By Danielle Berg
EFAYW is cross-posted from my personal blog. (Almost) every Wednesday, I tell a story about something very embarrassing that I’ve done recently, or not so recently. Because I’m extremely unphotogenic, I prefer to post a story than a gratuitous photo of mysef, as many tumblrers do on Wendesdays. If you want to contribute your own EFAYW, send us an email: slowcenturymag@gmail.com. It would be nice to know I’m not alone in the making-a-fool-of-myself department.
In the summer of 2005, I received a letter with my college roommate-to-be’s name: Elizabeth Smith*. Because the University of Maryland paired roommates up by scholastic intelligence (we were both in the Scholors program) and focus (along with your major, you had to pick a focus; ours was Media & Society), I expected to have a lot in common with Elizabeth.
Quick aside - lest you think I’m bragging by pointing out that I was in the Scholars program, please note that this was only a step above regular. After Scholars there was Honors, and after that, Gemstone. Scholars kids, from what I remembered, were chosen for their “personality.” Gemstone kids were geniouses, and lived together near the dining hall. So when you saw people walk in and out of the building, you were able to say, “Yup, that kid’s a genious.” This system really took the guess work out of figuring out how much smarter people were than you.
In the middle of the day, I called Elizabeth. Her voice was high and soft. She reminded me of an old friend who spoke in whispers, and I liked Elizabeth right away. We were both journalism majors, both grew up in the suburbs (she in Maryland, me in Long Island) and had lots of things to talk about.
At some point in the conversation, Liz brought up a recent shopping trip. “I just got a pair of Tims I’ve been wanting to buy for the longest time. I’m in love,” she said. “Tims?” I asked. “Yeah, Timberlands. You like them?” “Oh…well,” I explained, “I think they’re alright. But where I live, we don’t wear them. I guess over here they’re for black people or something.”
It’s important to note that I grew up in a mostly white suburb, and that I was an ignorant moron. “We don’t wear them.” Jesus.
Elizabeth was quiet, for a little too long. “Liz, what…uh…nationality are you?” I asked. “Oh, I’m black,” she said. We were going to have an awful time. She was going to hate me and we’d be those roommates who never talk to each other, who complain to their friends about each other - for which she already had plenty of fodder: “My roommate’s a racist.”
“Well, I’m mixed,” she went on. “I’m black, Irish, Mexican and Native American.” At this, she still claims to this day that my reply was, “Oh, so you’ve got, like, a permanent tan. Cool.” But I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have said something that ignorant.
We met in late August, as we moved in our things, and she quickly forgave me. She also played a large role in turning a sheltered Long Islander who called all Asian people Chinese into a fairly cultured individual.
I only stayed there, in Maryland, for a semester. I changed my major to psychology after my journalism professor told me I’d have to wake up each morning an hour early to read the paper cover to cover. Both of these things may have been huge mistakes, but there’s another embarrassing story behind that, which I’ll save for another day. Elizabeth and I had plenty of roommate issues during those four months, but me being a goddamn ignorant moron wasn’t one of them.
*Not her name. Although, if anyone’s identity should be protected in this story, it’s mine. What a freaking idiot.
