Back Yourself
BACK YOURSELF
Now
“We need to stage a walkout,” Shirin says. Around her are a group of Shirin and Mariam’s trusted colleagues—the ones who take part in the monthly diversity and inclusion open forums because they care, not for pretense. Before her now is Mariam, Kate (a white editorial director in the children’s division), Derek (an editor in the audiobook team, who has just complained that everyone gets him mixed up with Femi, a Black man who hasn’t worked in the company for three years now), Naomi (a publicity manager), and Ross (a Scottish designer who often wears tweed). They are looking at her like she is speaking another language.
Shirin stands, walks around the meeting room table to the front, where the whiteboard projector screen is, though there is nothing being displayed. She feels like a character from an adventure movie trying to rally her troops for battle. But the reality is they’re a group of ethnic minorities, gay people, and/or allies who are tired of publishers promoting racist fascists.
“We have to do something. Some of us might have to work on this book,” Shirin continues.
Kate is wearing deep pink lipstick that is well applied and rubs her lips together nervously. “I’m here to support and be led by you all,” she says. Kate is the type to go on about her white privilege often, which is a little annoying, but she is well-meaning.
“It’s bullshit, to be honest,” Naomi says. “I was told I’m doing his PR. I have to pitch his shite book to the press, when he once spent fifteen minutes taking the piss out of Indian people. I’m fucking Indian, for fuck’s sake.” In her anger her Birmingham accent becomes more pronounced.
“Shirin is right, we need to do something—a walkout in protest to show we’re mad and won’t take it,” Mariam says. Shirin remembers Mariam saying that ever since she was little she has been going to Free Palestine protests with her family, and though Shirin has never been to a protest before, because the thought usually makes her nervous, it is all she wants to do now. To shout for change.
“Listen, I want to, you know I do, but I have rent to pay,” Derek says. “I’m tired too, but let’s not be too hasty. We need these jobs—what if they fire us?”
Shirin and Mariam look at each other. Mariam gives Shirin a look as though to say, Don’t tell them yet, and Shirin nods, like Fine.
After they found out Hoffman would be publishing Rob Grayson’s book, Mariam and Shirin had convened in the stationery cupboard. Mariam stood there, a concerned look on her face. “Something isn’t right. Are you okay?”
Shirin explained everything. Things she’d never told anyone about Rob. It was an exorcism. To speak out about the trauma, to let herself cry as she said the words and removed the toxicity from her body. She told Mariam about Rob, Jordan, Tom, and Kian. Mariam knew Shirin had been seeing Kian, but didn’t know the extent of their past.
It wasn’t just school that she talked about, though. Once she began speaking, she found it hard to stop. Mariam didn’t interrupt, didn’t really move at all, except to rub Shirin’s back. Shirin told her how nothing in her life is how she envisaged it being, that even her friends don’t have her back, don’t get her. When she mentioned her argument with Phoebe, and how she’d seen Tom again on New Year’s Eve, she expected a visceral reaction from Mariam—one that she feared. She imagined Mariam would call Phoebe trash, as Hana had done, and be done with it, but instead she let Shirin finish. Shirin realized it was so rare to be heard. There’s one good thing that has come from Hoffman at least: she’s got to know Mariam.
When she finished, she leaned against the shelves. It was uncomfortable, with different sharply shaped objects jabbing into her back. She stayed in that position, relishing the slight pain, pushing further into it. Mariam laid both her hands on Shirin’s shoulders. “Mate, why have you been keeping all this in?”
“I thought I could hold it together. But it’s too hard. Like, they gave Florence the promotion because she had another offer, not because she performed better. Then my grandma—if it wasn’t for Lilian, I could have seen her one last time, you know?” She felt the tears coming and breathed in deeply, but they fell anyway. “I don’t see anything here for me anymore. They publish racists. A racist who abused me. I can see that now—that it was abuse. It wasn’t normal and it still affects me now. I just think I didn’t want to admit for a while what it was.”
Mariam took Shirin’s hand in hers. “I truly am sorry, Shirin. If you like, I can teach you how to pray for your grandmother—for everything. It’s too much for you to shoulder. Maybe if you leave it to Allah, you’ll feel more at peace?”
Shirin squeezed Mariam’s hand, found it hard to speak, but managed to say, “I’d like that, thank you.” Because she would. She has felt so faithless for the past year, so outside the religion that she knows. She wants to connect with God but isn’t sure how to.
