By Natalie Robinson
It’s eighty degrees. I’m sweaty, holding a frosty margarita to my forehead, perched on the back of a golf cart that has Phil Mickelson’s name engraved on the back.
“Nick, you didn’t tell me your friend was such a good-looking blonde.”
Good looking blonde. What a notion. As a five year old, my favorite barbies were all good looking blondes. Tall and slender, with glossy synthetic hair and cute accessories. By 16, my mom decided I was mature enough to dye my own hair if I REALLY felt the need. Not even 4 hours later, I was proudly showing off my new, brassy, orange-tinted hair, feeling relief my mom was wrong and I didn’t actually ruin my hair. I cringe at the tragedy that was my head in hindsight, but I can also appreciate the ridiculous confidence I managed to have in my pursuit of blonde-ness. Come 20, I had my own money and without hesitation paid nearly 200 dollars for a professional to foil my hair until it was unrecognizable, sleek and the light, the sunny tone I’d always idolized.
In most cases, being called a good-looking blonde is validating. I’m not one to get too hung up on appearance, but I can appreciate a solid compliment about my looks, especially because a very significant portion of my day as an athlete is spent sweaty and unkempt. However, that day at Pebble Beach, staring into the wrinkly, squinty eyes of a stubby middle-aged man, hearing the compliment felt like stepping in a warm, oozing pile of dog poop. Unpleasant, unfortunate, and very uncomfortable.
Without a second thought, Nick nods and tips his cap in my direction. “Yeah Phil, she’s cool. She plays volleyball at UW.” Great. I can already feel Phil’s gaze drop slightly, trying to get a glance at my legs. There’s nothing like knowing that the grown man in front of you is imagining your figure in spandex and a tight uniform, just watching the gears turn in his head as his respect for my guy friend grows and any shred of respect he may have had for me diminishes. At least Nick was so unintentionally kind as to leave out that I play beach volleyball, the official sexy bikini sport of the internet. God forbid either of them were to mention my actual athletic record, or any of the thirty other responsibilities I manage in addition to sports.
Squinting into the distance between them, l I shift my weight to maintain as much coverage as possible from the little skirt I am wearing and smile pleasantly. I borrowed clothes from Noah’s sister, because the leggings and athletic shorts I had brought on the trip just didn’t cut it for the Monterey County elite. Protected by tall, iron gates, the prestigious and privileged residents of the 40 million-dollar houses that lined the golf course were unwelcoming of a strong-willed,
middle class, liberal from Seattle. On that golf cart, I was Nick’s friend from school, an empty blonde with a nice tan and a keen understanding of her role in the system. In other words, I was just a piece of ass.
Phil returns his gaze to the golf course, whistling as Nick whacks the ball off into the distance. “Nat did you see that one! Absolutely pured!” Of course I saw. I’d rather try to understand the mechanics of the sport than talk to Phil, or Brian, or Rich, Greg, Rob, or any number of the other white, middle-aged, rich men that frequented the course, and the vicinity of my golf cart.
Really nice guys, generous, buying drink after drink, offering up their audis for us to take later, even a weekend stay in their cottage down the coast. Nick was elated to show me his world: “Aren’t the guys cool? I told you you would like them Nat! They’re always so nice to me and I knew they’d love you too.” Maybe Nick was just a phenomenal golfer, tenth ranked in the nation in college, and the youngest to frequent such a prestigious course. I’m sure that was partially the case. But I’m also sure it wasn’t every day that a college volleyball player hung around in awe of their lifestyle and receptive to hearing their tall tales about the people they associated with, or property they owned. A new face, particularly one unaccustomed to the lifestyle, was an opportunity to subtly compete to leave the most grandiose impression on me. It wasn’t about me, as much as they discussed my appearance, but rather about their own masculinity and preserving the effect of their flashy cars and ironed polos.
My time at Pebble Beach was eye-opening. I don’t particularly like tequila or wine, and I certainly don’t like the company of middle-aged men that have little respect for any women, let alone outside ones. At home, I undeniably lead a life of privilege in my day-to-day. With my privilege I feel a responsibility to fight for those that are not yet equal and to continue to earn rights for those that will come after me. Everyone should be capable of success with a little hard work. Yet on that golf cart in Pebble Beach, I realized that no matter how hard Nick had worked, (and he did), his birth to a portfolio manager in Pleasanton, California and white colored skin nearly guaranteed him a fighting shot at success. All he had to do was take it. And even if he didn’t he would end up okay.
The people I met had pockets lined with disposable income that most people cannot truly fathom. After all, it’s hard to fathom something you cannot see. Their wealth was hidden behind iron gates, tucked away onto hills overlooking the coast, and buried into various accounts and funds that the average person simply cannot manage. The wealth on its own merit is excessive, but not disgusting. The entitlement, misogyny, and general lack of self-awareness pushed me from giving these men, and any other man or woman like them, the benefit of the doubt. Disparity, economic or otherwise, isn’t something considered there. When they found out I am from Seattle, social injustice was called a left-wing conspiracy, created to put men like them out of a job and ruin the very foundation that their America is built on.
Nick didn’t then, and he never will understand the feeling of being brought along as a trophy to sip a fruity drink that I couldn’t stand, rewarded by getting the privilege to watch old men swing a club at a little ball in between unofficially competing for who has the biggest metaphorical penis.