on Friendship: Will You Be My (Facebook) Friend?
Look through my News Feed and you’ll soon realize that my Facebook friends have plenty in common: They enjoy posting their relationship statuses online for anyone to see, regardless of how good or bad; They regularly “Check In📍" while vacationing at some spots that are downright extravagant, forcing me to ask myself, “What the hell am I doing wrong here?” Something that they each share, however, is much more compelling: the majority of them are not actually my friends.
The funniest thing about social media is how alone you are while socializing. Sitting at my laptop, I’ve come to realize that I have nowhere near as many friends as Facebook claims. “Who the fuck is that?” I’d ask myself at the day’s birthday list. The fact that I didn’t actually have all of these real-life buddies was a crushing blow to my ego. After obsessing with the notion, repeatedly analyzing my Friends List, and contemplating on whether or not to go through and ultimately unfriend these people, I am left to ponder: How many friends do I actually have?
I decided to find out. My plan was simple enough: send out individual messages to entirely random Facebook “friends,” inviting each one out for a drink for the sole purpose of catching up. After all, a fine bar has always been the original social network. Right?
Case no. 1
“Good morning, Christian.”
She examines me with these eyes, I happen to notice out of my peripherals as I take my laptop out of my backpack, that seem to strike a familiar chord. I’ve seen this look before. The look that lies somewhere between kindness, terror, and killing boredom.
“So,” she starts off, “what’s new?”
“Well…,” I start to respond, before she interrupts me.
“Okay, I’m sorry, but”—pauses. Gets it together—“I always knew you'd call back. You know, sooner or later.”
I stare blankly, like when you order a Corona at a bar and the bartender tells you that you owe him eight dollars. And then she starts grinning and at the same time sort of moves closer to me, grabbing my arm in a cross between a gesture designed to comfort me and an effective move to keep me from running the hell out of this Starbucks we’ve agreed to meet at.
We were a brief item years ago, remained friends after, and lost contact along the way as most people do. A wonderful girl by all means. I can't even remember who walked first. Only thing I know is my plan is starting to unravel and I'm not even five minutes into this social experiment. I'm sweating under my shirt. I feel uneasy and it shows. She picks up on it; she’s quick to remind me that this is “so me.”
“Christian Rangel, what ever happened to us? You were quite the charmer, weren’t you?”
Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling at this moment. Sitting here facing someone dumped one too many times as she asks for me to do it again. Awkward would have been a vacation. Through my visibly tired and worn eyes I can see her start to realize something. The devilishly euphoric prankster sitting next to her is not sticking around. Her smile fades. Grin, eyes, teeth, lips, this is it. I’ve felt this feeling a million times before. Someone please mace me to put me out of my misery. There’s an almost terrifying sense of freedom that comes to someone who has faced a very finite truth. And it’s a sense of freedom that scares the hell out of those of us who haven’t had the guts to face a very finite truth yet. Those of us who are still running from it; those who are hoping that whatever efforts we’re putting forth every day of our lives is going to add up to something special with that special someone. I try to explain where I’m coming from, mind jumbled, ending with this:
”And so you see, I have to put an end to whatever it is you think is happening, because, honestly, I just wanted to see if we were still friends.”
“Why?”
“For my website. You see, I’m writing this piece about how I don’t really have friends and---”
You never truly understand how hot coffee can be until it is thrown directly at your genitals. I cannot stress this enough.
Result, Case no. 1: NOT FRIENDS
Case no. 2
“Jane” is up next. A college friend who frequented the same watering holes and late-night eateries. This was foolproof. I had her number already, so I decided to give her a call. Making an innocent joke to break the ice, I instead had the following interaction:
Jane: Hello?
Me: Hey-ooo! Okay, so I’m working on this article about women and I need you to tell me how it is you like to be turned on.
Jane: This is Steve, Jane’s boyfriend. Jane left her phone here. Who is this?
Me: …
Steve: Hello?
