The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl (23 page)

THE APPROACH:
Don’t take it personally. Don’t ever act impressed with the information that a Know-It-All graces you with. Keep your responses/questions/concerns curt and to the point. Don’t give this person any excuse to give you more information, because it
exhausts
her. Your very existence is a burden, so try to minimize your breathing in her presence.

The Lazy M%$#@cka:

Not even worth writing complete sentences about. This co-worker rests on his laurels and lets you do the work. If you have a group
presentation or anything that requires collaboration, you can always count on him to contribute jack. At least he’s consistent.

THE APPROACH:
You’re only going to get out of not working with this person so many times, and if you continue to do all the work in silence, you will explode, which nobody wants. So, you have to address the problem head on. Tell your fucking boss. Snitches get stitches, but if your job has that good insurance, then it may be worthwhile.

One of the worst co-workers I’ve ever had in the history of all the jobs I’ve held was all of the above and then some. Her name was Rex, she was in her mid-fifties, and she resembled a dreadlocked Sammy Davis Jr. in face and shape (though she was probably even more petite than I recall, topped off by a large bobble-head). She smelled like menthol cigarettes (and had the smoky breath and stained yellowish-gray teeth to confirm), laughed loud and obnoxiously (especially when she thought you were wrong), and loved to know what I was doing at every single moment.

Our desks were positioned so that mine faced the wall, which was a blessing because I would much rather have been faced with cold, empty nothingness than to have had a default view of her. But on the other hand, while her desk also faced the wall perpendicular to mine, all she had to do was simply turn her head to her left to see all the business I was conducting on my computer. Which she did. Frequently.

On my first day of work, she cozied up to me, exhibiting her friendly side.

“What sign are you?” she asked in a nasally Jersey accent.

“I’m a Capricorn.”

She squealed, “So am I! We’re both Capricorns.” She witch-laughed, gleefully. She started off nice enough, but listening to the way she talked to my boss was aggravating. She would frequently talk to him as though he were stupid and she didn’t have the time for his inquiries. I would sit at my desk waiting for the day when he’d snap and fire her, leaving her hopelessly jobless, with no references.

The nonprofit theater company for which I worked had only four employees, including our boss. In short, there was no way to avoid or escape my co-worker. Ever. I relished the hour and a half to two hours I had alone in our office before she arrived at work, at her leisure. Though she was supposed to come in at the same time as I did, she had been working with my boss so long that she felt entitled to come in whenever she damn well pleased. When my boss would, on the rare, careful occasion, tell her to come to work on time, she would screech in a shrill outburst, “YOU KNOW I DON’T WAKE UP BEFORE TWELVE!”

She gave Capricorns a horrible name. Not only was she always late, but she was an absolute mess. All the Capricorns I know are impeccably neat, and her workspace frequently looked like a dirty-booted Tasmanian devil had done the Harlem Shake on her desk. She frequently told me news that I had already heard, as she clickety-clicked her keyboard, scrolling through her Yahoo News home page with the afternoon recap of stale morning news, asking me, “Did you hear about . . .” for every story she came across.

She was aggravatingly stubborn—it was her way or the highway, and she would cover her ears and shout at the top of her lungs, throwing the geriatric equivalent of a temper tantrum if you challenged her. She was incredibly two-faced, yet convinced that everyone loved her.

The pinnacle moment of intolerance for me was when I had come back to New York from a holiday break in Los Angeles on a Sunday, and then on the phone that Monday morning listened to the final living breaths of the aunt after which I was named. Devastated, I called work, sobbing to another employee who assured me that I should stay home. I came in to work the next day, to sympathetic condolences from everyone, even from Rex (though she kept asking me questions that would trigger more tears). The day after that, my mother told me they were going to hold two services for my aunt on separate weekends. One would be held in the Bay Area, for the community of friends and artists that had loved her so, and the other in Los Angeles, for our entire family. I told her that I couldn’t afford to go to the Bay Area service. She was saddened, but she understood.

