When I am in public, I often try to stand in a cool pose - not obviously enough that it seems contrived, but in a subtle way. A brief history of where this habit came from:
When I was in lower school, I was not very good at sports, especially basketball (I remain bad at sports, including basketball). At the school I went to, the way teams were picked was fairly rigid and hierarchical. You had:
a. Two team captains, usually the best players;
b. Everyone else, who stood in a line;
c. And the two team captains would then alternate picking people, best to worst.
As fate would have it, I got picked last for almost every single game at recess. Not only did this feel bad, but everyone else knew it did, too, which made it feel even worse.
If you were wondering, standing in a cool pose (see: above) didn't work. I still got picked last. But I still stand in cool poses anyways because you never know when someone might overestimate your cool-ness, which feels like aloe on a very sun burned ego.
Fast forward back to the present - last week, specifically. It was the afternoon of the Activities Fair at Princeton, and if you are beginning to doubt the universalism of this tale, don't worry. If you've ever been approached by any sort of religious proselytizer on the street, the Princeton Activities Fair is like a gym full of people talking to you in that way.
The gym itself was extremely hot and humid, and I couldn't hear very well since there were a couple hundred people walking around and talking at the same time. After I got over the shock of so many people, and had built up the sufficient courage to say polite "no thanks"-es to various groups, I stood in my characteristic cool pose.
Despite the heat of the room, and the overwhelming spectacle that was the Activities Fair, I felt my coolness cooling me off. All of this was, of course, to be ruined. One of the nice guys from the campus meditation group tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around.
"Uh," he began, "do you know - " He gulped. " - about the sticker on the back of your shirt?"
At this point in time, I was not. I felt shaken, queasy almost. A non-consensually placed sticker on my back? I thought while frenetically trying to see what was on the back of my shirt. Here's what was on it, per my illustration:
"The Tab?" THE TAB? For those unfamiliar with The Tab, it's a journalism website remarkably similar to The Odyssey Online. It features writers whom are college students from across the country reporting on current events, their lives, and things like that.
But how did they know that I write for The Odyssey? Were they trying to start a brand war? Did they even know that I don't have particularly strong brand loyalty and that I just want to express myself (sorry to my editors!)? Did they do it because I looked vulnerable? Able to be bullied? Because I wasn't standing in a cool enough pose?
Was this the one-decade-later equivalent of getting picked last for basketball at recess?
To be honest, dear readers, I'm still unsure of this mysterious Tab writer's motivations; but what I am sure of is that I didn't want to be turned into a walking advertisement without my consent (although this self-commodification is essentially the function of most types of social media, but that's a discussion for another day).
To cope with this latest, momentous, grave occurrence in my life, I have been contemplating a couple of alternate histories.
Four things the sticker could have said instead of "The Tab," all of them more worthy use of a sticker:
Four things the person could have said to me before the incident in question, rather than nothing:
1. "You know, I'm not an anarchist, but I don't agree with borders or boundaries, so let me put this sticker on you."
2. "You have a cool pose. Do you play basketball or other such sports?"
3. "Hey, I'm having trouble controlling myself near the backs of strangers' shirts. Do you think we could talk alone and figure out a reasonable compromise before I put this sticker on your back without your permission?"
4. "Hi, I work for The Tab. I have been silently surveilling you, and this sticker is meant to both intimidate you and let you know that I have been watching you."
Those are enough of my thoughts for now. The question I have for all of you, dear comrades, is what would you want to be on a sticker that was on your back without your knowledge? And what would you want the culprit to say to you? Let me know! You can email me at nickysteidel@gmail.com.
