Burning Like Fire

Ever since I found Lettie’s black book, nothing’s ever been the same.

Time stopped as I gingerly turned each yellowing page; admiring her flawless cursive penmanship. For a few brief moments I got to experience Lettie’s gift. I know she meant for me to have this book - she left it in a box of knickknacks with my name on it. Even though I had no use for those things, I still kept a few to remember her by. They’re safe on my kitchen windowsill where over time, the sunlight will help keep her memory alive.

I studied her recipes with great fervour. I even tried a few on myself and noted how well they worked. She would’ve made millions if she bottled this stuff, I initially thought.

After I found that book, I found one of my own - a blank black notebook at the bottom of my nightstand. I took that as a sign. Again, time stopped as the idea for my wellness venture poured out of my soul into my own black book. I’m that person who always insists on taking virtual notes and storing them in the cloud… not this time. I had to write it all down. My cursive is abhorrent so I settled for my hurried printing instead.

I’m clutching this book and my iPad for dear life as I wait for my name to be called. I’m still a bit shocked that I ended up this far in the application process. I wonder if I’ve been tokenized since there’s not one person here that looks like me other than the person behind the craft services table. Uh-huh. I’m not the least bit surprised.

I know my presentation is sound. My numbers are sound. My background and experience are even more sound. Still, I can’t shake the sinking feeling that once I get into that room, all they’re going to see is Black. Still, I persist. I wait for my name to be called while slowly telling myself to burn like fire. Lettie used to say that to me all the time as a child.

A door opens. Three youngish people walk out, beaming with joy. They must’ve got the grant, I think almost out loud. They’re doing a disjointed happy dance, taking selfies and sending excited messages to their peeps. I wonder what their pitch was? Or maybe they knew somebody in the room - who knows. I unfortunately know how privilege works.

“Aerin Strong - you’re up next.” Oh, snap. I follow the grant coordinator into the presentation space. There’s no turning back now. I can do this… right? Right.

I place my book and iPad on the lectern and heave a deep sigh. I look up to see the faces of Linda, Dave, Dennis and Pieter - the panellists. These four people are dressed in clothes that I know are worth more than all my personal belongings combined but oh well. I can’t be intimidated by that. They want me to be intimidated by that. But lucky for them I’m not. They’re just people - they fart, bleed, eat and pay taxes (debatable, I know) just like the rest of us.

Linda’s the first to speak. “Good morning Aerin. Are you ready for your presentation?” She’s got a smile that I’m pretty sure isn’t all that genuine; like it's a standard issue.

“Good morning everyone. I’m ready to go.” I sync my iPad with the smartboard and I begin my presentation.

From there, I’m unstoppable. It’s like Lettie’s standing with me as I deliver my presentation. I’m in that zone - that zone where ideas just flow; everything makes sense. I’m taking up space and I’m shining.

I wrap up my presentation by asking the panellists for their questions. Dave is looking at me intently. Dennis is the first one to speak.

“Where are you from?” I knew this was coming. Betcha ten pennies those youngish people didn’t get this question.

“South London.” There! Let them think I’m British considering I have no actual British accent.

“Thank you,” Dennis replies. Clearly he was looking for something a bit more exotic like Unguja. I’m not going to get unravelled by this. I stand tall, ready for the next irrelevant question.

Dennis is on a mission to figure me out. “Where did you go to university?” I don’t see the point of this but I came prepared anyway.

“I graduated summa cum laude from Teague University. Here’s a copy of my transcripts notarized by the registrar.” I pick up my transcripts and hand them to Dennis. He makes a show of putting on reading glasses and looks them over. I’ll never understand why no one believes that I went to Teague. It was one of the more monochromatic experiences of my life yet one of the best.

“Thanks,” musters Dennis. I’m sure somewhere in his head he’s trying to reconcile how a Black person could even get into Teague let alone graduate with distinction but I’m not here for that. I’m here for twenty large to help me launch my wellness app.

