Charming as a Verb

by Ben Philippe

Now, please don’t be one of those douche-nozzles that go around telling women to smile more or anything, but as far as the daily life of a seventeen-year-old Black guy of above-average height goes in this city, I learned a long time ago that smiling goes a very long way.

New York City is still hungover from the holidays and slowly getting the legs of its new calendar year under itself. On every other street, you’ll find stacked in front of brownstones Christmas trees still green with bits of silver tinsel glimmering between their branches. They’re right at home next to the poorly folded boxes from brand-new electronics and the recycling bins swelled with boxes from toys and colorful wrapping paper that has served its purpose of being torn apart by happy hands. All the joys from the holidays are now a set of household chores to get through as quickly as you can or put off as long as possible.

That is another mistake people make: giving the same smile to everyone they come across, regardless of circumstances. There is no such thing as a universal smile.

It wasn’t even a sad-face emoji; it was a brand-new release not yet distributed across all operating systems. Confused with a touch of frightened and just a hint of “Get me out of here, now!” coloring.

“Then it turned out that was only thing number five of a million more things I would go on to also really, really want with every fiber of my body. You never stop wanting, y’know? That’s the human condition.”

It’s established knowledge that all the effort you put into being the perfect college applicant should in turn also look effortless. The great catch-22 of Higher Education. Be perfect and make it look easy.

She’s just naturally likable and flirty and fun. It’s easy for kids who are less popular, or less rich, to dislike the rich white girl from afar, but up close, it’s clear that anyone who actively dislikes Evie probably also hates birthday cake and underwear fresh out of the dryer.

think about the hunger Dad always talks about. You need that hunger in this world. Heck, this entire city is a weird ant farm that proves that fact every single day. Who makes the food, standing on their feet all day for less than the legal minimum wage (because “go home if you don’t like it”); who delivers the food, biking it across icy sidewalks in thirty-degree weather; and who collects it at the door without tipping because the sashimi was three minutes late.

“I call it the O-Generation,” Corinne mutters. “O-Generation?” “Y’know,” she says with a mouthful of rice. “The children of Oprah and Obama.” I instantly understand what she means. Being Black at a school like FATE comes with a certain burden sometimes. The constant notion to prove yourself as truly exceptional to shake off the affirmative action cloud floating over your head, that unfun and constant fear that other people think you’re only where you are because of lowered expectations.

It’s a weird bit of logistics, but I imagine that Slytherin and Gryffindor kids still often have to pose together and smile extra bright in Hogwarts brochures to show that the pesky Potter-era animosity is indeed ancient history.

This year, they have the bombastic confidence of handsome young white men of good families, which is to say infinite.

“Man, small talk is not your forte, huh?” “I don’t believe in it as a lifestyle choice, no.”

“I don’t have to do a damn thing except stay Black, pay my taxes, and die, honey.”

Just be yourself.” “People love saying that.” I sigh. “That’s like screaming at someone having a panic attack not to panic. What if I don’t know what that means?”

“What exactly are you apologizing for? I’ve found that people, men specifically if we’re being honest, really like to apologize,” she says. “Four syllables that cover everything and prevent any introspection or itemization. So I’m asking: what are you sorry for in this instance?”