August 12, 2019
It was Mark Twain who said, “Strip the human race, absolutely naked, and it would be a real democracy”. This statement rings true with our compliance in feeding the ever-expanding beast that is capitalism, and its subsequent effect on social dynamics. On a micro-level, we may look to the gregarious slaughterhouse that is London’s financial district.
While the City of London remains the official financial hub, we all know the money has shifted to Canary Wharf and into the pockets of those investing in lucrative properties in Knightsbridge. But if we’re being honest, it’s at Broadgate Circle, near Liverpool Street Station, where the real commotion happens. This is where the boys in blue come to kick off their Derby’s and abandon protocol.
Of course, I am not talking about the seasoned gentlemen - I’m referring to the reckless lads who think they've cashed in big but always end up going home broke. Sure, they’ve got their hoarder-like savings accounts, their “future business plans,” and the charm to negotiate their way through any room. But if you look past that flashy smile, deep into their cold, deadpan eyes, you’ll see it glaring back at you: the need for validation.
My friend, Suzanne* loves visiting these bars surrounded by men in suits. Every time we go, she walks in with grace and brazen confidence, just to strike up a conversation and tear status down. She is not part of the finance clique, but is successful in her own right and young. Qualities that are simultaneously attractive and intimidating. I tag along for amusement and, I suppose, a touch of irony. I steady a bottle of rosé in hand and survey the space. Here, you can reinvent yourself. In the ever-changing sea of faces and shades of blue, you can completely forget about your existing life.
When I first arrived in London at seventeen, my dad who was in town for work, dragged me through all the business districts. I stuck out like a sore thumb. With my uncombed hair, oversized jeans, and frilly tank top, I definitely did not belong here. All around me, and with such rapid force, were these sardines tossing and turning, in this gray can of a city.
Disguised in white collars, blue blazers, silver cufflinks, gold cufflinks, shiny black shoes, matching navy trousers, kitten heels, thick hairspray, leather briefcases, doused in cologne…or as Henry Miller described New York in 1935, we were in“an aquarium...where there are nothing but hellbenders and lungfish and slimy, snag-toothed gropers and sharks."
On a late Tuesday afternoon, you might spot two or three men standing side-by-side, pints in hand. By Thursday nights, however, the circle and nearby pubs are swarming with both men and women, eager to take the edge off the workweek before another glorious weekend begins.
My friend and I catch up on the week’s gossip, and men begin to approach us. The 8 PM conversations are rather meaningless - questions about where you’re from and what you do. Every guy is in finance and wears a necktie (connotation: noose), and the women don't engage with us. If, by chance, we bump into each other or queue in the bathroom, the conversation revolves around the guys. We exchange notes on which ones to avoid, or, more often than not, we warn each other to forget about them altogether.
By 11 PM, the chats turn heated. Men get bolder, and more sly, making jokes with double entendres and coyly placing their hands on your leg. I crack the surface: uninterested. The minute men see you don’t want to sleep with them, they either move on to the next bird that 'acts' surprised they caught eyes, or they start talking about their insecurities. It’s essentially a whore vs mother dilemma.
Now, the reason I use the word 'acts' surprised is because let’s be honest - the guy you’re interested in doesn’t notice you first. No, you and your friends have been circling around him for hours, and when he gets tired, he finally takes the bait. If you’d like to take up arms against that claim, please go watch Iliza Shlesinger and return for a hug.
It’s past midnight now, and everyone has had enough alcohol to drop their filters. With the backdrop of money and power, gender power play truly takes center stage. What started out as a casual evening of sitting back with friends becomes a banal therapy session. Whether it’s through alcohol, a quick trip to the dealer, or a haphazard fuck, there seems to be a mutual consensus in using outside sources to fix yourself.
One evening, I notice a young, lanky man sitting in a chair. His hair is greasily parted, his suit jacket straight and stiff, and his legs spread a tad too wide. Across from him sits a beautiful, petite woman in a tight black dress and high heels. They’re smiling at each other. But if you lean in and listen closely, you hear her asking him to stand up. He arrogantly remains seated, occasionally looking away. The more she asks, the more self-conscious she grows, and what was once playful soon becomes uncomfortable. I wish I were kidding, but this “negotiation” lasted for over thirty minutes. Eventually, she motions to leave. He stands up - but by now, she doesn’t want to sit anymore. She goes to find her friend, the one she’d initially abandoned for this “hot shot.” He shrugs, shifting his attention to a new group of women.
On another night, a man in his late thirties starts chatting with my friend at the bar. He’s of average height, with a stubble beard and dressed in business casual. I can’t remember exactly what he says to open the conversation, but I get pulled in when he turns to us and says, “I have a daughter, and sometimes, I worry about how my absence might affect her.” He looks sad and genuinely lost. I wonder what he's doing here. Then suddenly, I am seventeen again, walking through London for the first time. My hair is combed, and I’m wearing slacks and a nice blouse, but I'm still a kid. I don’t belong here - and neither does he. It dawns on me that, perhaps, we all look to others in the hope of finding a mirror of ourselves.
So, what is happening within our private lives that we feel compelled to seek compassion in complete strangers? And why are we so quick to judge ourselves based on how others perceive us?
This leads me to the conclusion that there must be two types of people in this city: those who wish to hide and those who don’t know how to. The ones defensive about being seen - really seen - will do anything to avoid vulnerability. They sit in the same pit as the ones aimlessly walking around, begging to be seen. At the heart of it, we are trapped in the same cauldron of bubbling self-judgment and lack of self-esteem, desperately searching for validation to simply be ourselves.
My friend flirts effortlessly, the kind of effortless that’s both alluring and familiar. I wind up entangled in a loop of shallow chatter with his friends, while she expertly plays her role. Eventually, she excuses herself to the bathroom, and I lean in. With a hint of finality in my voice, I whisper, “Go home,” and without hesitation, the man leaves.
You may choose to reinvent yourself amidst the crowd, but as you walk home past the kebab shops, the drunken men outside the strip clubs, and the beggars curled up on the sidewalk, you’re always returning to your own solitude. And sometimes, that’s a scary place to be.
Poet John Keats famously wrote, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty," but oh how naive was our fellow Keats, thinking only of the surrender to truth. He forgot to mention that before we can bask in truth’s beauty, truth will rear its ugly head first and ask us to undress.
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