I had to say something. I stood up and forced a laugh. It sounded more like a strained cough but succeeded in capturing everyone’s attention. From my new vantage point, I realized Thomas and I were the only people of colour in the entire room.
“Thomas was just joking. Our show aims to be different, not to retread tired storylines about diverse communities. I’m sure we don’t need the same old narratives about South Asians and other groups...” My voice trailed off as Marisa furiously madecut itmotions with her hand. I took a deep breath and ignored her. “I have a few other story pitches that would interest a wide range of people instead of a single target demographic,” I said, and outlined my ideas.
“We already have people doing those stories,” Davis said. “What wedon’t have is an insider’s view on why immigrant communities have resisted adopting mainstream Canadian values. It would also be great to have the occasional Bollywood movie review. And I’m sure everyone wants to know where to find the best ethnic food.”
The men and women around the table chuckled at that, and even Marisa smiled weakly. Davis’s words had thawed Thomas, who began to nod vigorously.
“Why don’t you put together two episodes and let’s see what happens. Marisa can send me your formal proposals,” Davis said, and turned away from us. We had been dismissed.
“You will love what Thomas and Hana come up with,” Marisa said. “Not to mention the uptick in ad revenue. It’s win-win, Nate.”
StanleyP’s advice floated back to me, and for one crazy moment I wondered if Thomas was my anonymous radio friend. His behaviour had closely mirrored StanleyP’s words:Get to know your enemy. Hit them where it hurts. Make them bleed.Thomas knew what I most wanted to avoid in any radio show we did about race and culture, and he had gone straight for the kill.
At least now I knew StanleyP’s advice really worked.
I HEADED OUT TO THEThinking Wall, except someone had beaten me there.
“It’s Hana, right?” Big J said. “I thought I was the only one who knew about this spot.”
“There are no secrets,” I said. “There is no loyalty.”
Big J laughed, eyes closed and head tilted back against the sun-warmed brick. “Welcome to the cutthroat world of radio broadcasting. It’sGame of Throneswith microphones in there.” When I didn’trespond, he continued, “Marisa told me you and your friend were planning to pitch a show to Nathan.”
“He’s not my friend.”
An unreadable expression crossed his face. “I see.”
“Friends don’t use their friend’s identity to sell out.”
Big J was standing a respectful three feet away, but I spotted the amused sympathy on his face.
“Are you Muslim?” I asked suddenly.
He smiled, and I realized he was kind of cute. He was sporting a Blue Jays baseball cap pulled low over his wide face. His blue eyes were fringed with lashes so dark his eyes looked as if they had been lined with kohl.
“My parents are from Yemen, but we’re Jewish. My full name is Jonathan Sharabi.”
I smiled at him. He was one of my people after all.
“When I first started in radio, I worked at this small college station in Manitoba. My producer was named Luanne. She was great, really open-minded and interested in including all sorts of voices at the station. She wanted me to talk about what it was like to be Arab and Jewish, as if it were strange to be both.” His voice was magnetic, warm and captivating. “I did it, because I was new and I wanted to make her happy. I interviewed my parents and some other people at synagogue. It was okay.”
“But,” I prompted.
He shrugged one shoulder. “After the story ran, they asked me to do another one just like it. I think it was about kosher food or something. I said no. Life’s too short, you know?”
I wiped my eyes and stared at the sky. Big J leaned against the wall and closed his eyes again. After a moment, I did the same thing.
I liked that Big J hadn’t asked what was wrong or why I was crying. He didn’t try to cajole me to look at the bright side of things or to be grateful for any opportunity received. He just got it.
“Tell me what you really want to talk about on a show,” he said quietly.
I launched into my pitch about schools, small business, and census data, but he put out his hand. “I’m talking about the story in your heart. The one that got you into this business. The one bursting to get out. After I left my first job in radio, that story kept me going.”
I paused, uncertain. How had he known my other ideas were attempts to make the race and culture show into something meaningful to me? I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t know, but instead I blurted out, “I want to talk about family. Not my family. Just... family. The way different families work, the dynamics behind relationships, the way that family can both help and screw you up. I want to talk about secret family histories, the stories we keep hidden from the people closest to us, even though they hold the key to everything.”
It was true, I realized. That was what I wanted to talk about, research, obsess over, and find the perfect stories to narrate. Family is everything, and we are all defined by our secrets.
I opened my eyes. Big J looked at me, inscrutable. “Who’s stopping you?” he asked.