When I went to tell my boss that I’d be attending the funeral in Los Angeles, and would need to take a Friday off, Rex, who stood next to him in his office, asked, “Didn’t you just go?”

It took my all not to roundhouse kick her throat and then body slam her pelvis. Instead, I just glared at her, through slit eyes, incredulous. My actual boss, whom I was addressing in the first place, was more understanding, saying, “Sure, do what you need to do.”

Beyond that, Rex was a dream killer. She was a dramaturge, a title she flaunted at every opportunity with pride, but had stayed in the same office, at that same desk, in that same tattered leather chair for over twenty-five years—and it was easy to see why. Each time I’d present a new, potentially innovative idea to try to keep the theater company current and afloat, I’d be met with, “Oh, that will never work,” or “Pfft! Good luck with that!”

One time, I took the initiative to make an elaborate marketing proposal for the theater. We hadn’t been selling tickets and our
donations for the previous quarter had fallen short. I worked for a couple of weeks on my off time, researching the history of the theater and the target audience, along with possible venues and ad sponsorships. When I presented the finished product, Rex’s exact words to me were, “You just wasted your time.” Then came her sharp, ear-piercing laughter that echoed around the room as she transformed into a bat.

My job would have been a nearly perfect opportunity for growth and learning had a crater opened and consumed her while she happened to be tardily dragging her lazy self to work. She sucked so much life out of me. Still, had it not been for her, I might have stayed way past my expiration date in New York.

The best thing about Rex was that she made me realize that I wasn’t satisfied with my current status in life. I wasn’t necessarily complacent, but I had been too comfortable and too naïve in hoping that things would change.

Sometimes, it’s essential to look at your annoying co-worker and find out what it is that’s truly bothering you about them. Is the lazy co-worker’s apathy a dis to your inner hard worker’s sense of ambition? Is the asshole in customer service helping you to realize the negativity in which you’re shrouded? If a company is only as good as its weakest employee, then what does that say about you and the job you hold?

For me, as long as Rex was a part of our roster, there was nothing more I could contribute. So severing ties and starting over was a necessary decision that was practically made on my behalf. I left my job, confident that whatever came next, I’d be better off.

Recently, I went back to visit my old job for the first time in four years and saw Rex sitting in that same, tattered chair, grinning her toothy smile.

“I read about you on my Yahoo News home page. Good for you.”

I nodded and smiled. “It’s all thanks to you.”

The young co-worker who sat in the chair I used to sit in turned around, taking her headphones out of her ears, and smiled at me. I looked at her computer screen, covered with a tinted glare protector. She would be just fine.

Acknowledgments

I
wrote my first book! None of this could have happened without the amazing help and support of these people I’m about to name. I have a huge fear of forgetting to mention important people along the way, so if you don’t see your name, it just means that I’m a forgetful, remorseful idiot OR that you just didn’t do shit—for the former, I am truly sorry and I will make it up to you.

I have to acknowledge my family first, because they are my absolute everything —and so much of their business is in this book, so they deserve at least that. I’d like to thank my mother, Delyna, and my father, Abdoulaye, for bringing me into the world and encouraging me to give my best and do my best, every step of the way. I love you both so much and hope to make you proud. Amadou, Malick, Lamine, and Elize—the Diop 5—the best siblings a girl could ask for. Thank you for the constant laughs and the constant inspiration and for being my comfort zone. Can’t wait to grow old with you guys and raise socially uncomfortable nieces and nephews. Lamine, especially, thank you for getting this process all started
for me; you lifted a huge burden off my shoulders during a time I was going through too much.

Memée & Papa, the best grandparents. Memée, thank you for encouraging me to write my very first teleplay for CBS’
Cosby
. I wouldn’t have followed through without your encouragement. And Papa, thanks for always being so excited about everything I do and for constantly pushing my siblings and me to collaborate. To my Senegalese clan,
je vous aime, et merci pour tout. A bientot.
To the Camara’s, the Charbonnet’s, the Hayward’s—I love you. To Tantie Rae Beans and Rice, I miss you forever.

