Please hold….I’m being judged.

In this modern world we live in there seem to be two camps of people. Those that embrace the blessings of modern yuppiness and those that do not. Much like the “in crowd” culture of high school, there are those that are in and those that use their powers of judgment to try to make themselves feel better than those people who are “in” the in-crowd. While we all try to kid ourselves that we are all “so over” high school, we still participate in the bizarre rituals of judged and judger. This morning, unfortunately, I was on the receiving end of the judgment. While ordering my chai tea latte in an independent coffee shop I made the most insidious guffaw of ordering a “grande chai tea latte.” Immediately, the two piercing-clad, white dread-locked coffee baristas (who looked like two coffee-trolls they had been drudged from the underground espresso pits) stopped steaming their milk and stared. The cashier, probably out of what she thought was sheer decency looked tentatively at me and with fake naiveté said, “What’s a grande…..? Is it like a medium?” Good lord girl! Don’t pretend you don’t know what a “grande” coffee is? Even if you were dragged out of an espresso cave you would at least have been somewhat indoctrinated in coffee terminology. Last I heard they were putting in at least 5 Starbucks in troll-land. Right as I recovered the awkward silence by saying, “Oh, I’m sorry. A medium. You know, there are so many coffee places and they all have different names for the sizes….it is hard to keep track….blah, blah, b.s, b.s.b.s.bs…just don’t say the ‘S’ word (Starbucks, that is)” my cell phone rang. It was my dear friend from work who responding to my test message “Want Chai?” And, so I committed cardinal sin #2 of independent coffee shop visiting: answering the cell phone while ordering coffee. Although I assured the cashier that I was merely getting the order of a friend to see if she wanted coffee, again the drone of the coffee trolls milk steaming grinded to a halt. All three exchanged “the look” of coffee-martyrdom. (I am counting the cashier…they didn’t spontaneously multiply.) This is the look of “I slave over hot roasted beans for the cause of coffee even though it is a lost cause because Starbucks is taking over the world and we have to deal with people like you who are one of ‘those people’.” After submitting to the angry stares of the halted baristas, I yelled at my friend to hurry up and make a decision. After getting off the phone I was met with the glowing red eyes of the coffee cashier—who tried her best to be polite to my urchin-of-a-human-being-self. (I must also mention that I was the only one in the coffee shop.) After ordering another Chai I shamefully scurried to the side-bar to await my Chai. Now, why, must I ask was I being judged for a slight slip of the tongue and gathering more business for their company? If I were at Starbucks and was receiving an order for another cup of coffee would they have even blinked an eye? One misnomer and I am labeled a card-carrying member of the yuppie-elite. Why? Why the judgment? Why must we live in a world of coffee cheerleaders and coffee bra burners? Why the madness? Why the trolls? I just want a cup of coffee. And, dare I be so McDemanding, but maybe with a smile?

Identity Crisis a la Carte

Today I found out that I am not actually white. Or, I guess the preferable term “Caucasian.” Although I have never really liked this word or how it sounds—too much like the Mexican slang word “Caca” meaning “poop” or the jungle call of a Amazonian parrot--I have learned to identify myself with it. (Caucasian, not poop…or parrot) I have filled it out on school documents, employment forms, the FAFSA, my taxes. Every standardized test and internet survey, I have defined myself with the bland, saltine cracker-like racial category of “caucasan.” Today, however, my identity was shaken by a single diversity workshop. Amidst the various activities, where we subdivided ourselves into small & smaller boxes (Female, single… single-white-female), and introduced ourselves to each other by those divisions, we also had to pair up with a stranger and give them the first words that came to our minds when we thought of a certain race or ethnicity. (Dangerous, no?) The trick was, we could not use the race or ethnicity of ourselves or of our partner. My partner was a bubbly looking girl who already made her mark in class by saying that she was glad to be sharing her thoughts about diversity amongst social workers because social workers never passed judgement. HA. That’s sweet. As I gave my ethnic background, (the mutt-mix of Irish-Italian-Norwegian-Danish or as I like to call it, how the hell did that happen?) and she gave hers, (part Euro part Palestinian) she said that she would like to choose the group “Caucasians” to talk about. You can imagine my shock. I know that she identified herself as part Palestinian but for real, if you put the two of us on a moonlit beach, we would shine out whiter than bleach-soaked albino muskrats with portoferia. When I clarified, to make sure that she knew we were supposed to pick a group different than us, she nodded her head and said, “Yes, I know.” I then stated what I thought was the obvious…. “but I am Caucasian…” She looked confused and then said what almost made me hit the floor, “But you said you were part Italian?” Now, this is where I am confused.> #1 Did we skip 5 decades, or didn’t Italians finally get classified as “Caucasians.” I know we have some crazy-non-european stuff like pasta, opera & wine…..but…oh wait.> #2 I am also Irish, Danish & Norweigan. Wouldn’t 75% seem like it would constitute the majority…..or did one drop of Italian blood keep me out of the Caucasian club?> Also, now that I have “outed” myself as what she believes is a Caucasian-wannabe, she is looking at me as if I have denied my true non-caucasian ethnicity and tried to join “in-crowd.” Like I have walked up with a wad of toilet paper stuck to my shoe to a cafeteria table full of cheerleaders, lettterman’s jackets, Abercrombie perfume and i-phones and said, “Can I please eat with you guys?”> Now what is disturbing to me, is not that some random person may think that I am not Caucasian—but that this division of caucazoid vs. non-cacazoid is truly important enough to her (and probably others) to engage in an argument. And what about others who may be 90% Caucasian but maybe 10% Asian? What if they identified as Caucasian? Would the Caucasian police tell them they couldn’t? Who created this "Caucasian" definition anyway?

English Majors: We squeeze water from rocks!

It struck me today as I was writing a character analysis paper, that there is an English Major type. Actually, English major types—two of them. Type A, anally retentive, likes to correct your grammar, and gets constipated for days when attempting to diagram an unusually difficult sentence. And Type B—the story and character analyzer: the one who can find meaning in just about anything. Give them a word such as “paper clip” within the story of a princess who feels her worthlessness as a line cook in a patriarchal society and we will come out with pages about the metaphors, similes, ethno-origins and the religious symbolism of a paper clip within the concept of this morality tale. (Or is it really a deconstructed piece masquerading as a morality tale?)
These are the things that keep us, Type Bs, awake at night. Did the author really mean this? Did the symbol mean that? Oh God! I forgot! The story was set in Norway! That negates my whole theory! I am going to have to start from scratch by analyzing the role of Norse fairy tales and social history within the confines of the 19th century Bavarian structure. DAMN THOSE KNOMES!!!! Unfortunately, these characteristics also make us horrible girlfriends or boyfriends. Buddingly sensitive to the possible nuances, we also drive ourselves crazy with the possible innuendos of a simple phrase or gesture. Take a simple night out to dinner and a movie. Did he take you out for fried chicken, or spaghetti? If spaghetti, did he call it spaghetti or was it farfalle with cream sauce…or even farfalle con something that you have no idea what he is talking about? Each gives a subtle indication about what he is like, what he is looking for, and how much this date really means to him. And we haven’t even gotten to the location of the restaurant, what he is wearing, or even the movie selection. As Type B English Majors we are compelled to live in this world of double, triple and even quadruple meanings for our seemingly simple lives. Why must we make so much of our existence? And really, when is just a paperclip a paper clip? Good gracious, maybe I am just neurotic.