It's Tuesday of last week when I agree to drive my friend to Country Fair so he can purchase a pack of cigarettes. Although I greatly despise the habit, I had been lounging on the couch, and could see he was jonesin' for a pack of smokes, and so I told him okay. Just this once.
We pull into the parking lot that afternoon, the sun fading in the distance, cars parked adjacent to the store. I navigate my vehicle slowly to the last spot on the end, tucking my 2005 Honda Civic, branded in Connecticut license plates, near the back. As I cross the enclave of cars and pass the vehicles snugly lining the spaces, I can't help but feel like an outsider among these other patrons, a rich kid from the college sticking out among a contingent of "townies."
I initially reflect on my car: how often do these people come across New England license plates? And what pre-determined judgement do they have when they see them? Compounding these thoughts is my friend's J-Crew v-neck shirt, which bristles in the wind as he marches inside. Right now, we are aliens in this foreign land, identities constructed for us way before we arrived in Northwestern Pennsylvania.
This is my fourth year at Allegheny, and each year I feel my gender as a male, rich, college, student protrude further and further out in this sea of relatively diminished wealth. I'm from a nice area of the country, and will admit (albeit a bit hesitatingly) that I am, indeed, a rich, white, Jew, from a suburb of New York, and people look and react differently to me here. At home, I am one among many, an affluent kid among many affluent kids, but here I am unique and incredibly (and sometimes when I'm out in town) uncomfortably different.
And I wouldn't have it any other way: I'm relatively attractive (or at least I've been told), and I flaunt it too, sporting my boat shoes and tan corduroys almost daily. I am tall, dark, and speaking within only physical features, I am very different from the majority of these people. They have their own perception of me, one cemented years before I ever arrived in this place.
Is it something constructed in the way I look, dress? Most likely. It's hard to deny that I was dealt a good hand, that I am fortunate enough to come from an affluent upbringing, that I do look like this, and that my gender and place in society was most likely spelled from birth. Here, I have one identity: college kid from up on the hill. And it sticks out. No one, other than my fellow peers, look like me.
Sometimes I feel guilty for the hand I've been dealt, that I am too lucky to have this, that I have a stable family, had a privileged childhood, and that my parents can afford to send me to a top-notch private liberal arts school. And that I look different. That my attitude, intelligence, and overall appearance will most likely yield success in the work force, that I want to make my first million by 30, and will. I was set up and have the tools for a higher achievement that these people most likely do not have.
But then again, the cycle perpetuates itself. I look and am the way I am because my parents were like me, that they worked hard to have this level of living. A family of Jews from New York City, and we earned it. It's just here where I sometimes feel guilt for having this. It's these gender roles, sculpted from not only my sex, but my whole demographic. But I like who I am. A lot. So I accept it willingly.
That guy in the beat up Camry over there, you can stare, judge me all you want. I get who I am. And understand your judgement has nothing to do with me, that you've had these cultural norms and individual perceptions ingrained in your head for decades. And that's fine. I understand.
My friend hops in the car, and I promptly twist the key in the ignition of my 2005 Honda, and skirt off back to campus, my Connecticut license plates flickering off into the distance.
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