For My Male Classmates: An Open Letter

Dear young college guy,
I don’t know your name, but I assume that it’s something like Brendon, Chase, or Tyler. You know, some totally relaxed name that reflects who you are: a laid back guy that likes to have a fun time. You’re the beer pong champion of all your friends, your apartment has a sweet futon (is it a couch? A bed? What do you care! Let those ultra-uptight people worry about it! Right, bro?), and you have that awesome pot leaf flag that you bought at Spencer’s Gifts in the Ashland Mall hanging on your bedroom wall. Your kitchen contains one box of stale Lucky Charms (no moms to tell you what cereals to eat in college. HIGH FIVE!) and is decorated with every bottle of Southern Comfort or Malibu rum that you and your boys have drank since arriving here your freshman year. Of course there’s a hookah tucked away in the corner somewhere. You won’t smoke a normal cigarette because they’re bad for you, but pineapple flavored tobacco? That’s
cool and not at all gay, not when you’re just chillaxin’ with your friends or trying to impress that chick from your chem lab (strangely she was unimpressed by that Pink Floyd poster on your wall). Plus, you have that great Best of Bob Marley album. It sits nuzzled between your Dane Cook DVD and Journey CD (you’re so ironic). Nothing makes you feel better than jamming to Buffalo Soldier while polishing the numerous shot glasses you collected on your last spring break trip to Ft. Lauderdale (the one where you totally almost scored with those Kappa sluts. ‘Member?). Really, I’m taking the long way round to get to my point. We get your relaxed, REALLY. Even without your not-quite-hippy shaggy hair or unshaven whiskers, we STILL get it. Why then do you insist on wearing sandals on a 30-degree day such as this one?
Yes, I am one of those uptight intellectual bitch girls. No need to tell me. I have never done a keg stand, never blacked out drunk, and have never been date raped by you or any other Beta Alpha Omega Phi Chi whatever. Unlike the girls you hang out with, I wear real pants to class, I don’t mystic tan, and I don’t clump on ridiculous amounts of mascara. I don’t travel in packs and block the entire sidewalk. My daddy does not pay my rent, but I love him anyway. I’m impressed by real furniture and original artwork. I don’t pretend to like football.
Based on comparison, we probably shouldn’t hang out with each other. You’re white and I’m black. You’re Tyra and I’m Heidi. You eat at Chipotle and I eat at the Mexican food cart down the block. Usually, we avoid each other quite successfully. We go to different parties, study at different libraries, and live in different neighborhoods. Still, there are those moments of collision like when you step in front of my bicycle while crossing State Street without looking both ways or when you raise your hand in my anthropology discussion and ask, “Who wants to live on the North Pole anyway?” I don’t condone violence, but when you zoom past me on your moped, on a cold day such as this one, wearing cargo shorts, a UW t-shirt, baseball cap, and athletic sandals (aka shower shoes), I sort of want to push you off your moped. You don’t look more relaxed. You just look like a bigger douche-bag.
Keep quoting Dave Chappelle until he’s not funny anymore,
The Pop Quiz Kid