The City We Became

by N. K. Jemisin

  “Unrestricted funds, Bronca.”

  “Not unrestricted. She wants our principles in exchange!”

  He lets out a slow, careful sigh. Bronca respects Raul, his loose regard for power dynamics in workplace sexual relationships aside. He’s one of the artists on the board, and unusual in that he’s got equal talent at sculpture and at wrangling prickly business-types who have no idea how art works. Where he falls down is wrangling prickly artist types like Bronca.

  “That’s very melodramatic,” he says. “And not at all true. The Better New York Foundation—”

  “Jesus, really?”

  “Yes. Very well resourced, very private, and very dedicated to raising the city from its gritty image to the heights of prosperity and progress.”

  Bronca actually pulls the receiver from her ear to glare at it for a moment. “I have never smelled a bigger pile of horseshit. That’s—” She shakes her head. “It’s gentrifier logic. Settler logic. They want the city without the ‘gritty’ people who made it what it is! Raul, what she wants—”

  “Isn’t too much to ask. That’s what the board concluded.”

  There is a finality to his voice. Bronca’s heart clenches as she understands. This is all going so fast. “Are you saying this is do-or-die, then? Take the money, or…?”

  “What do you think, Bronca?”

  Her first instinct is to start yelling. She knows that’s the wrong response, the response that isn’t going to help, but she wants to do it anyway. Her grandfather always did complain that she was too prone to bluster and bludgeoning. Her people have survived by hiding in plain sight for generations, passing as Black or Hispanic or whatever worked, but all that time pretending has left its mark. She tries to always remember that the way of the Lenape is cooperation, but it’s a struggle sometimes.

  “Listen to me. If we remove Unknown’s works and replace them with stuff from, from… a bunch of profiteering neo-Nazis, you think people aren’t going to notice? Think about what kind of message—”

  “Have you looked at the profiteering neo-Nazis’ latest video? Have you checked your fucking email, Bronca?” When Bronca falters and falls silent, startled, Raul sighs into the gap. “Go look. And consider the fact that the board started getting emails on this overnight, too. Then call me with your choice.”

  She flounders to speak. “‘Do it or get fired’ isn’t a choice, Raul.”

  “It is. You can refuse the money, get fired, and doom the Center’s staff and artists to years of financial uncertainty and fuck-knows-whatever kind of leadership they’ll hire after you. The new director will almost surely be someone who’s more likely to obey the board, which means they won’t be half the advocate for your people that you are. That’s what matters here, Bronca. You can’t do them any good if you’re—”

  “You’re making a choice, too! Between racist hacks and somebody who’s spent her life fighting that shit! You’re choosing them!” Yeah, so much for not yelling.

  “That isn’t how the board sees it. And yeah, I know that’s how it is.” He rides over her retort. “Jesus Christ, Bronca, you think I don’t get it? I’m Chicano as fuck. My parents were illegal—I get it. But these people are always gonna tell themselves that a little fascism is okay as long as they can still get unlimited drinks with brunch!”

  Bronca has fallen silent, though she’s shaking. She’s out of arguments. From the corner of her eye, she can see Yijing lingering nearby, clearly eavesdropping; Jess has come to the door of her office as well, after Bronca’s shout. Veneza is walking up to the Center’s door, since it’s almost time for her shift to begin. Without really thinking about it, Bronca moves her hand to press the speakerphone button. Raul’s long sigh is heard by an audience this time.

  “Look,” he says. “I’m just the messenger. You know I fought this, but… Take some time to think about it, Bronca. I know you, and I know you’re right, but I don’t want to lose you. And watch your back. This got ugly fast.” Then he hangs up.

  Bronca does, too, and lifts her eyes. Jess has a hand to her mouth, horrified. Yijing sighs and turns her phone around to display some social media thing or another. Bronca can’t see the tiny text. “The Alt Artistes’ video has gone up,” Yijing says. “My mentions have been flooded with ‘kill urself’ crap all morning, and I couldn’t figure out why at first. Different accounts, but all variations on the same thing: Why does @BronxArts hate white men, how can we say we don’t discriminate when we clearly do, isn’t it Affirmative Action if we only showcase artists who aren’t white, blah blah blah. With a lot of ‘chink bitch’ and rape threats on the side.”

