Basic Bitches Anonymous: LC girls come clean

I had woken up with a knot in my stomach, the crows cawing outside. Was it an omen, was it fate, or was it the Bon’s take on fufu and egusi soup last night? Probably the latter. My roommate, gone on her 4 a.m. hike, never second-guessed my affinity for Artemis, my “love” of college outdoors, or the countless Melenzanas I liked on Depop. Little did she know it was my burner account.

I decided I could not pretend anymore. Brandy Melville just dropped a new Amara tank in teal and I was going to set a Copeland microwave on fire if I could not have it.

Annie Charming ’29 slid me a note in Social Theory. “Gazebo. 8 p.m. – BBA” What did I have to lose?

I had heard rumblings of the so-called “BBA” my freshman year, but I had thought it was just a myth. I never looked further into it. I had always loved gorp-core and Julien Baker. This secret association had nothing to do with me — right?

After winter break my freshman year, I started to crack. My friends from high school told me about the matching Skims sets they got in their sorority, and how their whole friend group got a class Groupon for CorePower yoga. The conversation haunted me for weeks. I could no longer pretend I was not interested.

I zipped my Brandy hoodie up so no one would recognize me and went down to the gazebo, careful not to leave tread marks from my Uggs.

Charming, apparently the leader of the group, began the meeting with the Serenity Prayer.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” Charming said.

To my surprise, the members of the group were all the granola bitches on campus: my RA who reeked of patchouli, her best friend whom she refers to as “her partner,” about half of Artemis, and that one barefooter who is always conveniently on the steps of JR Howard. I was shocked to find I was not the only one living a lie.

“Hi, I’m Olivia, and I’m a basic bitch,” I confessed. They all welcomed me in the same unanimous pitch.

Hidden in the sparse trees behind Fields, I felt safe enough to bear my sins to the gaggle of women.

“I think I’m going to lose it. When I first got to campus, I thought I would fit in … I mean I did in high school. I was a cheerleader for fucks sake!” I said. “But when I got to Lewis & Clark, I was informed that being cool in high school was, in fact, very uncool in college. So, I joined the ultimate Frisbee team, which surprisingly was just like being a cheerleader! I realized it was the only way to party at LC! But as time went on, I started to miss the nice things in life.”

A chorus of vocal-fried greetings continued as a girl named Kanani introduced herself. She picked at a loose thread in her Lululemon Align tank when she spoke. She seemed to understand what I was going through.

“When I got to LC, I had to put the Stanley my brother got me for Christmas under my bed. I could not take the stares anymore, so I bought a Nalgene and slapped on a niche record store sticker I found on the floor of the Coop,” she said. “I spill lukewarm water on myself every time I walk to class. I hate being different. I miss pilates. I miss drinking cold water that doesn’t smell like the Willamette.”

While memorizing our flashcard responses for common small talk questions like “Are you going to Big Thief next weekend?” and “Which camp are you working at this summer?”, in the candle light of a Sabrina Carpenter prayer candle, a figure emerged. I squinted my eyes, only to be flabbergasted by a familiar sight. It was my roommate!

“Hi, sorry I’m late, I just got back from leading a College Outdoors trip. Can we move these meetings into a Starbucks, it is not like anyone we know will be there. Anyway, I’m Presley and I’m a basic bitch.”

What I realized after my first meeting was that deep down, we are all basic bitches. Whether that means listening to Olivia Rodrigo or Adrianne Lenker, sporting your Carhartt pants two sizes too big, or that Skims body suit, you’re still none of a kind. I didn’t need to change who I was. I could shave my armpits and wear Sol de Janero body spray. I could wear my pink Apple Airpod Maxes and have a Wildflower case. Maybe more people are pretending than you think. Underneath all that natural deodorant might just be a person who wants to smell good. We’ll find the phonies who cried niche once they go abroad and rediscover Zara.