friend zone
Image by Ray Spears
He was a sundae kind of guy who really liked his options, and I was barely one. My mother loved him for me, and although that was never a selling point it was one of the few times she and I would agree. A charmer, genuinely kind but unstable in many ways - perfect for my track record of bad choices. I was too young to understand myself or him, really, so I made a point of being present while he “sorted” his options. Even then I could sense my place on the priority list but at the tender age of 16 imagination had more power than common sense. Though I hate to admit it, I was all too impressionable — stupid, really. Eternally friend-zoned, I was a friend in confidence but only when it was convenient for him.
“Eternally friend-zoned, I was a friend in confidence but only when it was convenient for him.”
He once shared a story with me of a girl he dated. Familiar with his style and taste, I pictured her — brown skin, brown eyes, curvy, with long lasso-like hair, about 5’5, confident, smart, and determined. He was never attracted to anything that lacked depth, only challenges that made the conquest sweeter. It was clear to me, from the way he described her, that she was entertained by the charm but not swayed by its current. Her reluctancy was the fuel for his pursuit.
He was a poet, careful with his words and crafty in his delivery. But of all the languages sitting over his tongue he was most fluent in physical touch. Cocky and irreverent, he allowed his hands to roam traveling down her spine and culminating in a fist full of cheeks — a pass he firmly believed he was entitled to. This trespass, however, was one she vehemently swerved with a boche and a caveat for commitment before indulgence. He was nothing short of appalled by the response. Having always been a winner in his book, this was an L he wouldn’t settle for so he sought his way out of the relationship. A reenactment of shock and mock riddled his retelling of the story while I nodded agreeably, desperately seeking to apply his worldview to mine. “Seriously?!”, I affirmed, unaware that her reaction would flood the halls of my memory chamber 15 years later in a sudden awakening of consciousness.
This young woman had far more perspective than I did at that time. I couldn’t quite perceive it then but she knew herself. Culture would’ve convinced her to settle, reduce the trespass to nothing more than a grope of endearment or a common expression of the passionate Dominican man. Despite those who would disagree, she stood for her worth. There were evident weaknesses in my armor. Gaping holes looted with compromise. I envisioned her and envied her for the attention he offered her kind, unaware that my assigned zone came with its own protective benefits — the kind that would keep me from the dangers of a lion’s den while I gathered myself.
“Shared customs, humor, and values can make the mind feel at home in places that are quite foreign. But is it ever worth settling for comfort?”
It took years to break the spell of compromise, ideals, and unrequited pursuit. Years to see this chapter with purpose. Years before I’d look back at this story and embrace that young woman’s stance. Time has a funny way of making every moment - the beautiful and the not so - worth the memory.
This I learned; we fall for what we know. Settling in spaces and relationships that emulate familiar cycles and dynamics — both the broken and whole. Chasing after a Dominican brother was only ideal because it was familiar. I understood his kind because he was my kind, and I, his. Shared customs, humor, and values can make the mind feel at home in places that are quite foreign. But is it ever worth settling for comfort? With common ground also come rotted roots; found anywhere but familiar enough to make any ideal really old.
