Passing for Hipster

When last I spoke of my trials with the publication of my work in the Marymount Manhattan Review, I had just succeeded in having the correct versions published by wearing down the head of the Creative Writing Department/editor of the magazine/my future professor for the last 4 semesters of my undergrad experience. I was feeling pretty grand.

A week prior to the arrival of the magazine, I got another email from Professor Williams. He never gives them subject lines, so they always make me nervous because they could spontaneously yell at me, like an electronic howler. This one, however, was just informing me that there would be a publication party and reading of the magazine the following Sunday evening. He concluded by asking me to read my poems, and I agreed, figuring he had to meet me eventually and it might as well be this semester, before he had any control of my grades. Maybe I could prove to him that I am not a diva or difficult to work with! Maybe I was wrong...

I had intended to change after church that Sunday, but some unexpected rain, an absurdly long choir practice, and an impromptu decision to see the school's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream to attain extra credit made that entirely impossible. A friendly old woman shared her umbrella with me at the bus stop, but by the time I got to school, I was basically soaked to the skin. By the end of the play, I was dry from the ankles up, but entirely bedraggled. I was embarrassed. Then I walked into the room where the reading was happening.

I fit right in. The dear friends I brought with me stuck out like sore thumbs, as did my current Creative Writing professor; they were wearing colors entirely too bright, and smiles entirely too wide. The room was swarming with hipsters. Long, dark skirts, baggy sweaters, ripped up boots, greasy hair, and giant crosses adorned all of the women, without exception, and the guys were universally in flannel and torn jeans. In suede boots, a long purple skirt, a sweater sagging from the rain, and my own little gold cross, I looked like a poor attempt at subscribing to their dress code. I slunk into a chair in the back and ate cupcakes with my friends and professor, trying not to laugh at the drama unfolding around me.

Everyone began the reading of their pieces like this: "Hi, my name is [insert name here], and I just want to thank Jerry Williams for all that he has done for me. I would not be the person or the writer that I am today if it were not for his enormous influence in my life. He has made me a better human, and I am indebted to him forever!" Then they read in slow, monotonous voices, full of dramatic pauses and distressed facial expressions. I was of course, second to last, so the tone was well established by the time my name was called.

"Hi, my name is Laura, and this is my poem, Interdit." Then I read it, pausing only where I had written pauses in, and changing my tone with the tone of the words. I read it, you know, like a normal human. When I finished, I started walking back to my seat, but Professor Williams stopped me.

"Aren't you going to read your other piece?"

Frankly, I was homesick, tired, and uncomfortable. I was the only person in the room who hadn't mentioned drugs or dropped the f-bomb, and I was beginning to suspect I only made it into the magazine because I referenced Salinger. I was passing for Hipster, but it wasn't going to last if I read an emotional poem about my family and our house. So I just said, "No, I am not," and went back to my seat. I have never seen Jerry Williams look so confused or unsure of himself. Who was I to refuse him? Who was I to deny him having an enormous influence in all areas of my life? Who was I at all?

I keep running into him in the hallways, and he always does a double take, that same confusion on his face. I have a feeling that I am going to be an entirely new experience for him as a student, and I hope my GPA can handle that.