Hot Grrrl Shit

I work at the Sweetgreen on Bowery. The wealthy hipster influencer Mecca. Perfectly surrounded by Noho and Soho, the LES, and the East Village. On the street that birthed New York punk legend, scrubbed clean enough of the grunge and grime for white women in LuLu Lemon to comfortably shop for CBD-infused makeup, but still pretentious enough to brag about the radical ideals 315 Bowery once hosted. I dish out overpriced salads to people who just finished working out at Equinox or Soul Cycle. 

I’ve spent my whole life being the one black kid in history class during the slavery unit, and yet, I still have never felt more out of place than I feel walking to the subway after work in my uniform. I want nothing more than to let Golf Le Fluer clad Timothee Chalamet clones that I don’t usually wear sketchers, that I have to for work but I usually wear Docs or Converse or Air Forces. I want the cool girls I chat with while I make their salads to be my friend, but then I remember I’m just the girl that makes them the salads that cost my salary. 

I wear a tank top under my uniform and throw on my button-adorned thrifted jean jacket to change into for the sake of not looking uncool in the five minutes it takes me to get to the subway.  I walk to the subway with my Sweetgreen bag in hand. I pretend I bought it, and not that I worked 6 hours for a salad that meets the $15 employee meal maximum. I wish I didn’t find this all so embarrassing.

I’m privileged enough to live in one of the most unforgiving cities in the country, I work a part-time job where I make $9 more than the federal minimum wage, and if I were to lose the job, I could survive on support from my parents, knowing my dorm is paid for through a series of loans I try my best not to think about. But I still dream of a life where I could do nothing but occasional freelance writing, sell zines and jewelry and post on my Instagram while still living in a spacey loft in the East Village where I live a Gen Z Sex and the City life. 

My friends and I make fun of these people. We scoff at the NYU grads who are “taking time to focus on themselves”. The kind who, when you ask what they do for work, list a myriad of hobbies that barely supplement the trust funds that actually pay for their lifestyles. We roll our eyes when they describe themselves as ‘comfortable’ and avoid explaining what their parents actually do. But deep down, we wish we were them. Our hatred of them is fueled by envy masked as class consciousness. We swear we’re glad that we’re not them, that we have personalities and work hard, but we secretly scroll through Hinge hoping to lock down a trust fund baby. 

I tell myself I hate them for the same reason I change out of my uniform before I go home. As an act of self-defense. To keep me from crying over how incredibly unchic working an entry-level service job is.