Hey Girl, I’m not that “chill”
Through hazy eyes, she comments on her preference for my calm, affable and slightly melancholy demeanor. I nod gently in agreement. It appears casual, but it’s rehearsed. My mind is always racing, in this moment, I feel many steps ahead of her. I’ve assessed the quality and level of boring moments, estimated the bill, planned out where to potentially go next. I wish she would get to the point, romanticism isn’t fun when stories unravel so slowly. I know how to go with the flow, even if I don’t want to. “You’re so… chill.” I crackle loudly, surprising even myself.
Flashback. Saturday Morning. I’m up at 7, a delayed start, the pace less frenetic than the work week. Black coffee, zero-cal sweetener, headphones in, listening to Beach House. The energy is just right. Mind is racing. I’m writing, jamming, running errands, loving myself like all the blog posts suggest you do.
The cool, collected persona really works. When at ease, people tend to disarm themselves, let you in, a common vulnerability. People from NYC are tense, wound up tight, aggressive, but somehow still polite, docile and confident. It’s a careful balancing act, an art form if you will. Sadly, the New Yorkers are a dying breed. Replaced by midwestern transplants, daddy’s money, with daddy issues, gentrification, overpriced falafels, constantly complaining about “how hard it is to actually make it here”. Do I sound judgmental? Biased? Myopic? I told you, I’m not that chill.
We’re at her friend of a friend’s apartment gathering on The Upper East Side. It’s a scene I don’t have to avoid, the wealthy elite can smell my blue collar scent from miles away, laughing internally at my shitty public school past, present, and future. I run my assessment, first for booze, then for fellow persons of color, the disenfranchised, or other lost souls. I spot him, my token Black amigo, chin slightly up in agreement, we’re both playing the same game. Maybe there will be a fellow South Asian, not this time. I catch eyes with Kevin, Chinese bro from LA, doesn’t speak a lick of Mandarin, low-key hates Chinatown, is he even Asian anymore? I don’t know. Brittany, Bobby, Amy, Alex, Charlie, Claire, Diana, Darren, the list of forgettable middle-of-the-road white faces meld into one another. What’s your name again? Suki, oh wow that’s really cool, where are you from? My social energy is fading, I give her the easy version, immigrant, New England, a boring response, I can tell she’s wondering how my English affect became…so….white. Sorry girl, no accent here. I’m alone in this big room again, I’m bored, I long for diversity, the machine wants to rage. Becky, I, uhm, like, literally can’t do this anymore. Not chill enough, we part ways amicably.
I’m in “safe” Brooklyn now. You know, $12 artisanal beer and cheese, a lot of “social justice activists”, backyard bar patio, treading carefully with a mix of co-workers, associates and friends. At the bar, waiting patiently, I see her slyly watching me. No one just talks at bars anymore right? They’d rather meet from afar, digitally, under suspicious guidance, risk averse. Can’t blame them, Long Island bros eradicated the idea of being a gentleman already, and the fresh off the boat immigrant horn dogs didn’t help anyone feel safe either. I muster up the liquid confidence to say hello, experimenting with the stoic, dark and exhausted vibe. Looks like it’s been a long week? The seal is broken, we’re conversing. This ain’t too bad. Things shift, get serious, the assessment runs itself again. She lives by herself, is a freelance artist from Michigan. (Her parents pay her rent) She smokes a little weed because the city is “so stressful”. (Lazy or apathetic, works less than 40 hours a week) Considers herself a feminist, can’t believe that race is still such a “thing”. (Only dates white guys, or black guys to make her parents mad) The president is such an idiot, I can’t believe America would elect someone like him. (Clearly has an uncle or two that are hella racist)
So, how about you? What do you do?
Girl, you don’t want to hear the truth. I work 70 hour weeks. I’m a teacher. I’m in the streets. I’m a hood rat. I can fit in anywhere. I moved my ass here at 18 without a real plan. I’m 26. I’m grinding. My life is an adrenaline rush. I’m laser focused. I love it. I’m an immigrant. You won’t understand. I love being intense. I don’t have time for carefully curated intros, or suburban pleasantries. I like to rage. I’m already looking for the next thing. I love this City. I want to make it here. I don’t ever want to be poor again.
Oh me? Yeah, I’m just working, doing my thing.
That’s cool. You’re really chill, wanna hang out sometime?
