It’s so ridiculous. And Bronca loves her so much.
So she takes a deep breath and tries to rally. “Right,” she says. “Okay. Calling the bank.”
“We need to get online,” Yijing says, scowling. “Do some counter-campaigning. You handle your business, Bronca—but while you do, we’ve got to start fighting back.”
It becomes a whole big thing, Bronca realizes, through the endless day that follows. She’s still dazed by the looming threat of employment termination, but that’s only one gun in what turns out to be a fucking broadside. The Artistes’ video—which Bronca watches, despite Veneza warning her that it would only “heat up your brain”—is almost a masterwork of insinuation. At no point do they come right out and say that Bronca rejected them because they’re white men; that’s unprovable, and actionable. They say everything else, though. That Bronca is an out lesbian and Indigenous-rights activist with an Ivy League PhD (“I thought Indians were supposed to be poor,” sneers Fifteen, who’s included in the video as a guest expert on something). That Yijing’s own work has appeared in the gallery (“They’re just promoting themselves and their friends!” someone has typed into the video’s comments). That Jess is Jewish, which seems horrifying to them all in itself (“And now we know who’s really behind this,” Strawberry Manbun says, leaning forward to glare into his video cam).
The messaging is all there, carefully divorced from specific conclusions or calls to action. And judging by the comments, their audience is eating the whole thing up like IHOP. The Artistes are clearly the victims of a conspiracy by uppity women “of color” and questionable sexuality to promote their own indisputably inferior art over the work of skilled, deserving artists who just happen to be cishet white men. In conclusion, the Artistes instruct viewers to “let the Bronx Art Center know what you think”—after which they display the names of the board from the Center’s own newsletter masthead.
They knew exactly whom to target, and their goal was precisely what’s happened: Bronca’s job is in danger.
Yijing and the others are on it. Jess calls and texts a number of the Center’s artists while Bronca’s on the phone with the bank. Bronca’s mystified by how Jess is picking her calls, until Jess explains: not the biggest names, but the ones with the widest reach on social media. She gets them to start posting about the situation, which Veneza has already bullied most of her art-school buddies into discussing online. The goal, Jess explains, is something that will look like a spontaneous show of support from the public.
There is a spontaneous show already occurring, as Veneza shows them. It’s just unfocused. There are quite a few posts floating around asking why people seem mad at the Center, which has done so much good for the community, and trying to figure out how an anti-racist mission statement is getting called racist. But within an hour, Yijing is on a conference call with three arts-media reporters and a news feature editor, where she explains that the Center’s director has been asked to remove the work of a talented artist in order to make room for “hate art.” BuzzFeed posts something about the situation; so does Drudge but everything was already cockeyed on that side of the looking glass anyway. Veneza’s started something she’s calling a counter-hash—#BronxNotBigots, although at one point she gets annoyed because some helpful wit has also started using #ArtNotAlt. “That’s a dilution of our message!” she proclaims—but as far as Bronca can tell, both messages are working just fine. When Yijing shows her how to look at all this fiddly social media stuff, there are thousands of people tweeting and blogging in support of the Center. It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
And then, toward evening—a good hour or two after the Center should have closed, but of course they’re all still here again—Bronca’s direct line rings. Raul’s number.
Bronca takes the call in her office. It’s brief. When she emerges to find the other women sitting there staring at her, she has to laugh. It’s a weary but much-needed cathartic release after this ridiculous day.
“Yeah, so… the board has reviewed the situation, and publicly put its full support behind the freedom of expression that any champion of the arts should… blah blah blah blah.” Bronca shrugs. “Translation: They’ve rejected the Better New York donation. Also, they’re not firing me.”
Veneza jumps up and yells in triumph. Jess looks like she’s going to faint. Yijing is furious. “Translation: the entire goddamn internet jumped on them, and they didn’t want to look bad. But are they going to apologize? For even considering this Dr. White’s offer?”
“It’s the board. You know that’s not how they roll.” Yijing opens her mouth, and Bronca holds up a hand. “Look, this is bullshit, but it’s bullshit we survived. Go home. Have dinner before nine o’clock for a change. Forget about this place for a while. And… thank you, all of you, for saving my job.”
That silences them for a moment. Yijing looks at Veneza; Veneza makes some kind of face at her, trying to convey something that Bronca cannot interpret. Finally, Yijing looks exasperated—but she turns to Bronca and draws herself up a little. “I have a guest room,” she says. A little stiffly, but still, given how much they hate each other, it’s a gesture that makes Bronca regret half the things she’s said about Yijing over the years. (The other half she’ll stand by ’til she dies.)
“We’d kill each other by midnight,” she says back, but it’s gentle, and she smiles. “Thank you, though.”
Yijing shrugs, putting her shoulders back. “Putting up with you seems like a small price to pay to stick it to these fuckers. But what are you going to do, then? It probably isn’t safe for you to go home for a few days.”
Bronca rubs her eyes. A hotel is out of the question for the moment. Her bank has dealt with the problem of possible identity theft by canceling her debit and credit cards—which means that Bronca’s got nothing to her name but the cash in her wallet, until she can get to a bank branch and replace her cards. She’s already called her neighbors to warn them. Her house is half of a semi-attached two-family over in Hunts Point. The neighborhood can be a little rough for outsiders, which is why Bronca could afford to buy there—and really, the kinds of people who might want to try this stalking shit are probably too scared to spend much time there doing so. Still, Bronca knows she should do what’s safe.
“I’ll stay here,” she says finally. “I can’t afford a hotel and don’t feel like trying to see if I’m being tailed while I drive to one. And here, there are the keyholders to watch my back. I’ll crash upstairs with them.” She’s done it before, and even has an air mattress in her office, along with some spare clothes and a go-bag that she’s kept since the blackout of ’03.
“Uh, weren’t we just warning the keyholders about possible violence yesterday?” asks Jess.
“Yeah. But if there’s going to be violence, I’m better off with half a dozen people for backup than on my own.” Bronca shrugs. “It’ll be what it’ll be. Go home, ladies. I’m good—really.”