Result, Case no. 2: NOT FRIENDS. Jane didn’t “get” the joke. Also, what kind of guy picks up his girlfriend’s phone calls? What a tool.
Case no. 3
Let’s go, Christian. Okay, gotta make this work, late, damn it, late, Jesus, late, why, late.
I speed-walk to this bar where I’ve planned to meet someone. We worked a freelance event together my first year out of college and I’ve run into him at bars a few times since. Fuck an 0-2 count; He tells me over Messenger that he digs my blog. In an effort to pass myself off as a much more serious, invested, and legitimate writer, I decide to stop at home after work to gear up. I grab my sensible leather notepad, pen, and a highlighter pen (brilliant). Dude, what else, a stapler? Three-hole punch? Just get going.
I walk in and greet him. He’s with friends. I should take this moment to mention that, because of my speed-walking, I’ve developed some minor perspiration under my hair and, as I make my way toward the open spot at the bar, I am rewarded with a refreshing cool feeling on my scalp from the A/C directly above the bar. This breeze, to my surprise, makes me smile pleasantly. I shake the hands of his friends while smiling. One of the friends has taken note of this A/C-fueled grinning expression and starts grinning back. He’s very happy to meet me and tells the bartender to put my Tito’s-Topo-lime on his tab. “Nice guy,” I think to myself.
Before the conversation can gain any momentum, this friend who has just purchased my drink compliments my hair, which I’ve recently cut.
“I love your thick hair,” he says as he runs his hand across the top of my head. Well, alright then. Wasn’t expecting that, but it’s fine. I’m fine.
I’m a few minutes into catching up with my buddy when the friend asks to try my drink. He’s convinced it tastes gross and is leaning in in a very close, very dude-I-swear-to-God-I’m-not-homophobic-but-c’mon sort of way. Slowly the puzzle starts to piece itself together inside my head and I become more aware that it’s because of this refreshing breeze/grin/charm (I have charm, too!) that this guy thinks I maybe like him or something?
There’s no way now for me to explain that I’m simply refreshed by the cooling sensation on my scalp, so I just sit there with a half-assed smile.
I chug my drink, but am instantly presented with two shot glasses. They are shoved directly under my nose. One is whiskey. The other, a pickle-back. I take the shots. They are warm. I wince and am mocked. They are calling me out.
“I remember Christian from DePaul. That motherfucker was fearless.”
I am not that guy anymore, mostly because of bills and debt and aging and all of that shit. I order a round as they continue busting my balls.
The shots arrive. Tequila. Judging from the bill, very good tequila. It is smooth.
We continue drinking until the night becomes fuzzy. This friend keeps hitting on me, but I’ve been hit on by gay dudes before. I was flattered. There was a even this little point in the night when two guys in the gang sort of grouped up on me. Like, they were complimenting me and saying how much trouble I must be with the women. Which isn’t true. But, still, I kind of…liked it? I mean, not the flirting or anything. But, like, the idea that the group was under the impression that I was this rock god. Well, I mean, not rock god, but…whatever. You know what I mean.
Result, Case no. 3: FRIENDS!
Case no. 4
Me: Hey, thanks for making some time. Listen, I need to ask you about…
Her: Yeah, um, Jane told me that you were calling up girls drunk and asking them questions about sex.
Me: What? That’s a complete lie.
Her: What were you going to ask me then?
Me: About—why does she think I’m drunk? This is for an article.
Her: Since when do you write for a magazine?
Result, Case no. 4: After an exhausting conversation, FRIENDS!
Note: we remained friends because we had two upcoming weddings for mutual friends and I’m sure she didn’t want to make things awkward. Who cares. A win’s a win!
Case no. 5
Leaning back in my bedroom chair with my feet up on my desk, as I believe one is supposed to be posed at moments like this, I stare up at the ceiling pensively. On my computer’s desktop is a single Facebook chat window, open and with someone on the other end awaiting my response.
