Good Morning Lilah

5.

5.

Raj and I are being as inconspicuous as can be. We're practically molded to our green armchairs, our eyes glued to our respective devices. I'm in the midst of trying to write a thesis statement for a paper due on Wednesday, while Raj is probably writing some code that'll save lives or up his GPA a fraction of a point. We're just doing our things, alternating between our hot beverages and our pastries, when none other than my least preferred barista comes striding over, her long ponytail swaying from side to side.

I think that maybe she'll refill Raj's green tea, but she doesn't have a kettle in sight. In fact, her apron isn't even on, exposing her full chest that's usually at least halfway covered up. But now, her tie-dyed tank top is free for the entire world to see. It goes along well with her headband—one those hippie headbands that sometimes guys wear, too, and are thick and kind of scrunched. Part of my freshman year orientation was going on a camping trip, and our guide wore one of those headbands. He always played acoustic guitar. I wonder if Lilah consciously became a stereotype.

She reaches us and takes a seat right on the edge of Raj's unused armrest.

"Shalom. I'm on break," she says.

I say nothing.

Raj says, "Where are you from?"

"Well, technically, I was born in New York, but I grew up in—"

"No, no," Raj interjects. "I mean to say, from where does your family come?"

"New York."

Raj shakes his head. "Originally. Before America."

"Oh. Eastern Europe, mainly."

"Hmmmm..." contemplates Raj. "You don't look white." He's not being offensive. I know what he means. Sure, Lilah has objectively "white" skin, but there's color in it. She could be from anywhere. Ethnically ambiguous, as she used to joke.

"That's because I'm not white," replies Lilah.

I almost cringe at what's coming next.

"You're not?"

"No—I'm Jewish. Or white passing, even though race is a social construct."

Raj doesn't know how to respond. I didn't know how to respond, either, when she told me that at the ignorant age of sixteen. Now, I understand it more, but I'm old enough to call semi-bullshit on it.

"I'm sorry—I don't understand," says Raj. "If you're European, then you're white."

And then Lilah goes into her classic diatribe about how despite the color of her skin being what society perceives as "white," she is only white because white Anglo-Saxon Protestants finally decided she was white after World War II. I've heard this rant at least a handful of times. Before her parents sent her to Israel during her senior year of high school, she wasn't like this. At least, not as particular about her identity. Anyway, she brushes over the whole exile thing and about how the Jews could never fully assimilate because they're a nation within a nation and like I get it, but it's also shit. She's living in an America that is hyper focused on race, even if the liberal media tries to pretend that it's not. To America at large, she is WHITE. She may self-identify as Jewish, but you don't immediately know that she's Jewish (even though she usually makes a point to tell you), the way that you know Raj is Indian or my freshman roommate, Carson, is black.

When Lilah steps down from her soapbox, Raj still looks confused.

"Are you sure you're just from Europe?" he presses.

"There may be a few generations in the Middle East back there."

"I would've guessed that you're Italian or Greek."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"Your hair—it's so black."

She smiles. "Can I tell you a secret?" She leans in to Raj as he nods his head conspiratorially. "I dyed it."

I feel like running to the nearest restroom and hiding for an eternity. Physically, she's too close to me right now. Her proximity is fuelling my anxiety. If she could just pop back over to behind the counter, it'd be a much safer distance. Just hearing her speak makes my muscles tense. She has one of those quiet voices—the type that are perfect for rainy days—but it also has this sensual quality about it, that I can't stand. Hearing her talk, seeing her here—it's too much.

"What is your natural color?" Raj wonders.

"Dark brown," she says.

"It's not drastically different," I let slip.

Lilah smirks. Her eyes zero in on me. I can't help but make eye contact with her. "Welcome to the conversation, William Brooks—the third. It's a pleasure to have your invaluable input."

"The pleasure is all mine," I mumble.

She smirks again. "So," she says, "how did you two meet? Wait—let me guess. Roommates? Lab partners—wait, no, Will doesn't do science. Tutoring for science?"

"Serendipity," I say. "What else would it be?"