Lollapalooza

We just spent three and half weeks in Italy but this story isn’t about how the pool at our hotel in Siracusa (the venerable Grand Villa Politi, where Churchill once stayed) baked in the Sicilian sun all day and was blissful in the evening like a warm tub of urine.

Or how out of all the restaurants we went to, the very first one at the end of the block was perfect: Italian men with dress shirts unbuttoned to their stomachs; Italian women with revealing tank tops, long flowery skirts, designer glasses, and leather sandals; pizza covered in smoked salmon, avocado, and burrata; fusilli al dente drenched in pesto; arugula salads with fresh mozzarella, roasted red peppers, tomatoes, olives, capers, lemon, and olive oil; soft, creamy pistachio cannoli dipped in a candy coating; and, of course, Aperol Spritz that somehow tastes better because it’s summer in Italy, everyone in the restaurant is also drinking Aperol Spritz, and it’s in a glass that says Aperol Spritz.

No, this story isn’t about how we explored well preserved ruins at Villa Romana del Casale where the mosaics look like they were constructed last week and depict glorious battle victories, leopards, ostriches, and other exotic species from across the empire, and a Roman lady with a great ass straddling her Roman gentleman.

Or how our ten hours in the magical, mountain city of Taormina (part of the 17th- to 19th-century European “Grand Tour”) were the best ten hours of our trip, complete with 270° views of the Ionian Sea from the perfectly situated Greco-Roman amphitheater, cool drinking water from public fountains lodged in medieval walls, three pristine clay tennis courts being hosed down by a leathery Italian geriatric ripping a fag, a ten-minute nap on the rocky beach after 700 steps down to the shore, and an Aperol Spritz-infused dinner al fresco served by a waiter who looked like Carlos Alcaraz on a date but smelled like Carlos Alcaraz after a five-setter.

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No, this story isn’t about how when we got to the Aeolian Islands and our Airbnb with an incredible view of the Tyrrhenian Sea and a TV with Netflix, the kids chose Netflix. Or how our boat trips around the islands were miraculously vomit-free.

Or how after sunset on one of those boats we sailed by the volcanic island of Stromboli while we watched lava stream down its side. Or how after we were served refreshing wine in plastic cups and delicious penne al dente with tuna, capers, and olives on paper plates, we lay down on mattresses on the top of the boat and looked at the stars at which point I allegedly “ruined everyone’s experience” by audibly calculating the approximate distance of the closest star and then mansplaining to “whoever was listening” (Tropic Thunder) how many trillions of miles away it is (5 million).

No, this story isn’t about how it’s kinda cool when 20-year-old Italian locals “roll their own” with fresh tobacco but very sad when 60-year-old Italian locals take desperately long drags from their vapes during a short train stop. Or how I didn’t use the strange Italian bidets that point and shoot water down toward my balls because I prefer bidets that point and shoot water up toward my butt. Or how I hate the Vatican, its ostentatious aesthetics, its excessive wealth, its moral turpitude, and all Catholic people.

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No, this story isn’t about the quest for the holy grail of gelato. Or how we quickly went through two bottles of sunblock mostly for the tops of my feet. Or how my kids are scarred from seeing their father’s glorious naked body more than any child should ever see their father’s glorious naked body. Or how I got over my jet lag in a record three days due to the walking, the touring, the padel, the tennis, the sun, the pool, and, grazie mille, the passionate love-making.

Or how it doesn’t bother me at all that the Boss needs to be the one who decides which train to take to the airport, where we should eat dinner, and when we should get gas. Or how she doesn’t trust me with anything but then doesn’t read the fine print about how the hotel shuttle service costs 40€ and starts ineffectively and emotionally arguing with the hotel lady until I come in and calmly save the day with my conflict-resolution skills and gentle charm. Or how the Boss wanted just the two of us to go out to dinner for our anniversary so I took her out to dinner but brought the kids with us so she and I wouldn’t have to look into each other’s eyes and acknowledge the truth.

Or how Panini and I got fined 100€ for not having the right train ticket (my bad). Or how Panini left her backpack in a taxi (her bad). Or how Panini downed an Aperol Spritz in two minutes because she’s “not a social drinker.”

Or how if OG wasn’t already mad at me when I woke her up each morning with wet kisses and gentle squeezing, she was mad at me an hour later when I relentlessly mocked her for her breakfast choice of yogurt, potato, and ham.

