Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
IMANI
“Imani, this is the big time. I need you to do whatever you need to fucking do to make sure this interview goes well. The entirety of America is going to see this broadcast. It’s critical.
Do you hear me? No scowling, no scoffing, no sassiness.
I want to see a polished professional who smiles at the camera and makes Americans root for her.
Got it?” Coach demands, his hands on my shoulders as he leans down to glare at me.
I grumble and nod.
“You can start right now. Give me a smile and an enthusiastic nod,” he coaches.
I stuff my complaints down into my stomach and let a fake smile overtake my face. It feels derived, plastic, uncanny. I can’t see myself, but I’m sure I look unhinged. I feel unnatural, and I’m positive my face betrays me.
Coach grimaces at me. “Well, it’s a start. Go ahead. Camera is rolling.”
I adjust the microphone at the lapel of my blazer and resolutely walk toward the two chairs that overlook an ice rink, one already filled with a white man dressed in monochromatic business casual.
The interviewer greets me with a pasted-on smile I can tell is as contrived as my own, and reaches out for a handshake. “Imani Gray, Team USA’s best chance at figure-skating gold, thank you for joining us for a chat today.”
My smile wobbles. Fuck my life; I hate this.
Why can’t I just skate my heart out instead of engaging in this dog-and-pony show?
I reach out to shake his hand. “Thanks… it’s…
great to be here?” Oh, marvelous. Now instead of being frosty, I’m serving America a wimp?
I turn to look back at Coach, who already looks furious, as he motions for me to turn back to the interviewer whose name escapes me.
He laughs uncertainly. “We’re used to you being a little more confident. Is the great Imani Gray a little rattled at her very first Olympics?” Is it just me, or is his last sentence not only mocking but patronizing?
I sit a little taller and wipe the hesitant smile off my lips. “Absolutely not. I came to win, and I’ll be walking away with a medal around my neck no matter what. The only question is as to what color it will be.” I say with certainty.
“Ah, there’s the Imani Gray we know and… that we know. Tell us, how do you plan to react when you face Katya? What’s your strategy?” He presses, leaning toward me.
“It’s undeniable that Katya is a fierce competitor—” I cut myself off. Do I win America over by being vulnerable? Do I let them know how much I respect her? How much of myself do I display during these interviews? I never know how much is too much.
“Go on,” the man coaxes, but it sounds too hungry to my ears.
I look at this dude, who is leaning too heavily into my space, whose spittle I can see at the corners of his lips, whose sweat I can see beading at his hairline and above his upper lip, and I’m suddenly so repulsed.
I know I’m hard to deal with, but couldn’t they send someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m getting eaten alive?
“Katya is a fierce competitor, but I am going to do my best to overtake her sheer skill by bringing the artistic flair that the world expects from me,” I finish my sentence with the approved messaging Coach has drilled into my brain.
Yes, I’m trying to nail that triple axel to put me on Katya’s level, but the artistry is where I might pull ahead.
“That’s right.” His eyes gleam like he’s a predator who has found roadkill. “You are known for skating with unmatched passion. Tell me, where do you find your inspiration?”
The question itself is not that unexpected.
I get a variation of this all the time, but the way people have been asking me lately is…
untoward. I need to put him off this line of questioning.
Unfortunately, my mouth runs off before I can be diplomatic.
“Excuse me,” I respond, but the way I phrase it is more of a statement than a question.
“All that passion has to come from somewhere,” he prods me, practically salivating for the answer he wants me to give, some girly, gushing romantic comedy plot where I’ve met my muse.
“It does: from a lifetime of working my way to the top. I simply have a dedication to the ice. I’ve repeated this ad nauseam to reporters over the years,” I bite out, clenching my fists on the edges of the chair.
“Now, now, Imani. No need to get upset. We’re just two pals having a conversation.” He grins broadly, the too-white of his teeth sparkling at the camera.
“I must have missed the sleepovers where we became close,” I snarl at him, placing the camera’s blinking record light to the back of my mind as he continues to inflict microaggression after microaggression on me.
He ignores my comment, continuing to press me. “I want to get to know the off-ice Imani. Who is it that inspires you so greatly?”
“I don’t think you’ll like the answer that question garners. The most important person in my life is my mother,” I respond harshly, my short manicure digging into my palm at this point.
“Sure, sure. But surely for a beautiful young thing like you, there’s a man in your life? That’s a lot of ardor you’re displaying on the ice to be limited to spending it only on skating,” he leers.
“How dare you! I am a professional athlete, and I will be treated as such!” I stand from the chair so quickly that it falls to the floor in a deafening crash.
“Now, now, Imani—” the interviewer begins.
But I cut him off. “It’s Miss Fucking Gray to you, you abhorrent creature!
