this is an understatement. I expended much emotional and psychological labor getting dressed up for parties at eating clubs, another campus bastion of exclusivity, and obsessively looked over my shoulder to see if any guy was watching me. I hoped that any guy who talked to me for more than three minutes was interested in me more as a potential girlfriend and less as a potential study partner. And when neither of these aspirations manifested, at least, I thought, I had my writing. In my narrow room, I spent hours creating worlds over which I had more control and power. But soon, wanting to be superior got the best of me and I sought to transport my writing to bigger platforms.
Princeton’s Creative Writing Program included big names such as Paul Muldoon, Chang-rae Lee, Jeffrey Eugenides, Tracy K. Smith, Colson Whitehead, Joyce Carol Oates, and Toni Morrison. Initially, I wasn’t interested in the program because I was very protective of my work and prized self-taught refinement over anything else. But after attending an orientation event with my freshman roommate, Ayesha, a Pakistani woman who would become one of my dearest friends, I thought, Why not? Ayesha and I had already established a rapport with each other over our love of literature, our closeness to our mothers, and our inability to find boyfriends. It seemed as if we were destined to partake in this new adventure together. So, I ended up applying for an introductory fiction class and she did as well. When the day came for us to check our emails about our candidate status for the program, I watched Ayesha go first. I kept my distance away from her desk so that she could retain a little bit of privacy while reading the email, but judging by her face, I knew exactly what happened. We had exchanged writing samples with each other weeks before we moved into our dorm and I knew how talented she was. She had found a place where she not only was going to fit, but was also destined to excel. When I opened up my in-box and clicked on the email from the Creative Writing Program, I was rejected outright.
Tears spiraled from my eyes before I could gather myself and cry someplace else, away from Ayesha. Being the warmhearted young woman that she was, Ayesha quickly placed a hand on my back and encouraged me to feel that this was not demonstrative of my lack of talent. But being in an institution where status and prestige meant so much, I felt that it was a clear sign that I should give up writing. The following fall, I applied again with an entirely new writing sample and I was outright rejected once more. That was when I realized that enough was enough, and that I would have to lay my Creative Writing Program dreams to the side. Most of the students in the creative writing classes were white, as were those who comprised the most acclaimed and financially strong theater organizations on campus. Basically, I felt like I was out of my league. But I knew I had a voice.