Or how instead of appreciating the majesty of the Trevi Fountain or Spanish Steps, I had to pretend to listen to Broosevelt drone on about all the hilarious parts of Big Nate, Grown Ups, and White Chicks. Or how despite the brutal heat Broosevelt wouldn’t stop squeezing my moobs. Or how Broosevelt broke the family’s vomit-free streak when he barfed on a windy car trip up the mountains behind Positano. Lucky for us, the Boss had a barf bag. Unlucky for Broosevelt, the vomit was so voluminous that it leaked through the barf bag. 

No, this story isn’t about how Broosevelt and Boni started slapping each other in the face as they fought for space in the back seat of the car. Or how Boni didn’t see a puddle in the bathroom, slipped, and fell hard as shit on her knee. Or how she was walking on a concrete ledge above a bench, slipped, and scraped the shit out of her knee. Or how she was sprinting up the Spanish Steps, slipped, and scraped the shit out of her knee. Or how she was sitting sideways on a chair at a restaurant, rocking back and forth, leaned too far back, fell off, landed on her head, and eventually came to rest on her stomach after doing a complete backward somersault down five steps.

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No, this story isn’t about the amazing vacation we just had. It’s about how Panini left Italy more than a week before the rest of us, foregoing a visit to good friends in Pescara on the Adriatic Sea and a few final days on the Amalfi Coast so she could be back in Chicago in time for Lollapalooza.

I repeat: Panini left Italy nine days before we did because she “really wanted to be back for” Lolla-fucking-palooza.

How could this happen? Honestly, I don’t remember. The Boss says I gave Panini the choice and I say the Boss gave Panini the choice. What I can say for certain is that back in April when we were figuring out our summer plans, I immediately went into a fugue state when the mere suggestion of Panini coming back early for stupid Shaboozey was floated.

Incredulous. Shocked. Disappointed. Disturbed. Disgusted. Angry. Homicidal. Suicidal. I think I probably went upstairs, locked myself in the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and, through tears of laughter and sobs of hysteria, said to myself with total sincerity, “You’ve failed as a son, a brother, and a husband. And now you’ve officially failed as a parent.”

Why did this happen? Well, here’s a verbatim exchange:

“Why would you choose to go to Lollapalooza instead of the Amalfi Coast?” - Saul

“I have the rest of my life to go back to Italy.” - Panini

Dear patient reader of Saul, what word is coming to mind right now? Spoiled? Obtuse? Ignorant? Horrid? Whatever it is, I feel you.

The how and the why don’t even matter. Panini’s decision to leave Italy early for stupid Luke Combs is a result of the most epic parenting failure ever. Even the Boss’ mother, the kindest, most understanding, most compassionate, least judgmental, least critical human being ever to walk the earth, called me into the dining room a few days before we left and said, “Saul, can I chat with you privately for a moment?” (Come here, asshole. We need to talk.)

“Saulie chamud, can you tell me how this decision came about?” (Saul dearest, what the fuck went down here?)

And I really didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t explain it. The Boss and I somehow allowed it to happen. I think maybe at some point I said something to the effect of, “I mean, if this spoiled-ass bitch seriously wants to bail on the Amalfi Coast to go see stupid Doechii, I don’t even know what to say.”

Could we have forced her to stay the whole time? Of course. But somehow “forcing” a 17-year-old to stay on vacation in southern Italy in July felt even wronger than letting her make the choice. I know, I know. You’re judging me even as you read this. I get it. I am too. I’ve judged Panini, I’ve judged the Boss, and I’ve judged myself plenty. I hate all of us for this whole thing. It’s utterly disgusting. Panini is a spoiled brat with defective values and poor priorities. We’re terrible parents who created a child with defective values and poor priorities. How does the defense plead? Guilty as charged.

___

But just give me one more second as I take a quick, and hopefully meaningful, aside: Despite the fact that I am a pedantic, arrogant, and annoying mansplainer, I don’t preach a lot to my kids. I don’t give them a lot of words of wisdom or life lessons. I encourage them to try their hardest, do what they love, and eat their vegetables. There is, however, one piece of advice I often find myself giving, one life lesson I wanted to impart before we got to Pompei and I unsuccessfully tried to throw myself into Mt. Vesuvius.

And it is this: Don’t worry about what other people think.

When Boni asks me if her hair looks pretty, I tell her not to worry about what other people think. When Broosevelt tells me his friends call him a ballhog, I tell him not to worry about what other people think. When OG tells me she’s embarrassed about being the oldest one in her gymnastics group, I tell her not to worry about what other people think. When Panini asks me if she’s fat, I tell her yes, and not to worry about what other people think.