  “What the hell?” Bronca asks, stunned.

  “Me, too,” says Jess. She looks tired already. “They called my home phone last night. Five times—’til my husband took the phone off the hook, but I bet our voice mail is full of specialness and love. Guessing they got my name off the Center’s website and figured out my personal info from it, like Veneza tried to warn.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “I’m scared to check my email, to be honest.”

  “Yeah, don’t,” Veneza says as she comes into the room. She’s got her laptop bag in one hand, and her eyes are bleary. “One of my exes texted me last night. The Artistes’ video is extra fucked up. He was trying to tell me to leave my apartment, but my name isn’t on the staff page.” She rolls her eyes. “First time I’ve ever been glad you guys are too cheap to pay me benefits.”

  Jess goes still. “You think we’re going to get doxxed?”

  “You already have been.” The words send a chill through Bronca; Veneza sighs and opens up her laptop, clicking on something. Then she turns it around to show them. There’s a page on some kind of forum. At the top is the forum subject: OPERATION FUCK THESE LEZBICHES WITH BIGG FAT DILDS. Then dozens of posts. Bronca tries to parse it and can’t; the text is too small, and there are too many people “talking.” She’s tried to stay on top of the internet, she really has, but at times like this, she feels like a damned Luddite.

  “So, it turns out that there’s a whole campaign about this,” Veneza translates.

  Yijing, who’s clearly better at reading this stuff, squints at the screen and then curses. “The fucking dates. Oh my God. They planned this in advance.”

  “Pretty much,” says Veneza. Her expression is pained. “All that stuff I told you guys yesterday about how to hide your business online? It was already too late, sorry.” She taps the screen over one of the forum comments, and abruptly Bronca recognizes the words there. It’s her home address and phone number. Beneath it, someone has posted “got her yaaaah” without punctuation.

  “Oh, these sons of bitches,” Bronca growls. But inside, she’s shaking. What happens if some of these people show up to burn down her house in the middle of the night? Or if they break in while she’s sleeping? She has a gun—illegally, can’t get a permit because of her arrest record for AIM protests and “vandalism,” which is what they call it when artists put murals on derelict building walls. But is that what it’s come to?

  Jess groans. Yijing shakes her head, her eyes moving rapidly back and forth as she scans the screen. “They’re even trying to find your Social and your bank info, but they haven’t gotten it so far. You have to call your bank, the cops, everybody you can.”

  Bronca puts a hand over her face for a moment. She can’t think. And what can she do? The city’s power can’t help her with this.

  Then Veneza nudges her, and when Bronca lowers her hand, Veneza is watching her, eyes dark with compassion. “Hey,” she says. “Remember. Six square feet of floor space. I gotchu.”

  It’s so ridiculous. And Bronca loves her so much.

  So she takes a deep breath and tries to rally. “Right,” she says. “Okay. Calling the bank.”

  “We need to get online,” Yijing says, scowling. “Do some counter-campaigning. You handle your business, Bronca—but while you do, we’ve got to start fighting back.”

  It becomes a whole big thing, Bronca realiz
es, through the endless day that follows. She’s still dazed by the looming threat of employment termination, but that’s only one gun in what turns out to be a fucking broadside. The Artistes’ video—which Bronca watches, despite Veneza warning her that it would only “heat up your brain”—is almost a masterwork of insinuation. At no point do they come right out and say that Bronca rejected them because they’re white men; that’s unprovable, and actionable. They say everything else, though. That Bronca is an out lesbian and Indigenous-rights activist with an Ivy League PhD (“I thought Indians were supposed to be poor,” sneers Fifteen, who’s included in the video as a guest expert on something). That Yijing’s own work has appeared in the gallery (“They’re just promoting themselves and their friends!” someone has typed into the video’s comments). That Jess is Jewish, which seems horrifying to them all in itself (“And now we know who’s really behind this,” Strawberry Manbun says, leaning forward to glare into his video cam).