Linda has an actual question for me. “What’s your story? Why this wellness venture?”

Even though I’ve rehearsed this story many times over, I still get a bit emotional. I remember Lettie’s last words to me before she passed: Burn like fire and don’t let anyone put you out.

“My grandmother Letitia Ann Strong grew local herbs, ground them up into fine powders and blended them into tinctures, ointments and salves for the people in her village. Curiously no one taught her how to do this; she just instinctively knew what worked well together and for what purpose. People came from all over for her remedies. She’d talk with them and send them home with a bit of food and their healing potion. Some say Lettie’s words were the real cure. I found this book of all of her herbal blends and that’s how I got the idea for the BIPOC wellness app.

“Growing up I was always told that my feelings didn’t matter and the world would never see me as anything more than Black. Deep down I knew that wasn’t true. I had tons of feelings and emotions but nowhere to express them. The app provides a secure space for the user to record their emotional states and will send daily affirmations via push notification. Every affirmation is taken from my grandmother’s own words.

“I’ll use Lettie’s herbal blends to create spa-quality skincare products in order to generate revenue to fund the app as a social enterprise. Wellness is something that’s lacking in the BIPOC community. Race-based traumatic stress is an actual thing that no one’s talking about let alone doing something about it. This social enterprise means I can continue Lettie’s work on a broader scale.”

Silence. The panellists are all staring at me uncomfortably. Linda appears to be genuinely interested. Dave’s got the same unchanged expression from when I first walked into the room. Dennis is shifting back and forth in his chair; is he about to have a pee accident?

Then Pieter catches my eye. He’s got a single tear making its way down his cheek. Oh, help me - what have I done? I’m so not getting this grant. Goodbye twenty grand - it’s been fun.

“I grew up like you,” admits Pieter. “Being new to this country wasn’t easy. I felt scared all the time and had no one to talk to about it. I always got told to put on a brave face and never let anyone see how you feel. I was bullied for my accent until I left school. I could’ve had a vastly different experience if someone had just taken the time to reach out to me to see if I was OK. Aerin, you’ve done an amazing job here today. Please know that. Someone will be in touch with you soon.”

I didn’t know what to say. Was that a yes? Was that a no? “Thank you for this opportunity and your time today,” I say to the panellists, trying to disguise the tinge of disappointment in my voice. I gather my black book and iPad and head towards the door.

I feel so confused. I know they’re able to make instant decisions on the $20,000 grant. So why not me? What did I do wrong? All the way home I replay that presentation in my head. I scour my memories for a clue as to what made them decide to not give me the grant on the spot. Eligibility for funding is so incredibly limited for people like me despite what all those press releases say. Guess I’ll have to find another way to bring this venture to life.

Three weeks later, I’m sitting at my desk staring at my laptop. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I didn’t get the grant and I’m back to square one. Just then my phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize. I hesitantly answer it. “Aerin Strong.” I do hope it’s not a robocall - they’re so unbelievably annoying.

“Pieter Nottels here. You did an amazing presentation recently for the $20,000 Panchal Grant.” Oh, right - the guy with the one tear down his cheek. I remember that tear looking like something out of a movie - it was flawless in its execution.

Lettie used to say “Listen to hear and you’ll hear all you need to know”. So I listened to Pieter. We had a great conversation about my plans for the wellness venture. Not only was he going to give me the twenty grand out of his pocket, he offered to mentor me to get my venture in front of a few BIPOC investors he knew. “I’ve spoken to a few investors and they were moved by your story,” Pieter told me excitedly. “Are you free for a virtual coffee next week?”

“Yes, that would be great!” Holy heck - this is actually happening. So what if I think coffee is decidedly vile. My wellness venture is a go! I finish talking with Pieter and dance around the room, blasting basshall for good measure. I got more than I asked for and then some.

“I didn’t let them put me out, Lettie,” I say to her spirit. “I didn’t let them put out my fire.”