Know who you are. Believe in yourself. Be confident. And fuck everyone else and what they may or may not think. Is it sound parenting advice? Maybe. It could probably use some qualifiers and nuance but it is what it is and my kids know it’s what I believe, how I myself roll, and how I recommend they roll.

So, back to Lollapalooza and Italy. Despite all the criticism, all the disappointment, all the shaming, all the outrage, all the begging, pleading, cajoling, harassment, and judging, Panini stuck to her guns. Despite her siblings, her parents, her grandparents, and literally everyone who knows about this debacle having completely condemned her and her ghastly decision, Panini stood firm. She said to everyone, “Screw you. Screw Italy. I’m going to Lollapalooza and I don’t care what you think.” In some sick, twisted way, I kinda respect it a teeny, tiny bit.

Is all of this one big “juicy rationalization” (The Big Chill) to make myself feel a little better about Panini’s terrible choice and my terrible parenting? Yes. Should Panini reflect on why she wants what she wants and why everyone in the entire world judged her so harshly? Yes. Would my parenting advice perhaps be better suited for a child who is a bit less FOMO-driven, a bit more self-actualized, and a bit less stupid? Yes.

All I can tell you is this: Panini reports that she had an absolutely fantastic time at Lollapalooza, has zero regrets about her decision, and was “thriving by [her]self.” Similarly, I'm pretty sure we had a great time in Italy and the trip was as awesome as we’d hoped. So now I’m left not knowing if this whole thing was an epic failure from which lessons must be learned or if I am, in fact, the best god damn parent ever. I’m gonna go make an Aperol Spritz and think about it.

An Open Letter to Zohran Mamdani

Dear Mr. Mamdani,

Congratulations on winning the Democratic primary for the 2025 New York’s mayoral election. Based on what I’ve read, it sounds like you have tons of support from progressive New Yorkers and I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to beat Mr. Cuomo, someone so deeply entrenched in New York politics and so widely known for sexual harassment. Just messin’ around. Mazal tov!

I’m guessing you’ve read my open letter to NBA Commissioner Adam Silver on August 15, 2024. As bald Jewish men who love basketball, he and I have a lot in common. As it turns out, you and I do too.

We both live in big cities brimming with rich histories, vibrant cultures, and economic opportunity, as well as aging infrastructure, abject poverty, and violent crime.

We’re both liberal. Sure, I’m not some raging commie like the media paints you to be but I’m solidly left of center and fully support increasing taxes on corporations, making housing more affordable, and investing in impoverished communities. Your call for government-run grocery stores and free buses reminds me of my illegal visit to a black-market laden Cuba in 2002 but I’m open to change, especially if it involves meeting Cuban women.

We both like rap. No, I’ve never laid down my own beats or recorded my own videos like you,¹ but I can quote Tupac lyrics with the best of ‘em.

We both come from privilege. Your dad is a tenured professor at a prestigious university and my dad was a doctor. Your mom is a wealthy filmmaker and my mom is the shit. You spent most of your childhood on Manhattan’s Upper West Side and attended a private elementary school (2025 kindergarten tuition is $66,236²), a selective enrollment high school in the Bronx, and a private college in Maine.³ My mommy and daddy similarly paid hundreds of thousands for my education.

We both love politics. You ran for student body Vice President at your high school and lost;⁴ I ran for student body President at my high school and lost. You currently serve in the New York State Assembly and are likely to become New York’s next mayor. I was a White House intern and have a Master’s in Political Science. I even considered going into politics but it turns out that in addition to all the skeletons in my closet, I’m not as likeable as I think.

Of course there are some differences as well. You are handsome and have a full head of hair. I am gaunt and follicly challenged. You’re a millennial who is hip to all the socials. I’m a Gen X’er who has a blog no one reads. You’re Muslim. I’m Jewish. (Though it’s worth noting that you were almost half-Jewish, as your mother was first married to a MOT, Mitch Epstein, before divorcing him and marrying your father.⁵)

We also seem to have some significant differences on the Israel-Palestine conflict. I believe, however, that if we reflect on the ways in which our personal backgrounds have shaped our political views, we can reconcile our ostensibly dissimilar positions. Simply put, when I evaluate the Israel-Palestine conflict, I’m biased. And so are you. So let’s both get over ourselves and see if we can be friends.

