“Yes. Very well resourced, very private, and very dedicated to raising the city from its gritty image to the heights of prosperity and progress.”
Bronca actually pulls the receiver from her ear to glare at it for a moment. “I have never smelled a bigger pile of horseshit. That’s—” She shakes her head. “It’s gentrifier logic. Settler logic. They want the city without the ‘gritty’ people who made it what it is! Raul, what she wants—”
“Isn’t too much to ask. That’s what the board concluded.”
There is a finality to his voice. Bronca’s heart clenches as she understands. This is all going so fast. “Are you saying this is do-or-die, then? Take the money, or…?”
“What do you think, Bronca?”
Her first instinct is to start yelling. She knows that’s the wrong response, the response that isn’t going to help, but she wants to do it anyway. Her grandfather always did complain that she was too prone to bluster and bludgeoning. Her people have survived by hiding in plain sight for generations, passing as Black or Hispanic or whatever worked, but all that time pretending has left its mark. She tries to always remember that the way of the Lenape is cooperation, but it’s a struggle sometimes.
“Listen to me. If we remove Unknown’s works and replace them with stuff from, from… a bunch of profiteering neo-Nazis, you think people aren’t going to notice? Think about what kind of message—”
“Have you looked at the profiteering neo-Nazis’ latest video? Have you checked your fucking email, Bronca?” When Bronca falters and falls silent, startled, Raul sighs into the gap. “Go look. And consider the fact that the board started getting emails on this overnight, too. Then call me with your choice.”
She flounders to speak. “‘Do it or get fired’ isn’t a choice, Raul.”
“It is. You can refuse the money, get fired, and doom the Center’s staff and artists to years of financial uncertainty and fuck-knows-whatever kind of leadership they’ll hire after you. The new director will almost surely be someone who’s more likely to obey the board, which means they won’t be half the advocate for your people that you are. That’s what matters here, Bronca. You can’t do them any good if you’re—”
“You’re making a choice, too! Between racist hacks and somebody who’s spent her life fighting that shit! You’re choosing them!” Yeah, so much for not yelling.
“That isn’t how the board sees it. And yeah, I know that’s how it is.” He rides over her retort. “Jesus Christ, Bronca, you think I don’t get it? I’m Chicano as fuck. My parents were illegal—I get it. But these people are always gonna tell themselves that a little fascism is okay as long as they can still get unlimited drinks with brunch!”
Bronca has fallen silent, though she’s shaking. She’s out of arguments. From the corner of her eye, she can see Yijing lingering nearby, clearly eavesdropping; Jess has come to the door of her office as well, after Bronca’s shout. Veneza is walking up to the Center’s door, since it’s almost time for her shift to begin. Without really thinking about it, Bronca moves her hand to press the speakerphone button. Raul’s long sigh is heard by an audience this time.
“Look,” he says. “I’m just the messenger. You know I fought this, but… Take some time to think about it, Bronca. I know you, and I know you’re right, but I don’t want to lose you. And watch your back. This got ugly fast.” Then he hangs up.
Bronca does, too, and lifts her eyes. Jess has a hand to her mouth, horrified. Yijing sighs and turns her phone around to display some social media thing or another. Bronca can’t see the tiny text. “The Alt Artistes’ video has gone up,” Yijing says. “My mentions have been flooded with ‘kill urself’ crap all morning, and I couldn’t figure out why at first. Different accounts, but all variations on the same thing: Why does @BronxArts hate white men, how can we say we don’t discriminate when we clearly do, isn’t it Affirmative Action if we only showcase artists who aren’t white, blah blah blah. With a lot of ‘chink bitch’ and rape threats on the side.”
“What the hell?” Bronca asks, stunned.
“Me, too,” says Jess. She looks tired already. “They called my home phone last night. Five times—’til my husband took the phone off the hook, but I bet our voice mail is full of specialness and love. Guessing they got my name off the Center’s website and figured out my personal info from it, like Veneza tried to warn.” She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “I’m scared to check my email, to be honest.”
“Yeah, don’t,” Veneza says as she comes into the room. She’s got her laptop bag in one hand, and her eyes are bleary. “One of my exes texted me last night. The Artistes’ video is extra fucked up. He was trying to tell me to leave my apartment, but my name isn’t on the staff page.” She rolls her eyes. “First time I’ve ever been glad you guys are too cheap to pay me benefits.”
Jess goes still. “You think we’re going to get doxxed?”
“You already have been.” The words send a chill through Bronca; Veneza sighs and opens up her laptop, clicking on something. Then she turns it around to show them. There’s a page on some kind of forum. At the top is the forum subject: OPERATION FUCK THESE LEZBICHES WITH BIGG FAT DILDS. Then dozens of posts. Bronca tries to parse it and can’t; the text is too small, and there are too many people “talking.” She’s tried to stay on top of the internet, she really has, but at times like this, she feels like a damned Luddite.
“So, it turns out that there’s a whole campaign about this,” Veneza translates.
Yijing, who’s clearly better at reading this stuff, squints at the screen and then curses. “The fucking dates. Oh my God. They planned this in advance.”
“Pretty much,” says Veneza. Her expression is pained. “All that stuff I told you guys yesterday about how to hide your business online? It was already too late, sorry.” She taps the screen over one of the forum comments, and abruptly Bronca recognizes the words there. It’s her home address and phone number. Beneath it, someone has posted “got her yaaaah” without punctuation.
“Oh, these sons of bitches,” Bronca growls. But inside, she’s shaking. What happens if some of these people show up to burn down her house in the middle of the night? Or if they break in while she’s sleeping? She has a gun—illegally, can’t get a permit because of her arrest record for AIM protests and “vandalism,” which is what they call it when artists put murals on derelict building walls. But is that what it’s come to?
Jess groans. Yijing shakes her head, her eyes moving rapidly back and forth as she scans the screen. “They’re even trying to find your Social and your bank info, but they haven’t gotten it so far. You have to call your bank, the cops, everybody you can.”
Bronca puts a hand over her face for a moment. She can’t think. And what can she do? The city’s power can’t help her with this.
Then Veneza nudges her, and when Bronca lowers her hand, Veneza is watching her, eyes dark with compassion. “Hey,” she says. “Remember. Six square feet of floor space. I gotchu.”