  The messaging is all there, carefully divorced from specific conclusions or calls to action. And judging by the comments, their audience is eating the whole thing up like IHOP. The Artistes are clearly the victims of a conspiracy by uppity women “of color” and questionable sexuality to promote their own indisputably inferior art over the work of skilled, deserving artists who just happen to be cishet white men. In conclusion, the Artistes instruct viewers to “let the Bronx Art Center know what you think”—after which they display the names of the board from the Center’s own newsletter masthead.

  They knew exactly whom to target, and their goal was precisely what’s happened: Bronca’s job is in danger.

  Yijing and the others are on it. Jess calls and texts a number of the Center’s artists while Bronca’s on the phone with the bank. Bronca’s mystified by how Jess is picking her calls, until Jess explains: not the biggest names, but the ones with the widest reach on social media. She gets them to start posting about the situation, which Veneza has already bullied most of her art-school buddies into discussing online. The goal, Jess explains, is something that will look like a spontaneous show of support from the public.

  There is a spontaneous show already occurring, as Veneza shows them. It’s just unfocused. There are quite a few posts floating around asking why people seem mad at the Center, which has done so much good for the community, and trying to figure out how an anti-racist mission statement is getting called racist. But within an hour, Yijing is on a conference call with three arts-media reporters and a news feature editor, where she explains that the Center’s director has been asked to remove the work of a talented artist in order to make room for “hate art.” BuzzFeed posts something about the situation; so does Drudge but everything was already cockeyed on that side of the looking glass anyway. Veneza’s started something she’s calling a counter-hash—#BronxNotBigots, although at one point she gets annoyed because some helpful wit has also started using #ArtNotAlt. “That’s a dilution of our message!” she proclaims—but as far as Bronca can tell, both messages are working just fine. When Yijing shows her how to look at all this fiddly social media stuff, there are thousands of people tweeting and blogging in support of the Center. It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

  And then, toward evening—a good hour or two after the Center should have closed, but of course they’re all still here again—Bronca’s direct line rings. Raul’s number.

  Bronca takes the call in her office. It’s brief. When she emerges to find the other women sitting there staring at her, she has to laugh. It’s a weary but much-needed cathartic release after this ridiculous day.

  “Yeah, so… the board has reviewed the situation, and publicly put its full support behind the freedom of expression that any champion of the arts should… blah blah blah blah.” Bronca shrugs. “Translation: They’ve rejected the Better New York donation. Also, they’re not firing me.”

  Veneza jumps up and yells in triumph. Jess looks like she’s going to faint. Yijing is furious. “Translation: the entire goddamn internet jumped on them, and they didn’t want to look bad. But are they going to apologize? For even considering this Dr. White’s offer?”

  “It’s the board. You know that’s not how they roll.” Yijing opens her mouth, and Bronca holds up a hand. “Look, this is bullshit, but it’s bullshit we survived. Go home. Have dinner before nine o’clock for a change. Forget about this place for a while. And… thank you, all of you, for saving my job.”

  That silences them for a moment. Yijing looks at Veneza; Veneza makes some kind of face at her, trying to convey something that Bronca cannot interpret. Finally, Yijing looks exasperated—but she turns to Bronca and draws herself up a little. “I have a guest room,” she says. A little stiffly, but still, given how much they hate each other, it’s a gesture that makes Bronca regret half the things she’s said about Yijing over the years. (The other half she’ll stand by ’til she dies.)

  “We’d kill each other by midnight,” she says back, but it’s gentle, and she smiles. “Thank you, though.”

  Yijing shrugs, putting her shoulders back. “Putting up with you seems like a small price to pay to stick it to these fuckers. But what are you going to do, then? It probably isn’t safe for you to go home for a few days.”

  Bronca rubs her eyes. A hotel is out of the question for the moment. Her bank has dealt with the problem of possible identity theft by canceling her debit and credit cards—which means that Bronca’s got nothing to her name but the cash in her wallet, until she can get to a bank branch and replace her cards. She’s already called her neighbors to warn them. Her house is half of a semi-attached two-family over in Hunts Point. The neighborhood can be a little rough for outsiders, which is why Bronca could afford to buy there—and really, the kinds of people who might want to try this stalking shit are probably too scared to spend much time there doing so. Still, Bronca knows she should do what’s safe.