“And you’ve got me, you know,” Mariam said. “I am always here for you to talk to. You don’t have to keep it in anymore.” Then she told Shirin, “I’ve been interviewing for new jobs.”
Shirin’s back began to hurt so she stood straight, both because of this and because of what Mariam had said. “Seriously?”
Mariam nodded. “Have you heard of Green Tree Press? They’re a new publisher founded by a Palestinian woman.” Shirin had seen articles about them online—and a billboard for one of their books in Hackney Wick. “I just did the last interview for a marketing manager position. I didn’t want to tell anyone in case I didn’t get it, but I have a good feeling. I know publishing is shit everywhere, but this feels different—I’ve never even had a manager who’s a person of color, let alone a Palestinian like me.”
“Wow,” Shirin said. “I really hope you get it. But also, don’t leave me here alone, please.”
“I love you, Shirin, but from what you’ve told me, you need to take control. You can leave Hoffman too. We’re not trees; if we don’t like something we can, and should, move.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s an Instagram caption.”
Mariam smiled. “I mean, it is, but I’m serious. It’s true, and you know it. Publishing has its problems, but I think anywhere else would be better than here. They make you think they’re ethical and they brainwash you, but really, Hoffman is the worst publisher of them all. Like, I know HR is never on our side, but especially here, they’re as bad as our managers.”
It’s true, the HR representative at Hoffman Books is sketchy. She once told Shirin in the kitchen that she was going on a Tinder date and, to be polite, Shirin asked for more details, to which she showed Shirin a picture of the aforementioned date and said she only dated Black men. She is white. Shirin was speechless for a moment and eventually replied with, “Oh, okay.” She reminded Mariam of this now, to which Mariam made a sound between a cackle and a groan.
“It’s all smelly,” Mariam said. “I’m getting out of here. For your sanity, you need to as well. And I’m going to help you.”
Later that day, just before 5:30 P.M. , Shirin got a Teams message from Mariam saying:
I got the job! Now it’s your turn x
So Mariam has less to lose than the rest of them. She has already handed in her notice.
“What we need to do,” Ross says tentatively, “is get a lot of people in on it, if we don’t want to risk our jobs.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Shirin says. “If we all get, like, five people to join us, that’s enough, right?”
“We can definitely get more than that,” Naomi says, leaning back.
“Yeah, easy,” Mariam says, stretching her clasped hands out, like she is preparing for a fight.
“Okay, I’m in,” Kate says. “If we can’t fight fascists in our own workplace, where can we?”
Everyone looks at Derek, whose nostrils are flared in stress. “Okay, let’s do it,” he finally spits out.
There is momentary jubilation before silence comes. “So what do we actually have to do?” Shirin asks.
“I think I know,” Derek says, surprising everyone with his newfound enthusiasm. Then their heads are bent low as they explore exactly how they will successfully orchestrate a company-wide walkout.
In the evening Shirin messages Kian:
My company are publishing Rob’s new book.
He FaceTimes her immediately. She is walking from the bus stop to her flat and raises the camera to her face, checking herself out in the camera image, smoothing her hair down, before accepting. In the call, she can see the various ex-council housing in Bow behind her as she makes her way to her own building.
Kian’s face takes up most of the shot, though it looks like he’s at a coffee shop. There is a low hum of chatter and what she imagines is a coffee machine steamer whirling. Though she might be imagining that detail.
“Shirin,” he says, his face lighting up. This is the first time they’ve spoken in weeks and, despite all that has happened, her heart still swells when she sees his face. He leans the phone against something so that he can sit back in his chair. “How are you doing?” he asks with a pinched expression.
“I’m angry, but to be honest it’s the clearest I’ve seen things in a long time.” She turns the corner and there is a group of kids at the bus stop taking up the pavement, so she skips into the road to go past them.
He shakes his head. “It’s so fucked-up that they bought his book in secret, after everything that came out.”
“We’re staging a walkout,” she blurts.
His head moves closer to the screen. “Really?” He breaks into a smile.
She nods manically. “We’re doing it in two days. Rob is going to come into the office to talk with the CEO at an event, and we’re secretly spreading the word to people we trust that when they begin to talk, we’ll all get up and leave. Mariam is making placards and talking to journalists about it. I’ve been speaking to people I know at other publishers to see if we can get their support. It’s all mad, but it’s nice to actually do something about all the shit that’s happening rather than let it defeat me, you know?”
