The Thin White Line

The Lexus slid through the night smooth and silent. Matt wondered how she could afford such an expensive vehicle, so he asked?

“It’s a loaner,” Lane said.

“Another subscriber?”

Lane smiled. “Binta’s real name is Brenda Brydson. Her father is LeDarius Smith, a tech mogul who made a fortune not by writing code but by purchasing promising start-ups and reselling them. Her mother is Melanie Brydson, the daughter of one of Canada’s wealthiest families. They own the investment firm that controls two-thirds of the financial data and services provider, DunBridge, which had revenue of $6.3 billion in 2021. Melissa owns about 23% of the firm's assets and her relatives own the rest.”

Matt was not impressed. Lane’s information could be attained with a basic internet search.

“Her parents never married, only briefly shacked up together until Melissa got pregnant. Then, like most Black fathers, LeDarius abandoned his family, but the mother of his kid didn’t end up living in subsidized housing on welfare.

“Like most Black fathers?” Matt said. “That’s quite a generalization and a racist one at that.”

“Check the stats,” Lane said, leaning on the horn and accelerating through an amber light.

“I will, but we both know how statistics can be manipulated to support a story.”

Lane looked over at him. “Like yours?” She hit the brakes and came to a hard stop as the next light turned red. “Shit! We’re going to be late.”

“There’s a difference,” Matt said.

“Sure,” Lane said. She continued with Binta’s bio while speeding through heavy traffic erratically changing lanes.

“Brenda grew up a super privileged kid, but when she got to university, she was just another elite. She enrolled in a creative writing program but failed to get published until she began to embrace her Blackness. She changed her name and took up the causes of BIPOCs and suddenly her articles and poems began appearing in prestigious journals.

“About the same time, she declared she was gender fluid, meaning she’ll have sex with you regardless. This broadened her base of support and before you know it, she’s the spokesperson for the marginalized. Of course, her money and connections might have had something to do with it.”

“That’s it?” Matt said.

Lane’s look of smug satisfaction disappeared. She frowned as though she hadn’t understood the question.

“What’s the story?” Matt sounded condescending even to himself, but he was still smarting from her accusation that he’d manipulated facts to support his story.

“The story is her credibility, for fuck’s sake!” Even in the shadowy interior of the vehicle, Matt could see the angry flush on Lane’s cheeks. “She used her gender, racial identity and radical politics to compensate for no talent, just like you said in your article.”

Matt had read Binta’s poetry and short stories before her personal rebranding and found them quite good. Unfortunately, quite good didn’t cut it, as he’d found out for himself, an author needed something more than to write well. Binta had found it, or more specifically created it, not unlike what Lane had done. Though they were at opposite ends of the political and cultural spectrum the two women weren’t that different, or at least their methods weren’t.

“I didn’t say that, I said–”

“Binta claims, I guess I should use the past tense now, claimed, she was a victim of systemic racism, of sexual discrimination, of all manner of injustices when in fact, her wealth and power are a result of those very things.”