  “I’ll stay here,” she says finally. “I can’t afford a hotel and don’t feel like trying to see if I’m being tailed while I drive to one. And here, there are the keyholders to watch my back. I’ll crash upstairs with them.” She’s done it before, and even has an air mattress in her office, along with some spare clothes and a go-bag that she’s kept since the blackout of ’03.

  “Uh, weren’t we just warning the keyholders about possible violence yesterday?” asks Jess.

  “Yeah. But if there’s going to be violence, I’m better off with half a dozen people for backup than on my own.” Bronca shrugs. “It’ll be what it’ll be. Go home, ladies. I’m good—really.”

  So they start gathering their things. Bronca goes to sit in her office for a little while, mostly trying to recoup her energy. And when Veneza stands in the doorway for a little while, watching her, then comes over to give her a hug, Bronca needs it more than usual.

  “I’m gonna stay here with you tonight,” Veneza declares. “Us and the keyholders can gather round the glassblowing furnace and sing campfire songs. I think I stuck some marshmallows in the file cabinet at the front desk.”

  “A glassblowing furnace would blast marshmallows to powder in about half a second. Do I want to know why you have marshmallows in the file cabinet?”

  “For my hot chocolate.” Veneza gives her a duh look. “They’re the fancy Whole Paycheck kind, too, square, with Madagascar vanilla. Or Indonesian vanilla. I can’t remember, but they’re fair trade.”

  Bronca laughs again, shaking her head. And for a little while, in the wake of all this, it feels like everything’s going to be okay.

  Bronca’s asleep, dreaming of being other people and in other places, when suddenly her city nudges her. Hey. Trouble.

  She grunts awake and sits up, with an effort. Her left ass cheek is numb because she’s too fat to sleep on an air mattress without her hips actually resting on the industrial concrete floor. She’s gone stiff, too, just because she’s old. Still, she wrestles out from under the weird foil emergency blanket—which was surprisingly warm—that was in her g
o-bag, and struggles to her feet. Because. Trouble.

  They’re on the third floor of the Center, where the workshops are located. Access to this level from the Center is locked during the evenings, but keyholders can get in using the freight elevator, which isn’t moving at the moment. All around Bronca are the sleeping forms of six people—several of the keyholders, draped over beanbags or curled up on couches. One woman is sleeping in the palm of her own sculpture, which is a giant chiseled-marble hand. Veneza is scrunched up on her side in a bright green plush chair, muttering in her sleep.

  Moving quietly so as not to wake them, Bronca prowls through the level, angling around half-finished found-art constructions and shelves of unfired pottery. Nothing up here. Downstairs? she asks the city.

  It answers her with sound, echoing faintly in her ears as if from far away: the slow, furtive scrape of something dry on concrete. A soft male giggle, followed by another voice’s whispered shush. Some kind of liquid glug, splattering on a hard surface. And a sound that any painter would know: the rattle of canvas against wood.

  Bronca doesn’t even think before she hurries to the stairs. On the inside, the stairwell is bright with colorful murals that the various kids’ and teens’ classes have drawn all over the walls: dancing subways, racing street signs, cheerful pizza guys holding out a slice and a soda, smiling laundry ladies. Bronca immediately knows something’s wrong because the murals are damaged; somehow, someone’s gotten into the stairs and partially damaged the artwork in broad strokes. It’s as if they dragged an eraser over the spirals and swirls. Erased paint, leaving raw gray cinder blocks underneath. How…?

  As she stands there, fists clenched, she becomes abruptly aware of a new sound. Sobbing. Babbling. From downstairs? She tilts her head, but can’t tell. She can just make out the words.

  “I’m trying,” babbles the sobber. “Don’t you think I… that? Yes. Yes, I know that.” A woman’s voice, familiar although Bronca can’t place it. It’s one half of a conversation, distorted oddly, wavering in and out of audibility. Someone on the phone? But the voice echoes as if they’re shouting. “Stop it! Haven’t I…” Waver out. Waver in again. “… everything you asked of me? Aah!”