We are not familiar. I should never have consented to do this interview.
It’s the same song and dance every single time.
My personal life is off-fucking-limits. If I were with some person, it wouldn’t be anyone’s business but my own!
” I unwind the mic pack from my body and throw it onto the floor with rage.
“Such a shame that such a talented performer is such an angry woman,” the man is saying into the camera behind me as I walk off.
“This is Donald DeMarco, signing off from the figure-skating practice facility and leaving you with a burning question: Is Imani Gray queer? Her use of “some person” in relation to her dating life is very telling.”
I’m sure the boom mic picks up my scream as I try to charge DeMarco, but I feel arms band around me as I jump for him.
“If you don’t calm down this fucking instant, I’m going to quit and leave you with no coach on the eve of your Olympic debut,” Coach growls in my ear.
I nod, deflating, while I push his arms off of me and turn to face him. “Before you say anything, that interviewer goaded me.”
“Imani, how many times do we have to go over this?” He runs a hand through his hair, the blond strands markedly bright against the angry red face he’s sporting.
“His questions were offensive!” I protest, my voice still raised after the encounter with that douchebag DeMarco.
“You’re treated just like any other female athlete, Imani!” He reminds me, placing both hands on my shoulders to shake my whole body.
“That doesn’t make it right. That reporter is worse than anyone I’ve been with so far. You can mark Donald DeMarco off the interview list. I refuse to sit through another session with him. I won’t do it. He’s a piece of shit racist, and a sexist pig.” I wiggle out of his hold and cross my arms.
“Well, Imani, you’ve scared off the nicer interviewers. No one wants to work with you anymore,” he explains gruffly.
“I’ll be nicer! I’ll behave! Just don’t put me through that again. He’s upsetting me on purpose!” I beg of him.
“You’re being dramatic, Imani. If you could just be more likable, you wouldn’t have these problems, you know! The other competitors don’t seem to make scenes in the middle of their screen time,” Coach yells back.
“Excuse me? You think I was the one who made that a scene?” I gasp with affront. “Did you not watch that interview? Were you just standing over here filing your nails?”
“I was here for the whole thing, Imani. You are the one who blew that out of proportion,” he tells me.
“You’ve gotta be shitting on my dick. Do you have fucking ears, Coach?” My face is so hot at this point that I think my brain might well be boiling.
“Imani, I swear to Christ, if you don’t clean up your interview act, I will quit. I refuse to be a part of a team that doesn’t have its shit together off the ice. Do you hear me? I. Will. Quit,” he threatens me, crossing his own arms.
We stand there staring at each other while the camera crew cleans up around us, giving the two angry people in the room a wide berth. Both of our eyes narrow further and further until we barely have them open in slits.
Finally, he turns away from me and begins to walk away, throwing his hands up in the air.
“Wait!” I yell after he makes it a couple of paces from me.
He halts in his tracks but doesn’t turn.
“Coach, don’t quit on me,” I beg him.
“Are you going to clean up your act when the camera is on you?” He huffs, turning around to face me and raising a pale eyebrow.
I crack my neck, smooth my skirt down, and stare him dead in the eye. “Yes, I’ll work on it. But you’re going to support me, and I’m never going to interview with that fuckstick ever again,” I demand in return.
“Imani, you cannot go around calling people fucksticks. That is part of the deal of you becoming a polished figure-skater,” he points out.
“I wouldn’t have to call people fucksticks if they weren’t, in fact, fucksticks,” I parry.
“Get some goddamn media training, or this is over, Imani. You think you’re mistreated now? You’ll get blacklisted,” he explains, snapping his fingers. “Poof, a career gone up in flames before it can even begin.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll learn to play their reindeer games better,” I mutter, still loud enough for him to hear my answer.
“Great. Now get the fuck out of my face and start learning how to be a lady.” He shoos me away with a hand.
I screw up my face, then turn away and practically run back to my room. I hope Blake is too busy with… whatever their schedule is to come in any time soon. I need an angry cry, and I need it stat.
When I enter the quiet of my empty shared room, I fling myself down on my bed, bringing the sad excuse for a pillow to my face and screaming into it, letting my mascara run into its white fabric.
I wish Mummy were here to help. I could always call her, but there’s a chance she hasn’t seen the interview.
I don’t want to draw her attention to it in the lucky case she misses it.
I know I’m unpalatable. I don’t want to be anyone except myself.
I don’t want to throw away who I am to appease the American public.
And I sure as fuck am not going to sacrifice myself on the altar of patriarchal white supremacy to get myself there.
I just have to figure out a way to play the game while also keeping my values.
I have to figure out how to show the best of myself while also standing up for myself.
But how the fuck do I do that?
And who the hell is going to help me?