The accounting of an impostor

Last month, I attended a book reading accompanying a good friend. My friend is a brilliant filmmaker and documentary producer and teaches film at a local college. In addition to being esteemed colleagues of my friend,  the authors from the African diaspora were literary geniuses with multiple prizes. Their prose is brilliant, weaving tales transcending boundaries, and their humility and authenticity shine through their narratives. The audience gathered at the Harvard Bookstore was a diverse mix of students and local literature enthusiasts.

For an avid book reader, it was the perfect event to end my week of accounting routine. I listened to the dialogue enthusiastically, listened to anecdotes on assimilation, and even became aware of a new genre, autofiction. Both writers were honest in their delivery but also brilliant in their prose. We gathered to have our books signed. I bought several books, adding to my ever-growing stack of reading material (more than 30 books that need to be read sooner than later).

As an avid book reader, it was the perfect event to end my week of accounting routine. I listened to the dialogue with enthusiasm, listened to anecdotes on assimilation, and even became aware of a new genre, autofiction. Both writers were honest in their delivery but also brilliant in their prose. As the event drew to a close, we gathered to have our books signed. I bought several books, adding to my ever-growing stack of reading material (more than 30 books that need to be read sooner than later).  My friend introduced me to the authors. We complimented them, got our books signed, and socialized with other literature enthusiasts, including other vibrant female African authors. I was all smile, feeling in my element in this melee of Black women, African and Caribbean, all immigrants and all adorning the most exquisite accents. We were like kindred spirits, sharing in the tales of adjustment and celebrating each other's achievements. It was a magical gathering, and for a while, I felt like I was among my sisters, bonded by our shared experiences as visible others in a world that often sought to define us by our differences.

I was ready to call it an early night and leave the bookstore; my friend asked me to join her at the celebration party held for the writer. I happily agreed to accompany her, inspired by the energy and a little drunk from the melaninated energy. The party was hosted in a stunning house, and our hosts were also members of the literary world. The room was filled with a diverse and jubilant crowd, and my introverted and fatigued self forced a smile and some light chitchats.

In animated conversations, I exchanged names with other guests and showered praise on the author and her girlfriend, a published author. I chatted about soccer and the tribulations of coaching toddler teams with a writer working on his third book, lamented the unpredictable weather with a Harvard professor of literature taking a writing hiatus, and even placed a bet on whether the indoor tree was real or fake with an established editor. With each conversation, my list of books to read grew longer.

As the evening wore on, one of the guests, an Asian-American sociologist with a passion for South Africa, asked, "So, what have you written? Are you an author? Or where do you teach?"

Her questions hung in the air, heavy with anticipation. I felt the silence and realized I had artfully sidestepped all personal interrogation during the event. My feelings of belonging were naked and out of place in this sea of creativity and accomplishment. All my "what-ifs" and "maybes" suddenly converged to unmask my insecurities. I felt like a boring accountant with no achievements to share, and I couldn’t even brag about tax savings (I do not do taxes). I had not won any Booker Prize, had not been selected by any book club, and was not working on exciting documentaries. I had spent my day reviewing uninspiring journal entries and thinking about controls in my cash disbursement process. I was an impostor in their creative world and an impostor in their literary assembly. And while my physical attributes had given me a ticket to their celebration, I had no literary or creative achievements to guarantee me their sustained interests.

All eyes were on me, and I could sense that she and they were waiting for me to reveal that I was an edgier version of Edwidge Danticat, or some Haitian-Canadian author on a discovery tour in Boston.  I took a deep breath and whispered, "I write numbers."

She was confused: "You write what? Is this a book? Are you a mathematician? A math professor?"

I inhaled deeply, bombed my torso, and spoke my truth: "I'm a CPA, an accountant. I write numbers. I write financial statements. So, in a way, I am a financial writer. I use numbers and tables to tell my stories of companies striving to make it. I lay bare their assets, uncover their liabilities, and transcribe their financial journeys. I help companies grow, create processes, build teams, and write financial history. My stories are essential, though not published in the traditional sense. I analyze and narrate through numbers. I write numbers."

She stayed in a contemplative silence and said unexpectedly, "I never thought about it like that, but you're right. Numbers can tell stories."

Storytelling is not limited to words.  Numbers, statements, and tables tell our stories; stories that are murmured and rarely read at a bookstore but dissected in corporate offices, government buildings, and around conference rooms; stories that are laid out in tax filings, 10Ks, 10Qs, loan applications, board pitches or just in the bare pages of a will. Whether through prose, poetry, or the eloquent language of numbers, every storyteller has a unique way of bringing narratives, truths, and history to life. We are all storytellers, no matter our chosen medium.

I looked around the room and saw so many impostors and storytellers trying to frame their narratives into a caged reality. All swimming in the pool of autofiction, all making it up like they were writing pages in their novels. I saw the tired faces pretending to smile at pointless jokes. I saw writers slowly massaging their temples, fighting throbbing headaches. I saw our host swiftly cleaning the water stains on the glass table. I saw all the pretenses covered…  We are all storytellers, making up stories so we can belong and hide that we are impostors.

A week later, I went to an event with other accountants. As usual, when I entered the room, I felt all eyes on me… I was the only Black woman in the room. Again, I felt like an impostor. Until I joined a group of friends, we started sharing our stories about our close processes, annoying auditors, and accounting for leases.

Having a voice is the biggest asset, and being a storyteller is making good use of your biggest asset. Because stories create belonging, stories establish victories, create following, and create community. Whether or not I was proud of being an accountant (it depends on the day), accounting is the language of business, and companies tell their stories through accounting. I got to write these stories. I have been writing them for many years… and need to stop feeling like an impostor, even in a room full of creatives and artists.

#thebalancedsheets #cpa #impostor