Itzel Basualdo/Contributing Writer
Sometimes, all we need to know about a person is their name or an article of clothing or a small piece of information in order to judge them. From one tiny premise, we form a massive conclusion regarding this individual: good grades? Nerd. Eccentric style? Weird. Michael Kors watch, Louis Vuitton purse? Classy.
I remember my initial judgment of her and it was bad. Gauges on both ears the size of a quarter, an insane amount of piercings on not just her ears but face, and iridescent short violet hair (and I mean her entire head was purple). I knew I was weird, but this girl was weird-looking 2.0.
This friendship was unforeseeable.
As roommates we were forced to converse, and we talked about our lives back home: I told her of the tacky, humid nature of Miami and she told me of the lipid lifestyle in rural Massachusetts. By day five, we had clicked. And when it came time to part, the last thing we wanted was to be apart. Note: this is not a lesbian love story.
Meghan changed my life. During the time we spent together, she dyed my hair and she dyed her hair again (for the 13th time, roughly). I confided in her the secrets I stored away in the darkest corners of my mind and she shared with me the darker times of her past. We talked about the universal teenage girl subject: boys. We cried together as we saw the UK Skins finale and mastered the art of twerking on the sixth floor of our apartment. I couldn’t believe myself for having judged her simply on appearance. I felt ashamed and, even more, basic.
We look at people and immediately make assumptions when we know absolutely nothing about them. Tattoos and other signs of unconventionality, like purple hair, are frowned upon in the business place, or are deemed trashy and “unprofessional.” We’re all people; we all have our own share of idiosyncrasies and strange beliefs (cat owners beware: your cat will suck your soul in your sleep, dementor-style).
In the wise letters of Aretha Franklin: RESPECT. So what if I don’t wear skin-tight, suffocating, Saran-wrap-like clothing to “flaunt” my body? What if I wear black lipstick? Does that make me weird? I wanted J. Cole to get off the stage at the concert.
Does that dismiss our possibility of “friendship?” Does my choice to not read a book deemed necessary – when I can seemingly get by with just class notes – make me mediocre? Go ahead. Judge me.