___

I understand you spent some of your formative years in South Africa where victims of Apartheid often identify with Palestinians and where perpetrators of Apartheid are often compared to the Israeli government. In 1990, two weeks after being released from prison, Mandela met with Yasser Arafat. In 2023, days after Hamas’ attack on October 7th, Mandela’s grandson, a power player in the African National Congress, said, “We have stood with the Palestinians and we will continue to stand with our Palestinian brothers and sisters.”⁶ What did you learn about the Israel-Palestine conflict when you were young? Is a typical South African student taught that Palestinians are the good guys and Israel is the bad guy?

Some of my formative years were spent in Philadelphia where I went to Hebrew school, where I had plenty of Jewish friends and neighbors, and where my pride in Jewish history and culture was cultivated. I also lived in Israel for a year where I learned that Jewish refugees to Palestine drained the swamps (literally) and built the only democracy in the region.

My point here is most definitely not that South Africa is wrong and that the Shlomo Goldberg Jewish Cultural Center is right. It’s simply to describe the potential biases with which each of us approaches this issue and request that, if you haven’t already, you consider another narrative.

Speaking of narratives, I’m sure you’d agree that the ones provided by our parents are pretty damn impactful. My dad was deeply, proudly Jewish despite the anti-semitism he faced, including quotas for Jews at college and medical school. He loved Israel and, if I’m being honest, did not love Arabs. In fact, he sometimes referred to them as “the Arabs.” He took our family to Israel for a year-long sabbatical. He played in the Maccabi games. He steadfastly defended Israel and even bought me a book called The Case for Israel by Alan Dershowitz.

Your dad, on the other hand, is a postcolonial studies professor at Columbia who was persecuted as an Indian in Uganda, fought in the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s, and has spent most of his professional career writing about colonialism and postcolonialism, particularly in Africa.⁷ My dad was a typical American Jewish liberal in that he defended Israel, perhaps unfairly. Your dad is a typical liberal Columbia professor in that he criticizes Israel, perhaps unfairly. I’ll bet our fathers could’ve learned a lot from each other. In fact, if my dad were still alive, I’d suggest that “your old man and my old man...get together and go bowling” (Breakfast Club).

But where does all this leave us? Well, maybe you should read more of the books my dad gave me and I should read more of the books your dad gave you. And then we can sit in my basement, throw on Tupac’s “California Love,” and see if we can find some common ground.

I was for sure biased by my dad but my mom is my mom, ya know? She doesn’t even have to talk politics and I’ll still know how she feels. Most of her best friends are Jewish. She goes to synagogue most Saturdays. She keeps in touch with old friends in Israel. She travels to Israel every few years. Your mom, on the other hand, is married to a Muslim and, after declining an invitation to the Haifa International Film Festival, said she “will go to Israel when the walls come down...when [the] occupation is gone...when Apartheid is over.”⁸ My mom would say the walls are there for security, question the use of the word “occupation,” and be downright offended by the use of the word “Apartheid.”

So, again, Mr. Mamdani, where does that leave you and me? My mom taught me that Israel is defending itself from those who want to destroy it. Your mom taught you that Israel is killing innocent civilians. From the moment our fathers’ prejudiced semen infiltrated our mothers’ prejudiced eggs, you and I were predisposed to feel a certain way about Israel and Palestine, to analyze the conflict with a particular lens, to support one group rather than the other, to love one and to disregard another.

Finally, as much as I’d like to forget about my wife, I can’t. She is Israeli. Her parents are Israeli. Her whole family is Israeli. Yada yada yada. Your wife is of Syrian descent and “has created numerous works [of art] about Israeli crimes in Gaza.”⁹ I can’t help but think that those late-night postcoital pillow talks have deeply influenced what you and I believe.

___

Mr. Mamdani, if I drank all of the pro-Israel Kool-Aid I was served, I might believe, among other things, that the intifada is a call for violent terror attacks against civilians, that Israel should receive unconditional military aid due the constant threats it faces, and that the current war with Hamas is just given the atrocities committed on October 7th. I do not believe those things. If you, for example, drank all of the pro-Palestine Kool-Aid you were served, you might believe, among other things, that the phrase “globalize the intifada” is defensible,¹⁰ that consumers and countries should boycott, divest from, and impose sanctions on Israel,¹¹ and that “Israel’s assault on Gaza is a genocide.”¹² Do you really believe those things?

