Chapter 21
Miriam
My father is a menace who must be stopped. For the second week in a row, he sent me on a scavenger hunt he calls a job opportunity. This one was with a nearby university and required heels and grace. The first I hate. The second I lack.
The interview could’ve been an email, one that started with me responding, “Thanks, but no thanks.” It was for a teaching position I know wouldn’t fulfill me.
I don’t want to spend my days educating twenty-something-year-old college students, and the thought of wearing “professional clothes” for the rest of my life gives me hives.
It’s not that I’m trying to be difficult. I want a job. The problem is, once you reach my age, whatever choice you make sticks. There’s no trial period to see how a role might align with your goals, no understanding should you want to make a life change and release what doesn’t fulfill you.
Creeping closer to forty means permanent. Settled.
I want that for my career, which is why I’m not hopping to take the first position thrown at me.
I’m not operating out of arrogance. It’s just that chasing after degrees never gave me the chance to breathe.
To figure out my why beyond research and diplomas.
I don’t have an answer, but I know what makes my spirit sing, and the position my father thought was perfect isn’t it.
Across from Marcela’s district office, I ease into a parking spot not covered in two feet of snow.
She’s on the ground floor of a corner mixed-use building on one of the busier streets on the East Side.
“Meet people where they’re at” isn’t just a slogan for her; it’s part of the values she lives out loud for the people of the Jefferson District.
“Hey, Trevor.” I stomp my heels on the weatherproof mat at the front door. A gust of cold air creeps in, slicing through my peacoat.
“I almost sent a rescue team to help you across the street.” Hazel-green eyes lift over a computer monitor and zero in on the patent leather shoes choking my toes.
“You saw that?”
Curly hair bobs above his brows. “The whole hood saw you. Always wear boots outside. You know the city don’t salt for shit. Allow me.”
He stands from his desk, which doubles as reception, and offers me a cardigan-covered forearm I happily take.
Trevor joined my sister’s team a year ago, quickly working his way up to become director of community affairs.
The twenty-five-year-old is the go-to for constituents and Marcela’s guard dog.
His Anthony Ramos features and penchant for sweaters and dress pants are deceiving.
He’ll knock anyone who tries to run down on Marcela into next week and not think twice about it.
“Is my sister free?”
“She’s still in her one o’clock,” he says. “Can I get you anything?”
I collapse into a chair against the window. “Water, if it’s not too much trouble, please.” The breath I release is heavy. I’m sore and overstimulated.
“I mean no disrespect when I say this.” He nods to my feet. “You might want to rethink heels. They’ve been crying in syllables, the way you were dragging them across the street like unwanted kids.”
“Go get my water and leave me be.” I shoo him away.
Trevor is an unofficial addition to our family. I don’t go out of my way to speak to him, but we’ve talked enough to develop a rapport that’s similar to brother and sister. He doesn’t judge my quirks, and I keep his obvious crush on Marcela to myself.
My sister’s door opens to laughter in mixed altos and shades of melanin. Trevor takes one look at her mouth stretched into a glossy smile and the long column of her neck and freezes in place.
I clear my throat before kicking his black loafers to reactivate his common sense. He hands me a water and goes back to his desk, blinking away the hearts in his puppy dog eyes.
“Miriam! So nice to see you.” I stand to receive Ms. Amber’s hug. It’s warm and scented in crayons. “I was just telling your sister how much the kids still rave about your station.”
“That’s very sweet. It was nice to work in a group setting again,” I admit to her eager gaze and chocolate brown cheeks. “I enjoyed their enthusiasm.”
“You recently graduated?” A woman steps around my sister and extends a hand. “Aanya.”
“Miriam. Nice to meet you.”
Unlike me and Ms. Amber, who hover around five four, Aanya is my sister’s height. She’s fairer skinned, with thick, arched brows to match her long flowing hair. Her round eyes stare into my soul.
Crap, do I have food in my teeth?
“You studied mechanical engineering, yes?” The question comes through a faint accent.
I nod.
“And your specialty?”
My eyes shift to Marcela, who’s wearing the same stony expression. “Mechanics and materials?”
I don’t mean for my response to come out like a question. My nerves are trickling down my anus. “I researched and tested structures and materials under extreme conditions. Fracture mechanics and some design optimization. That whole thing.”
Why is everyone looking at me?
I’m ready to test my luck with not falling on the sidewalk when Aanya’s features soften.
“Amazing,” she says with a smile. “I run an organization that’s focused on creating an equitable food system on Buffalo’s East Side, to combat the legacy of food apartheid.
The three of us are part of a coalition comprised of groups and people with generational ties to the neighborhoods we love and want to see thrive. ”
“The city has extracted and withheld resources from East Side communities for decades,” Marcela chimes in, frustration evident in her tone.
“They segregated neighborhoods that now rely on box chains for basic needs. The lack of access to healthy foods, like produce and fresh meats, is one piece of a bigger issue that forces us to reimagine our food systems.”
“What’s happened isn’t a ‘food desert’—that implies a natural occurrence,” Aanya adds. “This is an intentional effort, through zoning laws, lending practices, and other shit policies, to drive racial segregation.”
“Aanya is one of a handful of trusted advisors from the East Side who are informing me on solutions to push in City Hall,” my sister says.
“Food is a priority in my office because of the ripple effect on families. We want to cultivate a food infrastructure that’s rooted in and run by East Side residents. ”
Ms. Amber’s grin stretches. “We created a position at the community center to educate kids about STEM and work with organizations like Aanya’s on urban farming initiatives.
It’s part-time for now, while we secure more funding, but it comes with benefits.
You’d have the creative freedom to mold the role how you see fit. ”
“We could use someone with your background. Think it over,” Aanya says, her light blue suit catching in the light that reflects off the snow.
“I’ll work with Ms. Amber on a job description and salary.
We have some funds in my organization to hire you as a consultant. It was great to finally meet you.”
Ms. Amber squeezes me into another hug wrapped in White Diamonds perfume and a hint of school supplies. The tips of her curly pixie cut tickle my chin. “It would be wonderful to work with you. I know you have a lot of options. Please consider us.”
The pair leaves into the tundra.
Marcela bumps my shoulder. “Look at you making connections. How was the job interview?”
“Not a good fit,” I sigh. “Maybe I was supposed to swing by your office.”
“Maybe you were.”
I know absolutely nothing about food equity, but creating solutions to help families put food on their tables would be fulfilling.
“We get to work together!” Marcela squeezes me to her chest and proceeds to smother me with her cleavage while jumping up and down.
“Please keep your titties away from my mouth,” I mumble and push her away. Mine are big, but hers are flotation devices. “I haven’t agreed to anything, and I don’t know how I feel about being responsible for kids.”
Keeping the plants Antonio bought me alive is one thing. Kids are a different story. At least no heels or suits are required.
“We should celebrate.”
“I haven’t said yes!”
Marcela’s smirk activates a smile. “You will.”