Filtered Out

I keep trying to figure out where I fit in this city. Odd, yes? Because I am from here. But medical school kind of complicates this notion of “belonging”. I feel like I’m always bouncing around, trying to figure out the right place to study. Most of the time, it is school. ::ShuDDeR:: I can get a great deal of work done when I get a study room—sit there by myself or with Sola. Headphones in our ears—and sometimes hours pass by without much being said. We eat together, we study together, we ride or walk home together. This is often the equivalent of study nirvana for me. Being around someone that doesn’t stress me out is kind of a beautiful thing. And we are good friends. So to share in the evil that is medical school is kind of a bonding experience. Suffering makes people really close. I would know—I went to a relatively malignant high school program and also to Yale. The pattern is the same no matter how you cut it. Work-->Downpression-->Camaraderie. This is the simple linear relationship that is my life with school and friends.

But, sometimes I want to be by myself. I’m an only child. I have this deeply insular world that I need to tap into from time to time. I’m a thinker. I like to feel anonymous, and yet accountable. This is why I end up at cafes and coffee shops. This is why I’ve ended up at Filter Café in Wicker Park two Fridays in a row. This is why I go to other places to study that I won’t name (because I don’t want to see you there, sorry)! And plus, if you’re my real friend, you know where I am. And that’s all that matters. It’s always good to let at least one person know where you are, even when you’re avoiding everyone you know.

Anyway, Raj and I ended up at Filter this past Friday. We ate breakfast and then I opened up Goljan’s Path book. And the magic happened. Then a baby was brought into the establishment. Why would you bring your baby to a place like Filter? In the study section?! To a place where they serve Hipster Hash? And why would you sit next to me? I’m studying. I have a book out, and a pen that is FLYING over paper landing, and earphones in. But the baby was cute, and didn’t make a fuss until she made a fuss and the parents were embarrassed and left. So I scratched “baby sighting” off my list of annoying things that happen when you study. Raj had left by this time, so he wasn’t privy to the hipster ass in my face hours after baby had left.

Why do you need to stand up and type on your computer in the AISLE? Why do you need to put your ASS in my face—up in my vicinity? I wanted, so badly, to say something. But I didn’t want to be that colored chick making a fuss. I guess that’s my problem. I’m of the “pick your battles” variety, but I wanted to cut him. I did.

And that’s when I realized it. I am not a hipster. And Wicker Park cannot be my study spot. I thought that maybe, just maybe, my predilection for the “underground”, vintage, Passion Pit, and Dirty Projectors aligned me with hipsters. But, now I realize why I’m not a hipster. Reason # 1: I don’t think I’m the only person on the planet! I’m considerate of other human beings. Reason # 2: My ego isn’t tied up in my desire to out-do someone with how ridiculous my clothing can be or how tight my pants are. Reason # 3: I don’t have a NEED to be seen. Reason # 4: I am not from a privileged ethnic group.

Reason # 4. This might be the most important of all. Reason # 4 is why Reasons 1-3 exist. There is just something about being privileged that gives people license to do and act as if others aren’t impacted. It’s an overall laissez-faire vibe that permeates all that these people do. You can put your ass in my face because I am invisible to you. I don’t factor into your equation. You can bring your baby to a coffee shop because that won’t bring extra attention to you, especially if you look like everyone else.

Now, I’m no stranger to racial ambiguity. And I’m not saying that I don’t have certain privileges that others of my own “race” may not. I am aware of that. And that is kind of what separates me from the privileged—a constant reification that I am “other”. Not hipster. Not completely black, not completely white. Not completely anything solid. Just “inter”.

So maybe I’ll be scouring this city for other spaces to insert myself. Other places where I can achieve my goals of anonymity for the moment. But, it won’t be Filter. Aside from the vast spread of “nothing like me’s” scattered about the place, the joint gets blasted hot if you sit anywhere near a window. Your name is Filter. Can’t you Filter out the sun?

I think this assessment of Filter is a micro-commentary on Wicker Park in general. I like being there because it’s full of action and I like to be in awe of the ridiculous things I see. It’s like anthropological participant observation. They have some cool stores mixed in with the gritty. Most of the food isn’t anything special. And there is a mix of races and ethnicities walking in Wicker Park, or waiting for the next bus. But, I don’t see many “others” inside of the more pricey establishments, or even the moderately pricey ones like Filter (expensive for a coffee shop) and Piece (more expensive than commercial pizza joints). All the things that get me into Wicker Park, make me want to run out of it.

Gentrification is really something. But, that is for another blog post. While I can’t wrap my mind around all the things I truly love about Wicker Park—maybe there aren’t any. It’s complicated. It’s a place where I like to observe and draw conclusions—make assessments about the state of young folks in Chicago—contemplate why a girl might wear sheer green stirrup pants and tattered shoes with deliberateness. But, it’s also a place where the big windows are really slits. The people on the outside will stay on the outside. And somehow I got to slip through and join the majority.

But, I don’t quite fit.