The Grant Proposal as an Act of War

In the frantic lead-up to their summer showcase, Imani, the pragmatic co-director of a youth media lab, discovers her idealistic partner plans to screen a controversial documentary that could enrage their sole major donor and destroy everything they've built.

“You can’t be serious.” I finally said, pushing my chair back from my monitor. My own project—a grant proposal that held the entire future of the Winnipeg Digital Story Lab in its meticulously formatted pages—lay forgotten on the corner of the desk. “Sam, look at me.”

He didn’t. He just kept scrubbing through footage, his jaw tight. On his screen, raw, shaky footage of a protest outside a downtown construction site played out. A sign, crudely painted, read ‘CARMICHAEL BUILDS, COMMUNITY BLEEDS.’

Carmichael. As in, Robert Carmichael. As in, the guy whose foundation provides sixty percent of our operating budget. The guy who was coming to the showcase on Friday night as the guest of honour. The guy I had just spent a month convincing to fund us for another three years.

“What happened to the piece on the community gardens?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

“That was boring,” he mumbled, trimming a clip. “It was toothless, Imani. Feel-good nonsense. This is the real story. Displacement. Predatory development. This is what the kids are actually worried about.”

“The ‘kids’ are worried about having a place to come after school where they can use a decent camera and learn how to edit!” I shot back, my voice rising. “A place that will cease to exist if you screen a hit-piece on our primary benefactor. This isn’t a documentary, Sam, it’s a suicide note.”

He finally swivelled in his chair to face me. His eyes, usually so full of creative energy, were shadowed with exhaustion and defiance.

“So we just take his money and smile? We teach kids how to tell stories, but only the ones that won’t offend the rich guy in the front row? What kind of lesson is that? We’re supposed to be giving them a voice, not teaching them how to be court jesters.”

“I am trying to keep the lights on!” I threw my hands up in exasperation. “You think this is a game? You think this is some indie film standoff where the artist sticks it to the man? This is a non-profit in Winnipeg in July. We are perpetually one bad grant application away from becoming a storage unit. I have poured my entire life into this place for the last three years. I have filled out the forms, I have balanced the books, I have schmoozed people like Carmichael, all so you can have the freedom to be the ‘artist.’ Don’t you dare lecture me about our mission.”

The air crackled with the tension that had been building between us for months. The classic schism: the pragmatist and the purist. The organizer and the agent of chaos. We’d started this together, two idealistic twenty-somethings with a shared dream. Now, that dream was threatening to tear us apart.

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### Two Versions of the Truth

“I have a different cut,” he said, his voice softer now. “A less… aggressive one. The one I showed you last week. We can show that one.”

I stared at him, searching for the catch. “The one about the gardens. The one that Carmichael has already seen a rough cut of and loved?”

“Yes.” He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He was a terrible liar.

“Sam. Promise me,” I said, my voice low and intense. “Promise me you will show the garden documentary.”

He ran a hand through his already messy hair. “What we do has to matter, Imani. It has to be real.”

“It matters if we exist next week,” I countered. “It’s not real if we’re just a memory. Show the safe version. We secure the grant. We live to fight another day. We can make the protest doc on our own time. Please.”

He gave a slow, tired nod. “Okay. The safe version.”

I didn’t believe him. Not for a second. But I had to. I spent the next two days in a state of high anxiety, plastering on a smile for the students, organizing the screening, arranging the chairs, and sending polite, professional emails to Mr. Carmichael’s assistant confirming his attendance. All the while, a pit of dread sat cold in my stomach.

The night of the showcase was hot and sticky. A classic Winnipeg summer evening. The small screening room we’d built in the back of the lab was packed with proud parents, community members, and the nervous, excited student filmmakers. And in the front row, in a reserved seat, was Mr. Carmichael, looking pleased and benevolent.

Sam was in the projection booth, a tiny, sweltering closet at the back of the room. He gave me a thumbs-up from the small window. He looked pale. I gave him a weak smile back, my heart pounding a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs. I had the grant proposal in my bag, ready to be signed.

I stood at the podium, my hands gripping the edges so tightly my knuckles were white. I welcomed everyone, talked about the power of storytelling, praised the students for their hard work. My voice sounded strange and distant to my own ears.

“And now,” I said, my mouth dry, “to kick off our screening, a short documentary by our co-founder, Sam Davies, about the vibrant community spirit right here in our neighbourhood.”

I nodded to the booth. The lights went down. The hum of the projector filled the silent room. Mr. Carmichael smiled expectantly. I held my breath, watching the screen, waiting to see if the first shot would be of a tomato plant or a protest sign. Waiting to see if my partner had just saved our non-profit, or if he had just burned it to the ground.