Louis, I love you so much. Thank you for bearing with me during the stress and for pushing me during my bouts of insecure laziness. Having you in my corner makes me a happier, better person.

I’d like to thank my team at 3ARTS, the awesome Jonathan Berry, Dave Becky—thank you for helping me to think bigger and do bigger. To my UTA agents Jay Gassner and Tim Phillips—thank you. And to my literary agent Richard Abate—you are an absolute
beast
. I don’t know how you do it all with such a calm demeanor. You make shit happen. Thank you for introducing me to Dawn Davis, the most amazing editor in the WORLD! Dawn, thank you so much for instilling a much-needed sense of security in me during this process. You’ve been such a joy to work with, and I can’t imagine having gone through this with any other editor. Thank you for your patience and for getting me. Beryl, thank you for your help and your kindness and for dealing with my false deadline promises—I promise I meant well. Thank you to the entire Simon & Schuster and Atria team. I appreciate you putting your weight behind this project. ALA was so much fun! To Melody Guy, though our time together was brief, I also appreciate you and your work along the way—thank you so much for making this book a possibility and a reality!

To my IRP team—Benoni, Vanessa, Deniese, Candis, Shandrea, Chanda, and my awesome team of interns—thank you for making my professional life such a blast. Each of you guys are amazing and the most ambitious, most thorough people I know. I’m so thankful to have you on my team. Thank your for dealing with all my complaining. You guys are the best.

To my loving family of friends, my vent buddies, my happy places, my motivators, my loves. My Bengali Bestie, Suzanne. My ride-or-die Doublemint Twins—Devin, Daisy, and Jerome. My K/D fam: Mo, Chris, Ashley, Friyana, Damon. To my Stanford Sisters and Girlfriends—Megan and Akilah, Desiree, Adia, Kisha, Kiyana, Maisha. My StanBro’s—BJ and Devon. My Bitchiopians: Andunett and Abenet. My Homie Cuz, Theo, and my girl/participant in every endeavor I take on, Leslie.

To my ABG crew—Andrew, Suj, Tristen, Lyman, Leah, Hanna, Tracy, Madison, Michael, Shea, Isaac, Duran, Marissa, Isaac, Eric, Ecuadorian Jorge, Puerto Rican Jorge, Travis—thank you all for being so down for the cause and for making ABG what it is. To Pharrell, Mimi, Caron, and Robin—thank you for taking Awkward Black Girl to the next level and for being such a positive, welcoming team.

To the amazing teachers and mentors I’ve had over the years, who have encouraged me and instilled confidence in my writing and pushed my creativity: Mr. Freedman, Ms. Thigpen, Ms. Fletcher, Ms. Golden, Ms. Guy, Ms. Ellis, Mr. Segal, Professor Harry Elam, Professor Michele Elam, Jan Barker Alexander, Carolus Brown, Professor Diggs.

To Shonda Rhimes, Betsy Beers, Rachel Eggebeen, Allison Eakle—thanks for being the best creative team I’ve ever worked with. Thank you for taking a chance and for your patience, and for
putting me on the radar of many. You guys are killing the game and SO inspirational.

To Larry Wilmore, you are a dream. I will miss you. But you’ll never get rid of me. Thank you for being so positive and so funny and so awesome and so humble and such a damn boss.

To Seth Brundle the stylist, Kamaren Williams the make-up artist, and Felicia Leatherwood the natural hair guru—thank you for making me look glamorous on my very first book cover!

Thank you to all my supporters, Twitter friends, Facebook friends, Instagram friends, anybody who has ever written an encouraging word, shared my work, or donated money or time to helping me make things happen. I really truly appreciate you and none of this could have happened without you.

About the Author