At the end of Pulp Fiction, as Jules (Samuel Jackson) is deep in the throes of an existential crisis, he says, “But I’m tryin’, Ringo. I’m tryin’ real hard to be the shepherd.” I’m not trying to be the shepherd, Mr. Mamdani, but I’m trying, trying real hard, to see this disaster as clearly, as objectively, as holistically, and as truthfully as possible. It pains me to read articles from Haaretz about Palestinians being shot at food distribution centers. It pains me to read articles from The Guardian about Gazan children dying outside of medical facilities. It pains me to read articles from Democracy Now! about Netanyahu’s desire to make Gaza a “perpetual, ongoing war.”¹³ The Kool-Aid I’ve been served much of my life doesn’t go well with this other Kool-Aid, but I force it down anyway.

And so I ask you, Mr. Mamdani, is the Kool-Aid you’re drinking today the same Kool-Aid you’ve had your whole life or are you trying some new flavors? Do the stories you read confirm what you already believe or do you seek alternative narratives? Are you in a social media echo chamber or do you look for spaces with truly diverse perspectives? Are you perpetuating your own biases or trying to address them?

In the words of the late, great Tupac Shakur, “I got love for my brother but we can never go nowhere unless we share with each other.” How about you and I meet for lunch, perhaps something shared by our cultures like pita with hummus, and talk?

1. Zellner, Xander. “Zohran Mamdani Used to Rap — and His Catalog Has Been Surging in Streams.” Billboard, 6 June 2025, https://www.billboard.com/music/chart-beat/zohran-mamdani-rap-catalog-streams-surge-1236008425/. Accessed 9 July 2025.
2. “Tuition and Financial Aid.” Bank Street School for Children, https://school.bankstreet.edu/admissions-2/tuition-financial-aid/. Accessed 3 July 2025.
3. “Zohran Mamdani.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zohran_Mamdani. Accessed 2 July 2025.
4. Sauer, Megan. “​​Zohran Mamdani ran for VP of his high school and lost—now he’s winning the Democratic primary for NYC mayor.” CNBC, 27 June 2025, https://www.cnbc.com/2025/06/27/zohran-mamdanis-political-career-started-in-high-school.html, Accessed 9 July 2025.
5. “Mira Nair.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mira_Nair. Accessed 2 July 2025.
6. Imray, Gerald. “Nelson Mandela’s support for Palestinians endures with South Africa’s genocide case against Israel.” Associated Press, 11 Jan. 2024, https://apnews.com/article/south-africa-palestine-israel-genocide-mandela-arafat-39d222b9dd65994c4c13730efabe8815. Accessed 8 July 2025.
7. “Mahmood Mamdani.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahmood_Mamdani. Accessed 2 July 2025.
8. “Mira Nair.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mira_Nair. Accessed 2 July 2025.
9. “Rama Duwaji.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rama_Duwaji. Accessed 10 July 2025.
10. Arkin, Daniel. “NYC mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani criticized for 'intifada' remarks.” NBC News, 19 June 2025, https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/nyc-mayoral-candidate-zohran-mamdani-draws-criticism-intifada-remarks-rcna213967. Accessed 7 July 2025.
11. Beeferman, Jason. “Critics say Zohran Mamdani is antisemitic. He says he’s holding Israel accountable.” POLITICO, 24 June 2025, https://www.politico.com/news/2025/06/22/critics-say-zohran-mamdani-is-antisemitic-he-says-hes-simply-holding-israel-accountable-00416388. Accessed 7 July 2025.
12. Harb, Ali. “Mamdani’s New York victory boosts pro-Palestine politics in US.” ALJAZEERA, 26 June 2025, https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2025/6/26/mamdanis-new-york-victory-boosts-pro-palestine-politics-in-us. Accessed 8 July 2025.
13. “‘Netanyahu Is the Problem’: Sanders’s Former Adviser Matt Duss on Why Gaza Ceasefire Remains Elusive.” Democracy Now!, 9 July 2025, https://www.democracynow.org/2025/7/9/netanyahu_trump. Accessed 9 July 2025.

A Hero's Journey

Fast Friends

In August of 2023, 150 puberty-infused 7th graders started school at Schmane Schmeck Academic Center, a program for high-achieving nerds from across the city of Chicago. Every kid was new to the school and most walked in on Day 1 without a single friend. Out of desperation and fear, two young ladies glommed on to each other like Truth Social and a white male without a college degree.

The first of these young ladies is Chloe who is blonde, thin, and cute. She has pretty blue eyes and a nice smile. Chloe plays soccer, sings in the school chorus, and competes annually in the Chicago History Fair. She is articulate, smart, and kind of annoying. She’s the type of kid who not only thanks you for a ride home but does so multiple times, profusely. She’s overly complimentary. She talks loudly. She gives hugs too easily and too strong. In the words of OG (the other young lady and the hero of this story), Chloe is “really great but she’s a lot.”

