A gaggle of gorginas sporting jorts and spaghetti straps — the perfect outfit à la mode — sat across from me on the Memorial Glade. Wearing wired EarPods to drown out the cries of frat guys flitting around a spikeball net, I ogled the porcelain dolls from the edge of my perch, feeling like Odysseus bound to his boat’s mast as he passed the Aegean Sea Sirens.
“They’re just so tea,” I sighed.
The weather app had announced that morning that the weeklong gloom had withdrawn; the sun shone triumphantly through parted clouds on the city of Berkeley. Telegraphers rushed to pull cozy pumpkin spice lattes back into inventory and line their storefronts with delicate purple-green lavender matchas, dazzling loyal window shoppers.
I swiped out of the weather app to check group chats already devising Glade plans, with “intextlocutors” manifesting equal amounts of impatience and frenzy. Notifications shook my phone: “I think I like this little life,” “College is colleging!” Midterms and unyielding overcast had done quite a number on us. This was our moment to carpe diem.
The UC Berkeley tone is not unlike the one you knew at your provincial high school, dearest gentle reader. When you get to the Glade, you see your Plastics, Jocks, Nerds and Freaks.
The Plastics, the hot girls-gays-theys, situate themselves as far away as possible from the Northside, where hayseeds crouch under wannabe Christmas trees waiting, in vain, for their gift wrappings to be ripped apart. These divas would rather bathe front and center in the glorious ultraviolet goddess.
The Jocks, our herculean hotties, oscillate between two modes like a mighty pendulum swings inside a grandfather clock. Topless when standing, stretching or dancing around the field with a frisbee, football or joust; hoodied when leaning back on their elbows and chatting up their best friends, lab partners or study buddies. A nascent sect of Herculeses, when nips-out feels too lewd, favors the tanktopped lean against the grass while unassumingly listening to feminist literature on Audible — an admirable step up from “Atomic Habits.” Bonus points if he has a paperback copy of “The Bell Jar” on hand.
There are other interesting characters who dot the nooks and crannies of Glade society that deserve their own feature.
We have the sounding board enby who listens to their Glade goddess gal pal go on and on about her boy-toy on-again, off-again, all while thinking that they could treat her infinitely better.
Then there’s the frat twunk who slaps his fraternal straight “well done” on the back and pulls out of the dap-and-embrace with prickling eyes. He’s happy his broski pulled a baddie girlfriend but worries he’ll have less time for their late-night side quests, lollygagging, lock-in sessions — those moments of intimacy he stole to indulge his illegitimate longing.
You must think, “Aahana is so shrewd.” “Her observations are tea.” Clock it!” The truth is, I don’t know anything for sure. I may not be right about anything at all.
Everything Aahana says, as made obvious by the references I weave into my columns, draws inspiration from books, shows, movies and fantasies. And, most importantly, from Aahana’s own life.
I have an extraordinary penchant for projection. I place myself in someone else’s shoes to such an extent that I assume talking and learning from my subjects of study themselves is redundant.
Life is meant to be understood through multiple accounts, perspectives and media, right? But do the redactions, improvements and transformations which the manuscript undergoes as it passes round the editorial room allow the reader to meet the author’s eyes? Or do we instead peer into a polyhumanity that is molded around deadlines and zeitgeists? Do we see vulnerability and authenticity or manufactured insecurities and audacities?
Do I really see anguish in the Plastic’s eyes as she collects and throws a glossy black wave over her shoulder, animatedly inundating the conversation with stories of and from her hometown? Or am I projecting my own sense of deprivation and yearning for family functions, celebrations, laughter, good food and community?
I would only know if I actually went up to her. No more acting like we don’t give a s— about humanity, our own or that of our neighbors. We are gossipmongers. Why? Because it enriches our existence when multiple bodies, spirits, thoughts and feelings cross-contaminate to form a societal body. We associate with each other because we actually want to.
Maybe we really are quite transparent. Maybe we are feeling the very same things. Isn’t it time to try and demystify the undeniably familiar?
The next time you catch me on the Glade with an omniscient glaze in my eyes, assume that I am arrogantly judging you, yes, but also that I vicariously live through you because I think you are fascinating. So please come say hi and snap me out of my sad voyeurism. I’d like to meet the eyes of the author — the person who tells their story best.
It is time to stop touching grass and start shaking hands.