On Playing the Bitch in Black

Collage by Mikayla Alpert

In high school, I desperately wanted to be the main character. Brunswick, Maine--population 20,329--didn’t seem to offer much competition, but I soon found myself submerged in a tide of oversized corduroy shirts and Birkenstocks, unable to stick up my arm and desperately signal my own difference. Simply put, this was because I wasn’t all that different. Still, 15-year-old me was unwilling to accept defeat and began the long process of reinvention. 

Spurned by theater department cast lists--to be fair, I can’t really sing--I turned to play a different character, one that wasn’t just reserved for the patchily painted auditorium stage. I started wearing all black. I bought a leather blazer at Goodwill. I learned to raise one eyebrow (a skill I have unfortunately not retained). These additions to my wardrobe, paired with my moderate case of RBF and the fact that I’m six foot two in my favorite boots, made me pretty unapproachable. I also started listening to Mitski, and nobody wanted to disturb a new fan in the turbulent emotional throes of Geyser. 

Thus began my transformation into “Cool Girl,” a journey informed by Pinterest boards and Francoise Hardy paparazzi shots. At some point, I latched on to the myth of New York City, wanting to be generically sophisticated gave way to wanting to be a capital-N New Yorker. Instead of trying to find a space of comfort and growth in the town I was in, I made a city I had visited less than five times the cornerstone of a new, manufactured personality. When college admissions time rolled around, I clung to the mantra “NYC or bust.” I crossed my fingers and applied to Columbia early, then started to work on the essays for NYU, which my parents definitely could not afford. 

This playacting probably seems harmless to you, but the flipside was more insidious. In the process of idolizing all things New York, I began to look down on all things Brunswick. L.L. Bean duck boots and the tiny downtown skating rink became quaint at best and repulsive at worst. I made myself miserable for no reason, convincing myself that I had to “get out” even though my life was perfectly comfortable. One of my big regrets is that I spent the time between my Columbia acceptance in December and move-in day the next August itching to leave instead of enjoying my last months with my friends and family. 

I also started carrying around what I thought was a necessary accessory for any New York woman: aloofness. This new trait catered to my natural shyness, so I enjoyed it for a while. It made me feel powerful, like I could choose my interactions carefully, and that it made me seem irresistibly mysterious. I only realized that I wasn’t so happy with my transformation after a guy I was dating told me what his friend had said when they found out we were together: “How did that happen? She’s so untouchable.” Her words didn’t make me feel powerful; they made me feel alone. 

The thing is, I don’t want to be untouchable or unapproachable, and I no longer think that I have to be in order to fulfill a self-imposed stereotype. After a few semesters in NYC, I’ve learned that there is no one “New York City Girl” that I should strive to be. I know of dozens of women that are impeccably cool and that I would like to be more similar to creatively or aesthetically (a few of them work for this zine) and they come from all over the place: small towns, big towns, villages, rural communities, metropolises. Not one of them is vibrant or interesting in spite of where they come from. New York is not the end-all, be-all of culture and although I love it in a way that is more informed and genuine than I could in high school, it is far from perfect. 

I will never be from a big city, and that doesn’t make me any less cool. My obsession with soap making videos and Cats the Musical--those are what make me less cool. I’m still in the process of accepting this as truth; in the meantime, you’ll find me in a black turtleneck on the steps of the Met. Just kidding. I’ll be in my tiny apartment singing Memories.