All direct quotes in this post are attributed to OG, my 14-year-old daughter who, in her own way, is also a lot. Specifically, she can be a bit holier-than-thou. In 6th grade, OG was brought to tears by some wretched little boys who threw snowballs at her during recess. OG decided to send a 1,000-word email to those boys, shaming them for their behavior. Her sanctimony got her in trouble: The boys shared the email with the entire world and OG was bullied to no end.

But sometimes the bullied become heroes and the defenseless become saviors. Before becoming Spiderman, Peter Parker was tormented for being a science geek. Before becoming Batman, Bruce Wayne witnessed the murder of his parents. Before OG became a hero, she was a sad little dweeb on the playground with wet mittens and damp cheeks. Becoming a hero is complicated.

Back to Chloe and OG who, within weeks, were besties: endless messaging, sleepless sleepovers, excessive sharing of feelings, mindless excursions to Sephora and Starbucks, etc. It was all very cute.

Drama

Less than two weeks into the school year, Chloe also had a girlfriend named Violet. At a school where everyone is new and no one knows each other, it’s weird for anyone to start dating so quickly, let alone two girls, even in today’s climate where basically everyone is gay.

And sure enough, as the year dragged on, the drama between Chloe and Violet picked up: emotional texts, breaking up, getting back together, etc. It was all very silly. As Chloe’s best friend, OG often listened to Chloe complain about Violet not giving her enough attention. Because all feelings experienced by anyone in 2025 must be validated, OG validated Chloe’s but often lamented the fact that she herself had to give Chloe so much attention.

Chloe and OG were also part of a bigger friend group who, I suppose, are generally high-quality people but often suffer from groupthink (“we don’t like Ms. Barker,” “we like being nonchalant,” etc.) and, consequently, become mindless, middle school monsters, resembling a more naive, less Machiavellian version of Mean Girls. By spring of 7th grade, most of them had already “stopped liking” Chloe and one of them outwardly expressed frustration at OG for “spending too much time with her” (code for “I’m a jealous bitch”). By the end of the year, OG had started distancing herself from Chloe because she was “just a lot to deal with.”

OG liked Chloe but sometimes felt annoyed by her. She didn’t want to abandon her but pressure from the Mean Girls was mounting. OG felt stuck. Summer was approaching, and her friendship with Chloe was in doubt. Becoming a hero is complicated.

The Phone Call

Luckily for OG, she was able to avoid making any decisions for most of the summer. Such is the life of the privileged few who get to shirk responsibility and decision-making by attending sleep-away camp for the entire month of June and frolicking around the Middle East and Europe for the entire month of July. By the time OG came home in early August, school was about to start and she felt that a “decision” with Chloe needed to be made.

OG was slow to respond to some texts and Chloe asked if the two of them “were still good.” She messaged OG again, saying she didn’t want to be “iced out” or “left on read.” The worst thing any human being can do to any other human being is 2025 is “ghost” them so, like a big girl, OG picked up the phone and actually called Chloe, something no child has done since approximately 2009. OG initially tried to give her the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech but ultimately felt compelled to tell Chloe that she “needed some space because it was a lot to handle.” 

“What’s ‘it’?” Chloe asked.

“Being around you,” OG responded.

Chloe was in tears.

An hour after the phone call, OG was feeling sad, perhaps guilty, so she went to check her phone which, sure enough, had an “essay” from Chloe. OG responded sympathetically, came back to the couch for Family Movie Night, and returned to her phone a few minutes later to see another “mad” essay followed by a “sad” essay.

Chloe was reeling. OG apologized. Chloe sent another “mad” essay followed by another “sad” essay.

They were both in tears.

Lunch Tables (Part I)

Mean Girls is a great movie and one of its many great scenes is when Regina George breaks the rules by wearing sweatpants on a Monday. After a heated exchange at the lunch tables in the cafeteria, Gretchen Wieners explodes, “You can’t sit with us!”

The Mean Girls in this story commandeered a few lunch tables in Schmane Schmeck’s cafeteria and, on the first day of 8th grade, Chloe sat with them. Soon enough, the Mean Girls at Table 1 started literally, figuratively, and wickedly “pushing Chloe to the side,” saying they could only fit a few girls on each end.

OG: “Maybe we also made some comments. I don’t remember.”