He is asking if I’m able to help him with a paper that’s due soon. I gotta tell you: for someone with no formal education in writing, there is no quicker way to get me pumped up and celebrating life than to ask me to help you with a writing assignment that is going to be graded by a professional.
I say yes, that I’d love to revise his paper and check for prose, grammar, punctuation, stylistic structure, and…what’s that? You haven’t even started the paper, eh? Well then, ok, I’d love to help you, an African American dude, with this thesis on African American history and the struggles currently faced. Never mind that I had never written anything about African Americans or their centuries-long struggle with systemic racism in this country, let alone something relevant to that topic at or around 35 pages long. Oh, and kind of tie it to a thematic summation of what I thought it meant to be black in America. Our struggle, if you will. I mean, how hard could it be? Right? Here is what I say to the children who are our future: never underestimate how denial and a good, old-fashioned mild learning disability can team up to come off as unwavering confidence.
I get to his apartment near DePaul’s campus, where he is a student, and there are a few other, uh, black? Can I say black? I’m going to say African American. Anyways, there’s a few other African American guys there and they’re all sort of working on their papers together. First thing that comes to mind: should I try a normal handshake? Or should I try and kind of throw it down with fist bumps and finger snaps in my sensible little J. Crew ensemble? I ultimately resort to the awkward, ass-out bro-hug. That is, I shake their hand and lean in for a bro-hug while simultaneously patting their backs. What makes it even more awkward is that they all remain sitting while I, still standing, walk around the circle like we’re playing Duck Duck Goose, bending at the hip to bro-hug all of them.
Now some are in the same class, some are here just to blaze, but they all have come here with impassioned ideas that they just want to get onto paper. Because the guy I’m trying to befriend said he was having someone over who wrote for a living (not true), some of these guys came to have their papers critiqued. My God, I think to myself, all of these guys want me to critique their paper about something I know nothing about. I start soft-selling myself for the entire project a little, mostly out of nervousness, and I think it accidentally comes off as confidence. They say something to the effect of, “You know, this is about more than us. This is about community. This is about acknowledging what our parents went through and making a change so that our kids will have it better.”
I’m freaking out inside, so I just sort of stare out the window, trying like hell to think of something—anything—to say to them. And then calmly, almost catatonic from fear, I would say something like, “Well, you know…”—long pause, debating whether or not I should just tell them that I’m a fraud and how they’re going to need someone who is more than just a grammar and punctuation junkie—”… it’s more than African American history. It’s American history; I mean, it’s the American Dream we’re talking about here.” Ooooh, that one even impressed me a little. The group continues down this narrative. And not at all in a victim-y way. But in a constructive way. These guys want to have a dialogue and flesh out insecurities, frustrations, and ideas. How Do You Make It in America? They each go around the circle, passing a hookah hose as they share small details of their life and how they were left questioning if we are really set up for success or not. And I remember a time when I struggled with this shit. But I have not in some time, I must admit. I have a cozy job and a good salary and have been fortunate enough to pass on some good opportunities because they simply didn’t fit the lifestyle I wanted. One of these guys says he works at a gas station because they’re the only ones who will hire him. He “fucking hates it there.”
So I feel a bit lost in the conversation even though I know this is something these guys live with every day. They carry it with them, but never forget to look over their shoulder for the curveball life will undoubtedly throw.
(Side note and full disclosure on how I was accidentally able to summon self-confidence during this period: I was still getting used to wearing my prescription glasses for the first time in my life, and they were really working some magic. Aside from being able to read more than a few pages of text without falling asleep instantly, I was taken aback by how smart they made me feel in moments like this. You say something like that without glasses on and people might be all like, “You’re not really paying attention; stop staring out the window daydreaming and focus on what we’re telling you.” But when you do that with glasses on, it’s more like, “Oh, look at him staring out the window, then down at his shoes, then out the window again. Shoes, window, shoes, window. What’s he thinking? What makes him tick? What’s he about tell us?”)
