Georgia Marshall, Freshman
I’m going to go ahead and assume that everyone has committed the humiliating act of talking about somebody without realizing they’re right behind you. It’s so easy to do that it can happen in warm, bustling, friendly coffee shops. It can happen even to those of us who pride ourselves on being open-minded, non-judgmental, and easygoing. It was a Saturday morning. My Mom and I were at our favorite spot to grab coffee and donuts in Beverly – the Atomic Cafe. We often go there on weekend mornings to enjoy pastries and hot drinks before a brief shopping spree through Copper Dog Books and Worthy Girl next door.
We ordered at the register, and then my Mom went to the adjacent juice shop to grab a fresh squeezed orange juice in a futile attempt at fighting against the cold that had brought down everyone in my family except her (spoiler alert: she came down with it the next day). I waited for my order at one of the mini booths by the counter. A gothy-looking couple was sharing the booth by the other window, whispering to each other through curtains of bottled black hair. A runner leaned against the window glass with his sneakered foot propped against the wall. A toddler waddled towards me, and though I adore kids, I dreaded the idea of the mother and everyone else turning their attention on me and waiting to see what cute and loving gesture I made to make the child laugh, so I snapped my head to the register.
A woman in her early 20s was ordering. In an instant, I decided exactly what type of person she was. From her neon green Stanley to her hot pink nails, all of her screamed Loud and Self-Important Karen. She tossed her highlighted hair over her shoulder and announced to the whole room that she would like a large, non-fat latte with soy milk. “Yeah,” she added, “and could you heat that to 150 degrees? I just need my coffee to be cool. I have a sensitive mouth,” and let out a resounding laugh while pulling out her phone to pay.
Now, I hardly consider myself a judgmental person. And if anyone were to suggest otherwise, I would immediately correct them. Not judgmental, just observant. Still, as I sat by the window, concealed by a painfully bright patch of sunlight, I silently hurled accusations about this stranger’s character, her personality, and her moral compass as she marched past me, her baseball cap-wearing boyfriend in tow. Because the truth is, I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes when I see Stanleys. And neon nails. And non-fat lattes.
When my order was called, I grabbed my mug and made my way to a little table in the corner. My Mom joined me a few minutes later, and after some idle chit-chat, I stopped mid-sentence, eager to regale her with the tale of a real-life Karen. Without so much as a quick, furtive glance around, I told her the story in full detail, complete with an in-depth character analysis of my new apparent enemy. My Mom was just as delighted as I was to partake in this harmless mockery. And just as I was describing the blinding color of her nails (and how they perfectly mirrored the depths of her personality), my Mom’s eyes snapped to something behind us and widened with…was that terror?
“What? What are you…” I slowly turned my head around. My heart began pounding in my ears. I froze, glued to my chair. A neon green Stanley sat on the table directly behind us. And clutched around the water bottle’s handle were a set of pink nails. She sat there silently, easily close enough to be within earshot, her head down and eyes trained on a page of her book. Across from her was her boyfriend, who also sat in intense silence, his body rigid, frozen in place. They weren’t talking to each other, but instead trying very hard to appear…invisible.
In that instant, my perception shifted. She seemed… nice. Humble. At the very least, entirely undeserving of my not-so-silent criticism. After all, what did I know? How much of her character could really be revealed in her coffee order, nail color, or choice of water bottle? The truth is, on the flip side of my observational prowess, though I loathe to admit it, I can be judgmental. And in this case, my careless judgment probably caused some strong discomfort. I felt terrible. To me, she was a self-centered, Stanley-toting Karen. How dare she order a soy milk non-fat latte for the whole cafe to hear? To her, I’m certain I was a precocious brat with a superiority complex. Which one of us was accurate? All I can say is one of us, at least, had the decency to keep our thoughts to ourselves.
Just as quickly as I realized what happened, I scooped all of my possessions into my purse, snapped upright, and silently bolted through the nearby doorway to Copper Dog Books. Moments later, from my hiding spot behind a bookshelf, I saw my Mom come in without a word of argument, even though we’d only been at the shop for a few minutes. We combed through books in silence, still shaking from pure terror. Through the bone-crunching embarrassment and horror of the moment, I learned something. Snap judgments aren’t always accurate, and we’d do well to always work to keep our minds open and our judgments in check. And when we fail to do so, in those moments when our observations crystallize into opinion, for the love of all that is holy, at the very least, scan the room before broadcasting them at the top of your lungs.