Saul: “You don’t remember? You mean you remember perfectly but don’t want to admit it?”

OG: “Okay, we were pushing her. I’m taking responsibility. But, like, I don’t remember if there were comments or if she just got fed up and moved to another table.”

Was OG a bystander? Was she complicit? Are bystanders ipso facto complicit? Quick story: I went to high school with a kid named Greg and once when we were taking a group picture, another kid named Jason directly excluded Greg from the photo because, well, the details don’t matter. I sat there, silent, while Greg walked away in tears.

So Chloe (now at Table 2) is feeling rejected, eating a sloppy joe made by the lunch lady, and OG is feeling safe, eating a turkey and cheese sandwich made by Saul. The Mean Girls at Table 2 then start complaining to the Mean Girls at Table 1 about Table 1 having banished Chloe to Table 2. So what does Table 2 do? It squeezes in with Table 1 so now Chloe “actually can’t fit.” If I may: What a bunch of heartless bitches.

So now what does Chloe do? She goes and sits with Violet (the girlfriend) and a couple of Violet’s friends who also don’t want Chloe sitting with them. I can’t explain why a girlfriend wouldn’t protect her girlfriend in this situation but I can tell you that everything does, in fact, get worse.

The Text

Who hates immigrants the most? Immigrants. More broadly, who hates outsiders the most? Outsiders. Pardon the xenophobia, but Table 3 of Mean Girls consists of two Chineses (Tropic Thunder) and one Ethernopian (South Park), two of whom are downright vicious and one of whom personifies complicit bystander. Out of utter desperation, Chloe joins their lunch table and the Outsiders jump at the chance to destroy another outsider. After a few days, the most “mean-spirited” of the three sends the following text:

“Hi [Chloe]. I think I’m speaking for my table and [that other Mean Girl’s] table that you have been hopping around recently. In short, we would like space. We have constantly made it very obvious that we don’t want you with us. All of us are visibly uncomfortable with you around us and you continue to deny that. We don’t want to be friends with someone who doesn’t respect boundaries and completely denies the fact that anything’s wrong. I know for a full fact that you know what you did. I have a few requests. Firstly, give everyone space. Secondly, stop body-shaming people. And lastly, stop following us after school. If you are unsure who to sit with at lunch, sit with your girlfriend or at your original table.”

Before I once again refer to these young ladies as heartless bitches, let me offer some commentary and context:

1. This text was, somehow, unbelievably, a softer, edited version of an earlier text which included shaming Chloe for allegedly flirting with some stupid boy.

2. What does “full fact” mean? I thought you attended an academic center.

3. Chloe didn’t body-shame you but if she had, maybe there was a reason.

4. If you had any balls, you’d say this to Chloe’s face. Good luck hiding behind a screen for the rest of your life, you heartless bitches.

OG claims she told all the Mean Girls, “Stop being mean to Chloe and stop icing her out. If you really want space, tell her in a nice way.” But, she says, they still “wrote [the text] and [asked] for space in a mean way. I didn’t tell them to write this. I didn’t even know they wrote this.”

Well hold on there OG. What do you mean by “this”? You knew about an earlier version of the text, right? You knew they were gonna send something, right? Did you tell them to talk to Chloe in person? Did you tell them to just chill out and grow up? Did you tell them to be nice or else you'd torture and murder them?

No, OG, I don’t think you did any of that because becoming a hero is complicated.

Winter Formal

Let’s take stock: After starting a brand new school, Chloe finds a crew, gets a girlfriend, and makes a new best friend. She is then rejected by her vicious crew, excluded by her callous girlfriend, and abandoned by her confused best friend. The bullying continues, and we arrive at 8th grade Winter Formal.

Per aforementioned privilege, our house is a big house which means our house is the party house which means OG’s friends come to our house for sleepovers in the basement, sun-bathing on the deck, and beautifying themselves in preparation for the most awkward of awkward: middle school dances. OG told the Mean Girls she’d send a text to invite everyone over before the Winter Formal. A day or two later, Chloe (who, OG claims, didn’t know OG was hosting a pre-party) sent a “sad” text to 13 girls inviting them to get ready at her house where they could “have snacks and order pizza in the basement.”

In a state of total chaos and complete anarchy, the Mean Girls immediately start blowing up OG’s phone: “Are you gonna go? Are you not having a party at your house? What’s going on???”