One of the men asks if I blaze. A small group of us head to the rear deck.
We get back to the house and I sit there, eyes glazed, craving something tart, staring out of the living room window. I feel something coming up. An urge to say something that is coming from somewhere inside this tiny Homer Simpson brain of mine. I look around at the group and they stare back, anticipating my addition to the conversation.
What these guys (and maybe even you) didn’t know is that I spent my college summers teaching a Service Learning High School class in Englewood, a south side neighborhood in Chicago that is roughly 98% African American. I've worked with kids who were frustrated for the same reason. Kids who feel abandoned by society. Kids who don’t know why store owners follow them around the store. Some of the kids don't understand how to “make it” without being a rapper or athlete. There is a necessity of having an extreme talent or gift. What I discussed with those kids was consistency, a lot of patience, and an insane work ethic. Look, I'm a kid from Back of the Yards. I wasn't supposed to make it out. Shit, I still don’t know if I’ve made it out. But when I examine the room, I see commonalities: hard fucking work, the head-down-and-grind kind. Hustlers. One of the guys says he first felt like he was ugly when he was 12.
It was really something, though: connecting on a level like that with someone for the first time. I couldn’t help but think that if more experiences can go that great the first time, then we, as a society, have a real shot.
I don’t hesitate in expressing these sentiments to them. That while we’re here smoking a hookah, there are white kids out there, somewhere like maybe Crestwood, and they’re smoking a hookah of their own. While we’re here listening to Nas, there are surely some Mexican youths out there blaring Mobb Deep. My buddies TV is set to MTV and an old re-run of Pimp My Ride is playing. I’m confident that there’s an Asian kid out there drifting his tricked-out, nitrous-laden Honda Civic. You see? You see how we’re all similar, but our tastes are just a little different? My God, we’re all just humans! We’re all just…just innocent children. Like those kids in in Englewood! We can co-exist! This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed—why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent country, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before us to take a most sacred oath as president. With our eyes fixed on the horizon, we can carry forth this great gift of freedom and re-engineer society one man at a time! Someone get a notepad and paper. I am about to outline our plan to change the world. What a beautiful day for humanity.
“Dude, how high are you?”
“Significantly!”
Result, Case no. 5: FRIEND! At one point I was told, “You alright, cuz,” which I’m pretty sure is a good thing since we’re not actually cousins.
I’d like to think that there was a point in time when the souls who comprised my Friends List weren’t always so varied; that the List used to be made up of jocks and nerds, the popular and the un-, cheerleaders and the 5’s. Just simple clusters of very similar people without any ideas about the world out there and what it had in store for us.
But it’s not true; it never was.
When I first pitched this idea to people, a lot of them laughed. “That’s funny. ‘Will you be my Facebook friend?’”
“No, really,” I said.
Everyone got quiet. Like: Um, I’m not really qualified to say if that’s an awful idea. That’s been pretty much the reaction of all the people who hear it. And all of them had hundreds, if not a thousands of, Facebook friends. But they’d stop talking. Maybe because they didn’t believe that their Friends List included someone who was not a real “friend”. Maybe because having thousands of “friends” and “followers” makes them feel relevant. But my feeling is that unless you’re willing to define the situation, you’re part of the problem.
It turns out making friends is easy. I put half a mind to it and found a couple people I’d gladly share dinner with a few times a year. Sure, it’s scary at first. Not in the way I was terrified about having something I said being taken out of context amongst a group of black guys, but in a simple way of, say, asking myself What do I do when it comes time to shake their hands again? (Which, I’ll have you know, is not only a serious dilemma, but harder than winning a game of rock-paper-scissors.) Regardless, one of the most hopeful results of this experiment: I realized I can be an insensitive asshole sometimes. I came close to getting my face punched in and, admittedly, at times was very much asking for it, but everyone was kind enough to agree to participate in Operation Facebook Friend. There is a tremendous amount of goodwill out there. All you need to do is put the phone down and walk out the front door.