She is approaching her flat now and struggles to balance holding her phone while rummaging inside her bag for her keys. She puts the phone in her pocket. As usual there is a struggle to open the door and when she manages to open it, she bounds up the stairs into her room and firmly shuts the door. Her breath is caught from the short run and she pulls out her phone. “I’m back.” In the phone she can see herself, her nose pink, her eyes excited.
“I’m so proud of you,” Kian says. He bites the inside of his cheek like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.
“You know, I blocked out a lot from school—about how much I hated it, how I put up with things happening to me and didn’t stand up for myself. Then when I went to uni I pushed it all away and pretended it didn’t happen. But it’s only really in adulthood and trying to become an editor in an industry that doesn’t really want me that it’s all come to the surface. I don’t really know what I would have done if I hadn’t seen you again, because I barely recognized myself until you reminded me who I used to be. More than that, really, you let me be myself—then and now. I really am thankful for you, and that we met again. I owe you a lot.”
“Shirin, you’re literally the reason I decided to take my art seriously. You always encouraged me and made me realize that if something is important to me it’s worth pursuing. Even now when I doubt myself. It’s like you encourage me to be the version of myself I want to be. So, I guess we owe each other a lot,” Kian says, his voice both soft and firm. “Then and now.”
She closes her eyes to resist leaning into what he’s just said, because she needs to speak the words that have burned a hole in her the past ten years. “I blamed myself a lot for what happened to us, like if I was different or had said something to someone about it sooner then none of it would have happened.”
“Shirin, what the fuck? No. You didn’t do anything to deserve any of that.”
Her stomach is uneasy. This is the closest they’ve got to talking about what actually happened, and she is holding her breath. “I’m just sorry. I always wanted to say that, and I’ve avoided it for so long, but I am.” Her voice threatens to break but she manages to keep it steady, to say the words with the weight they deserve.
“Sorry about what?” he asks.
“So much. I’m sorry about the things I said to you. At the time I was so fixated on the idea that us being suspended could ruin my chances of leaving Hull that I panicked. I wasn’t kind to you—especially knowing now that you blamed yourself for your brother going to prison. I’m sorry I got you involved with Rob and the others in the first place. I’m sorry you were suspended—”
“How was that your fault?” Kian interrupts. He is holding the phone closer to his face now and he looks mad. She opens her mouth to speak, but he continues anyway. “It’s not your fault, Shirin. Don’t apologize.”
“I always thought you hated me. You didn’t reply to my text, and I figured you’d get in contact if you wanted to and you never did.” Her voice is small now, and in many ways she feels fifteen again, heartbroken that she has lost her best friend and the only person back then that she felt her truest self with.
He lets out a breath, his face panic-stricken. “I remember feeling like I had become Mehdi, and that you thought I was some angry kid who got you suspended. And our parents didn’t want us to see each other anymore. I guess I thought it would be easier for you if I left you alone—that it would be better for you, in the long run. You were the most important person in my life, Shirin, and I felt like I failed you.”
Those last words were like a sucker punch. She was speechless for a moment.
“Kian, you could never fail me. Hanging out with you back then kept me sane. I’ve realized all my friends at school weren’t true friends to me, but you were. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t had you back then.”
He smiles, lets out a relieved laugh, and says, “Likewise. Even after all these years, sometimes I’ll think about the times we would hang out, and I’m just so thankful we met when we did. I was so sad about my brother, and I think I pretended I wasn’t a lot of the time. You were the only person I could be myself around back then. When we stopped talking I felt a bit like a martyr—like me not fighting for you, not getting in touch with you, was for the greater good. But really, Shirin, it was one of my biggest mistakes.”
They don’t say anything to each other for a moment, letting his words sink into the transatlantic space between them.
“Do you think it’s fate that brought us back into each other’s lives at the precise moment everything with Rob has come up?” Shirin asks.
Kian barks out a laugh. “That is the most un-you thing you’ve ever said.”
“I know. I’m not sure why I said it,” she lies. She can’t help but think though that without Kian she’s not sure how she would have handled everything. Even so far away, she feels his support, his unwavering belief that she can do this.
There is such a lightness within her, now they’ve said everything, now that there is nothing hanging between them. She can see it, too, in Kian, in the way his jaw has softened.
“You do,” he corrects softly, because he knows her so well, and she needs to stop pretending that isn’t the case. “I think you’re right. Fate did bring us back into each other’s lives.”