All My Friends Are WASPs

I think that because my Dad is a politician and has really, really good Kennedy hair (seriously though, it’s so good), people assume we are WASPs. Real, Luther-loving, transubstantiation-hating, White Anglo Saxon Protestants. Well these people are wrong. And not only that, they clearly know nothing about history, or follicles. First off, the Kennedy’s are Catholic and so are we. Secondly, schwoopy blonde hair does not a Protestant make. But WASPiness is not just about religion, these days. It's become a lifestyle. I mean, if I were a real WASP, would I have dropped out of sailing lessons in 8th grade? No. Would I be so intimidated by an email I received this morning telling me not to forget my “tennis whites” for an upcoming weekend in Rhode Island? No, I wouldn’t. In my mind I’d locate my best polo and skort combo instead of frantically scanning my wardrobe for an appropriate ensemble. In doing so, all I come back with are men’s Hanes tee-shirts, reversible hand-me-up Nike shorts and sneakers with dark court-scuffing soles. So what’s a non-WASP to do in such hard times?

Well, I decided to take a cue from all my compatriots over at Conn Coll, where even the Jews are WASPs. My first step was to take a deep breath and not show any outward emotion. Sure I was stressing over tennis whites, but a good WASP never betrays her inner turmoil. She dons her pearls and puts her best foot forward, possibly with the help of a couple gimlets. After much calm reflection on my Lacoste-free existence, I realized that I was going to be just fine. Tennis whites are no obstacle to something I was born with, something that confused my Italian tutors to no end, but could never, ever fail me in the face of an impending WASPy weekend.

An androgynous, ambiguous name: Makena.

If there’s anything I learned in college, it’s that the most obvious WASP identifier is a first name that sounds like a last name (Tucker, Forbes, Carter, Mackenzie, Finley). Bonus points if you’re a girl with a boy’s name (Colby, Logan, Brooks) or a boy with a girl’s name (Leslie, Kelly, Shannon). Triple bonus points if you go by your middle name. And a gold star if you people call you something like Bitsy, Kitty, Chip, Skip, Trip, Biff, Ace or a colloquial permutation of the numbers that follow your given name. So here I am, with a gift bestowed upon me by my unsuspecting parents. A name that, in truth, is Hawaiian, but to your average, unsuspecting, possibly drunk WASP acquaintance? Pure gold.

I mean, what’s the use of suffering through years of recruitment letters from B.C. High and St. John’s Prep if I can’t at least use my boyish sounding name to my advantage around similarly-monikered friends. Why correct people when they assume I was named for my mother’s family (who in reality, are so Italian they put that fat kid Anthony from the Barilla pasta commercials to shame)? If they hear my name and automatically assume I’m good at squash and know what a boom vang is, who am I correct them?

But why all the masquerading? I’m mostly just in it for the big lobster I was promised if I survive the weekend. Apparently, shellfish is like currency for these people.