Capricorn Man Can Call Me
I don’t know why I sat next to you that first day, but I remember once I did, you whispered some quintessential PoliSci joke about the UN that my new-to-the-world freshman self didn’t fully understand. I overheard it and responded with a quiet “hehe” and, suddenly, we were seat buddies.
I only knew you in those few minutes before class started, when you would come in coffee-clad, cracking more jokes I barely understood, and a few minutes after, when you walked downstairs while I walked up. You didn’t seem to care when I asked questions in an effort to understand your quips—I think you just like being listened to, and I liked peeking at the world through your eyes. The takeaway? The world really is simpler as a white cis-man.
I don’t actually remember any comments in particular, but it's better that way. Instead, you remain a memory in space rather than a point in time. You were the kid who asked questions no one wanted the answers to, introducing policy topics from far beyond the boundaries of this intro class. The only exception to this insufferable trait is when you asked me a question after I ran out of time in my presentation, and set me up to finish exactly what I wanted to say. Thanks for that, and thanks for saving a seat for me even when I was late and the professor locked me out for the first ten minutes of class. Four years later, I still can’t tell if you were flirting with me or just extra friendly when you ran after me when I rushed out of class that one time. If it’s the former, you know where to find me.
This is the first in a series of short, not-quite-non-fiction messages to people that I’ve interacted with over my short time on earth. They are akin to yearbook messages, youtube comments or the anonymous carrier pigeon letter, except that I’m publishing them here because I have no intention to ever tell these messages to the people they are about. Anonymized by the zodiac, with the help of the lovely Claudia Gohn.