I’d never dated a woman whose family had a house in the Hamptons. I’d never seen the wisdom and insecurities of the wealthy up close and personal – the shards of privilege and trenchant anxieties manifesting as laugh lines, crows’ feet and still perky smile. I’d never known someone who drove a BMW, even one that was a hand-me-down. Victoria was so rich she had to pretend she wasn’t.
This was the summit of covid and the year was 2020. The Floyd protests were raging, and she was going out to protests in the center of the city, where the cops were thick and ready with riot gear. “We’re going to block the main highway – this is going to be the moment.” She said to me in another one of our marathon zoom calls.
“What is the moment?” I asked, concerned about her safety.
“The moment we fix what is wrong with this country.” She said, twirling one of her locks.
“Victoria, what are you talking about? The racism in this country – the politics – this isn’t MLK all over again – you’re just a bunch of grad students trying to stop emergency traffic. They’re going to arrest you all.” I grimaced.
“I know you’re worried about me, but this is just something I must do. I’ve grown up with such privileges my whole life. I wanna pay them forward now. I don’t know when I’ll be able to talk to you again.” She said.
“What does this have to do with us? What do you mean you don’t know when you’ll be able to talk to me? What if you get arrested? Is that what you’re saying?”
She shrugged. “I’ll just call my dad and he’ll get me out of jail.”
I didn’t know what to say. I stared into the camera at her chestnut brown eyes and ample freckles.
I’d been living alone in a closet of a studio apartment throughout the pandemic, pouring myself into graduate school and my two jobs. The crushing weight of solitude had begun to get to me; I’d seriously thought that only buying groceries once a week was the most important thing. I’d begun to talk to myself more than usual. Clouds seemed suspicious.
And then, Victoria. She’d been in a class with me and one day decided to send me a message during a Zoom class out of the blue. “Hey – With this whole end of the world thing happening I just want to say I think you’re cool and would love to get to know you.” Wow. Who does that? To me? Not me. I called her after class and we talked for four hours.
Victoria collected anxieties and clutched them to her breast at night. Victoria burned brightest when she was able to hold them out and see that she, in the stead of being a perfect rich-girl angel, was instead a human who had ample flaws and fears. Victoria prided herself on being afraid the most of covid, of being the most concerned about the downtrodden, of being the most anti-cop you could muster. And Victoria had never interacted with a cop, had never gotten in trouble when she was an undergrad at Swarthmore. Victoria was choosing to help others, even though her friends from high school had all gone into lucrative, soul-fucking jobs like investment banking.
“I don’t want to be like them; I want to help people.” She had said to me on our first chat.
Victoria was afraid that people on her block in South Philly would rob her, key her car, hate her, hurt her if they saw that she was the blight parking the gray BMW with NY plates. She’d nursed different mental ailments through her years. Disorders. Stalwart concerns. Misgivings.
These cancers of spirit were expensive to treat and I’d seen so many go toward the vale of tears with only their anxieties to keep them company. Victoria had ample medications, visits with her psychotherapist, who was one of the top therapists in the state of Pennsylvania. People lined up to get appointments with this therapist, camped outside of her doorway with their insurance, only to be told she didn’t take any insurance whatsoever. Crushed. Not Victoria though, no, she had a chance many others didn’t get. Her parents helped her out.
Who wouldn’t help their child through such affairs? The money was always there. The help was needed.
And yet these maladies she had – the depression, the anxiety and much more. They were simultaneously afflictions and affectations. Boutique identity markers. Ways to appear human in a world that judged her harshly for simply being born with more than most could ever need. See? I’m fucked up just like you? Etc. With the money forever flowing, there was no need to confront these issues and eviscerate them as best as possible; I’d seen every fear and misgiving ground out of my friends as they were forced to make their way through life with no training wheels. Fears were expensive. The downtrodden had no option to keep them. They were either upgraded through exposure, or drowned out through the same method. For Victoria, her afflictions and her being could coexist as long as needed. Facing fears became almost optional: the ultimate luxury. And I loved her more than anything. And I wanted to help her be strong. And--
“Victoria, I really think you shouldn’t do this, this isn’t something that is going to end well for you.”
She brought the camera close to her face “I know you love me. I know. And I love you too. But I cannot just sit here and.. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to speak with you again.”
“What does this have to do with anything Victoria? What are you talking about? Is this just because you have white guilt? Because you think you should fix everything so you can have your cake and eat it to? Your father is just going to bail you out? How does this make any sense?”
Click. She was gone.
And just like that,
Victoria went to face her fears.