Not a love song.
I am not a city girl. Specifically I am not a Washington DC girl, for it is the only city with which I can claim some acquaintance. It is the *cool* place to be. In this the capital of Nerd, you score points for riding your bike to work, having an iPhone, and knowing wines, ethnic food, and what is best for other people. It is busy, loud, and crowded. And it is not for me.
It is impossible to be left alone here. To an introvert such as myself it is unthinkable to talk to a stranger for no reason about fuck all. And despite how commonplace this has now become for me, it never ceases to blow my mind a little each time it happens.
The ballsy in me devised a strategy to cope with this unsolicited, unwarranted, unnecessary pestering. Whenever I’m accosted by crazy woman/man/guy (I think guy) with the biggest gauges in his ears I have ever seen, I’ll just hand them a flier. This flier will list references, and they will function as they do on a job interview. These will be people Freak Jane/Panhandler Joe/Ears McGee can call up on their iPhone and they will vouchsafe my weaknesses as a conversationalist, or my lack of desire to hear about El Salvador’s politics or your wife, or really, anything at all they have to say. Mostly because I don’t know them, and I can’t take an honest interest in their lives, anymore than I would expect them to take an interest in mine.
I will do the same with Green Peace, Blue Peace, Red Peace accosting me at the metro, coming home from the metro, walking by a random metro, or on any given corner of any given street. Only this flier will say that I am registered to vote, I recycle, I try. I’d eat organic if I could afford it. I’d read up on so-and-so’s voting record if I thought it worth my time. I spend my days getting money for an organization that helps people who have no money, and once I’m off the clock I’m done helping people and listening to others’ troubles. In sum, I’m 25, and despite working for a nonprofit and living in the Washington DC metropolitan area, I don’t have any answers. Meaning, someone should be out panhandling on my behalf as much as the polar bears’. By my most recent calculation, I’ll be able to afford a haircut sometime this fall.
Where I work is gritty. It’s dirty. There is always water running down 18th Street, and it always smells bad, and it’s never raining. There are people with serious problems, schools with serious problems, those really and truly dealt a shit hand. And I’ll be damned if I know the answer, just like I’ll be damned if I know where this daily stream of putrid water comes from. All I know is that it can’t all be my fight to fight, as these city dwellers would lead me to believe. On the level-est of playing fields, some would still fall short, not finish, or refuse to run. I’m running (plodding) along myself, and I can’t pull the city with me.
It is impossible to be left alone here. To an introvert such as myself it is unthinkable to talk to a stranger for no reason about fuck all. And despite how commonplace this has now become for me, it never ceases to blow my mind a little each time it happens.
The ballsy in me devised a strategy to cope with this unsolicited, unwarranted, unnecessary pestering. Whenever I’m accosted by crazy woman/man/guy (I think guy) with the biggest gauges in his ears I have ever seen, I’ll just hand them a flier. This flier will list references, and they will function as they do on a job interview. These will be people Freak Jane/Panhandler Joe/Ears McGee can call up on their iPhone and they will vouchsafe my weaknesses as a conversationalist, or my lack of desire to hear about El Salvador’s politics or your wife, or really, anything at all they have to say. Mostly because I don’t know them, and I can’t take an honest interest in their lives, anymore than I would expect them to take an interest in mine.
I will do the same with Green Peace, Blue Peace, Red Peace accosting me at the metro, coming home from the metro, walking by a random metro, or on any given corner of any given street. Only this flier will say that I am registered to vote, I recycle, I try. I’d eat organic if I could afford it. I’d read up on so-and-so’s voting record if I thought it worth my time. I spend my days getting money for an organization that helps people who have no money, and once I’m off the clock I’m done helping people and listening to others’ troubles. In sum, I’m 25, and despite working for a nonprofit and living in the Washington DC metropolitan area, I don’t have any answers. Meaning, someone should be out panhandling on my behalf as much as the polar bears’. By my most recent calculation, I’ll be able to afford a haircut sometime this fall.
Where I work is gritty. It’s dirty. There is always water running down 18th Street, and it always smells bad, and it’s never raining. There are people with serious problems, schools with serious problems, those really and truly dealt a shit hand. And I’ll be damned if I know the answer, just like I’ll be damned if I know where this daily stream of putrid water comes from. All I know is that it can’t all be my fight to fight, as these city dwellers would lead me to believe. On the level-est of playing fields, some would still fall short, not finish, or refuse to run. I’m running (plodding) along myself, and I can’t pull the city with me.
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