Though OG had not planned to invite Chloe to her house, she admirably responds to the hysterical Mean Girls, “I’m going to Chloe’s. There’s nothing at my house anymore. I’m going. I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t pressure you into this. I’m going. I think you should too.” She also quickly responds to Chloe on the party group chat, “Yup, I’m coming.” Maybe becoming a hero isn’t that complicated?

The Mean Girls are in crisis mode. They don’t know where to pre-party and they certainly don’t know how to be nice. One of them strongly considers getting ready in the school bathroom. Fast forward a couple weeks and a total of three girls go to Chloe’s pre-party: Chloe, OG, and Kendra, who is not a member of the Mean Girls and whom OG describes as “very nice.” The pre-party at Chloe’s is fun, the dance is great, and OG has a post-party with the Mean Girls at our house. Chloe is not included. Oops, maybe becoming a hero is still complicated.

Lunch Tables (Part II)

Cold February day in Chicago. Cafeteria in Schmane Schmeck Academic Center. Regina George, Gretchen Wieners, OG, Chloe, etc.

OG gets up from the lunch table and Chloe sits in her seat. OG returns to the table and thinks, No way I’m kicking her out of my seat. She’s sitting here now. Maybe I’ll ask her to scooch over.

OG: “Hey Chloe, can you scooch over a bit?”

Mean Girls: “Chloe, you took her seat. You’re in her seat. Get up. Go away.”

OG: “Guys, it’s ok, it’s ok. She can scooch over a bit.”

Mean Girls: “No. Chloe, go away.”

OG thinks, Forget it. I’m just gonna stand here and eat my blueberries. I’m standing. It’s fine. I’ll stand.

Mean Girls: “Chloe, you have to leave. You have to leave.”

Gretchen Wieners stands up and exclaims: “CHLOE, CAN’T YOU SEE NOBODY WANTS YOU HERE?!?”

Chloe gets up, tears welling her in her eyes, and “speedwalks” away. OG catches up to her and says, “I’m so sorry. I can’t even believe she did that. That was so horrible of her.”

Chloe: “No, it’s ok, it’s ok. Just leave me alone.”

OG: “I’m so sorry.”

Chloe: “You don’t understand how hard this year has been for me. This is taking such a toll on me. It’s so hard for me to get up in the morning and come to school every day.”

OG: “Yeah, I understand. This has been so horrible.”

Chloe: “It’s not just them. It’s you too.”

OG: “I understand. I’m so sorry I can’t stand up for you more than I already am.”

Chloe: “No, I understand. I’m not worth risking all your friendships over.”

OG was mad at the Mean Girls but mostly swallowed her anger and guilt. OG considered going to the counselor with Chloe but ultimately encouraged her to go alone. Gretchen Wieners told OG she apologized to Chloe but Chloe said she didn’t. OG never followed up.

The balance between defending Chloe and maintaining a friendship with the Mean Girls was delicate. After OG called out one of them for excluding Chloe from an after-school gathering at Wendy’s, the Mean Girl got mad at OG for not blindly “having her back.” OG told her she didn’t have anyone’s back when what they were doing “was wrong.” In the end, however, OG ended up profusely apologizing to the Mean Girl even though she knew that calling her out had been right.

Boston

Cool days in April. Violet dumps Chloe. Chloe now has no one to room with for the 8th grade spring trip to Boston. Each room has four girls. OG is in a group of seven so Chloe would be an easy eighth. Chloe asks two of the Mean Girls if she can room with them. They straight up lie to her face with their ugly, lying faces and say they don’t have space. Chloe asks OG if she can room with her and, without asking the Mean Girls, OG says yes. (“I didn’t need to ask them. I just said yes.”) The Mean Girls are not pleased and do everything in their repulsive power not to share a room with Chloe.

On the final night, Chloe, OG, and two of the Mean Girls “just start talking.” Chloe tells them how “horrible” they have been and the girls say “I’m so sorry” over and over. Chloe keeps asking, “Why? Like, why?” and the girls can’t explain their behavior. The “trauma-dumping” goes deep into the night and there are tears, laughter, and hugs. Though some of the Mean Girls not in the room that night initially resist, Chloe gets added back to the original group chat. The next day, “everyone was friends” again and the Mean Girls were kinder to Chloe.

A few weeks later, OG had the end-of-year party at our house. All of the Mean Girls were there and so was Chloe. I watched them sitting around the dining room table, stuffing their fat faces with cake, sending vapid selfies on Snapchat, and jokingly calling each other racist for using the word “Hispanic.” OG was laughing. Chloe was laughing. The Mean Girls were laughing. Becoming a hero isn’t that complicated: You just have to keep trying.