A summer of disillusionment and small pleasures

And just like that, I have two weeks left in Dallas. Three months is a weird amount of time to spend somewhere. It's enough to get into a rhythm but not enough to make friends you’ll keep in touch with (at least in my case).

If this summer has taught me anything, it’s that there’s a fine line between contentment and malaise, and 95% of that nuance is a conscious choice. Sometimes the difference between a good day and a bad day is what I have for lunch. And if I don’t have lunch at all, there’s no chance of a happy afternoon. 

I work at a coffee shop near my house, and on my first day I met a woman named Karen who’s become a constant in my life this summer. She introduced herself as “the good kind of Karen,” and that’s proved very true. I love a self-aware sixty-something-year-old! Karen comes in twice a day: for a hot latte in the morning and a cold latte in the afternoon. She always asks me if I’ve done the Wordle yet, and if I haven’t, we do it together. 

When I told her that my other job is working for KERA, she said, “oh I just love when you learn something new about someone!” It turns out she’s a longtime fan of the station and a generous donor. I’ve since realized that learning new things about people sort of turned into my motivation for the summer. Curiosity has served me pretty well, especially because my first instinct is often judgment. And keeping an eye out for things that interest me or bring me joy makes an otherwise monotonous routine as magical as it gets. 

On my commute

On Sunday nights I plan out fun things to do in the upcoming week. Apart from work, I don’t have to answer to anyone, so I can basically wander wherever the DART line will take me, whenever I want. I’ve been to some museums, gone to a movie, seen a Bleachers concert, wandered around used bookstores and tried out some yoga classes. 

I always see the same people on my commute into downtown. My bus drivers recognize me. I hope they feel the good vibes I'm sending them, because I'm truly so grateful for public transportation. I couldn’t live here if I couldn’t take a bus into the city to work. 

There’s a hole in the wall coffee shop a block from my office that makes the best iced americano I’ve ever had. The barista there noticed the California charm on my necklace and told me she’s from Newport Beach. 

In my office, people are relentlessly kind to me. This week the news executive editor surprised me with a personalized name tag for my cubicle. My coworker gives me a ride home whenever I need it, even though I don't live anywhere close to him.

And there’s the neighborhood cats that I see every day. Blackie and Gizmo: stray twin kittens that my

Blackie & Gizmo

neighbor took in when their mom died. A black and white cat that sleeps on top of a pickup truck. There’s a whole litter that lives next door. There’s anywhere from three to ten of them, it’s hard to tell. My personal favorite is a raggedy kitty named Trash Cat who’s made a home in – you guessed it – a pile of trash. She’s very cranky and always looks like I just woke her up from a nap. 

But it hasn’t all been a picnic. There have been thunderstorms and hail that knocked out our power. I got a nasty bout of pink eye that rendered my eyes so swollen that even the Urgent Care receptionist couldn’t help but gawk at me. I sleep on a squishy rectangle placed directly on my bedroom floor that’s somewhere between a mattress and a piece of foam. Plus there’s the loneliness and exhaustion that comes from working seven days a week in a new city. 

There’s also an element of living essentially alone that weighs on me most hours of most days. It’s the hyper-vigilance that all women develop at a young age – the two extra steps we have to take every time we go out in public. 

I get unwanted attention from men just about every day on my commute. They yell at me from across the street, honk at me, stop in intersections to blow me kisses, look me up and down on the bus with unflinching, unblinking eyes. They tell me to smile, to come talk to them, to give them a chance, to let them buy me a drink. Not one of these interactions has ever been flattering or empowering. They are not an indication of my exceptional beauty or allure. I don't even count them as flirting. Instead, they’re a reminder of my position in a society that views me as an attractive but disposable entity. I’m a passing form of entertainment, forgotten as soon as I round the corner, not valuable beyond what I provide to the next man. 

If that conclusion makes you angry, or your first instinct is to tell me that not all men see me that way, ask yourself why. And consider this: of all the times I’ve been treated inappropriately, not once has a good man defended me. Not by telling off my harasser or putting himself in between me and someone threatening, and not even by offering me a comforting smile. Not once. 

Every time this happens I have to make a choice. If I respond, is it going to make the situation better or worse? If I keep my head down and refuse to acknowledge them, will they take that as a rejection or as complacency? If I bite back and defend myself, will that make them angry? It never gets easier. 

I love my life and I love my job. But there are things that will always be shadowed. I get dressed in the morning and wonder if the pair of pants I pick will be the difference between getting catcalled and being left alone. On the bus, I hope my headphones keep the man who’s sitting too close to me from talking to me. On the street, I leave one ear out so no one can walk up behind me without me hearing. 

It’s hard to completely abandon the fear, because it keeps you safe. But lately, there’s a layer of anger that’s been building on top of it. I’m a strong, successful person and I know that I deserve respect. I also hate feeling out of control. So imagine how frustrating it is to be crossing the street on the way to your job that you love, feeling like a million bucks, when a stranger twice your age says something so vulgar to you that you wonder if you even heard him right for a moment. If you’re me, you find that experience so dehumanizing that you get on your bus and silently cry. 

There’s a line from Lorde’s verse in girl, so confusing that keeps looping in my head. 

“Girl, you walk like a bitch”

When I was ten someone said that

And it’s just self-defense 

Until you’re building a weapon

She’s talking about putting her guard up at a young age because of misogynistic criticism. And what started as self-preservation turned into offense. I can’t get this out of my brain.

I’m a sensitive person, I’m not hateful. I try to be as compassionate and forgiving as I can. But I find myself so exhausted by the battery of misogyny that exhaustion turns to sadness and sadness turns to rage. Sometimes when I’m walking downtown I notice that my jaw is clenched so hard that it hurts.

How do you reconcile wanting to be at peace, but knowing that you have a right to be angry? And that your anger might keep you safe? Sometimes being a bitch feels like the only option.