*Originally written in 2018 (when these references were fresher).
I really try not to act like a “basic white girl.” Heaven forbid I get caught watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians or taking a tasteful bathroom selfie. I don’t wear UGGs, I don’t shop at Lululemon, and I refuse to listen to Taylor Swift. However, there is one thing– one very little, teeny tiny, miniscule “basic” thing that brings me a lot of joy.
It just so happens to be the defining factor of the trade.
The Pumpkin Spice Latte
(white girl crack)
From August to November, white girls flock to any and every Starbucks to get another hit of that good good spicy pumpkin. To feel alive again. To feel fall running through their veins. The Iced Macchiato, the Green Tea Frap, even the Peppermint Mocha, has nothing on that glorious Pumpkin Spice. In the past, I had been that person who bought the “PSL” in August. But when I began to hear the jokes about girls and their pumpkin addictions, when Emma Roberts, as her iconic sorority girl role, Chanel, refused a sub-par Pumpkin Spice Latte, when I could only hear the words in a valley girl voice, “Oh my gaaaaaaaawd! I can’t even until I get my Pumpkin Spice Latte,” I gave it up cold turkey. I refused to become just another stereotype. And with a Pumpkin Spice Latte, it was too easy to become just that: BASIC.
You can make stained glass. You can delete Snapchat. You can spend an upsetting amount of time talking about your BM’s. And yet, the moment you order a Pumpkin Spice Latte, you ARE a “basic white girl.”
Everyone looks at you and silently judges, “Look at that girl and her pumpkin spice latte. I wonder if she’s on her way to Target, her natural habitat.” And you can’t help it, the caffeinated goodness infuses your bones, your blood, your brain! You look down, and you’re wearing leggings. How did that happen?! You don’t remember putting them on this morning. You don’t even own a pair! Out of nowhere, you begin saying, “like” every fourth word. Are you getting louder, or are you just ashamed that impulsively you feel the need to talk about how Savannah needs to “DTR” with Caleb? Every cactus related item is screaming your name. Chris finally texts you back (after 30 minutes), and you respond with a text exclusively in emojis. Your hair is in the highest bun you have ever seen.
And the worst part of it all…
you liked it.
The rush, the warmth, the expectation of fall (the white girl’s favorite season) is controlling. It can change a person.
At a group dinner last week, I realized that all of these thoughts, my stance against the Pumpkin Spice Latte, are coming directly from 2014. As we ate, I mentioned being a “basic white girl.” They responded with comments like, “is that even a thing anymore?” and, “when was the last time you were called that?” I guess it’s true. I feel like I’m the only person who uses the word “basic” anymore (when I use it, however, it’s not directed at girls as much as all of the boys I find on dating apps, but that’s an essay for another time).
I don’t call white girls “basic” anymore. A female isn’t “basic” because she doesn’t feel like going to a real coffee shop on her way to work. Starbucks is faster and on her route. A female isn’t “basic” because she has found a pair of comfortable yoga pants that make her feel good about her body. A female isn’t “basic” for enjoying fall. We are all humans with likes and dislikes. It just happens that some of us have more in common than we’d like to admit. But if all of this is true, if there is no such thing as a “basic white girl,” why do I still refuse to drink Pumpkin Spice Lattes?
I went to a Starbucks (connected to a Target, so, yikes, off to a bad start). I was on a mission to cure my exhaustion as well as depressed and anxious mood. I knew what could cure it, but I had been resisting it for so long; I worried what it would do to me. Like eating cheese after being a vegan for years. You went to protests to stop the slaughtering of animals. You’ve watched all the documentaries on meat. You believe in the resistance. But one day, you just really want cheese. A good creamy brie with some fig jam and a pear slice. Your dog watches you as you cut into your first slice. As the cheese pulls away softly, you tell him, “Don’t look at me.” After taking a bite, how would you feel about yourself? About who you have proclaimed to be to others? About who you are behind closed doors?
For me, getting a Pumpkin Spice Latte would be something like that.
I tried and failed the first time. Having stood in line for about a minute, I chickened out and left the Target entirely. The second time I tried, I brought a friend. I told her what I was craving; though she didn’t agree with the craving for herself (“too sweet”), she didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t indulge. I walked up to the counter. There was one person behind the register. She asked what I wanted. I said, with my head down, and in a low tone that sounded like giving up as well as giving in, “Can I get a Pumpkin Spice Latte?” She punched the order in and got to work. It was done within two minutes. She didn’t call my name like I was hoping she would. She called out the order. And it was loud. Wake the neighbors loud.
I looked around in embarrassment. Who heard? Who was snickering about “that white girl’s order”? No one was looking; no one noticed. I took the cup quickly.
The first sip was everything.
Warmth and happiness. It was as if I had been depleting my body of all goodness for years. It was like being able to breathe again. As I shopped around with my friend that day, I couldn’t help but comment on how good this drink was. I felt like my insides had put on a sweater. I felt like I was sitting by a campfire. I remembered everything great about fall. Apple picking, football games, Thanksgiving. It was a Grinch’s “heart grew three sizes” experience if I’ve ever had one.
I told another friend about the experience last night over drinks. At first, his reaction, jokingly, was exactly what I would have expected in 2014 (“When you spell “basic” do you use a capital B?”). But after digging into the stigma a little more, he said, “Maybe it’s not “basic.” Maybe it’s rebellious.”
Why? It took me a while to wrap my mind around a Pumpkin Spiced Latte every being an act of rebellion, but I think I understand now. I can’t be the only one too afraid of being perceived as “basic.” I’m sure there are tons of us, too scared to show our faces in a Starbucks. If I step out and show the world that I am not afraid of the stigma, and I have every right to occasionally enjoy a seasonal drink, then maybe I am rebellious. Because I am not “basic,” not even a little. And I shouldn’t feel ashamed of liking what I like. It shouldn’t define me. It shouldn’t define any of us.
So, stand with me! Break the stigma! Allow yourself to stop worrying about what others think! Drink Pumpkin Spiced Lattes!
Just don’t do it while you’re wearing Lululemon. That’s Basic.