Dating a Privileged White Girl
She was immersed in things I'd only heard of before, like Debutantes, season tickets to the Orange County Performing Arts Center, new Volvo sedans, Pescetarianism, Whole Foods, art show openings, family alumni in Ivy League universities, famous relatives who were active or once active in the art world...
By Ryan Chang
Turtle Rock is a multi-tiered specialty community in Orange County, CA in a city called Irvine. Street signs are small and the roads are hilly. They are threats to teenagers that live here with their parents. BMWs and Mercedes-Benzs often collide at the bottom of hills at the hands of teenagers. Turtle Rock is predominately populated by Privileged White Families.
The Privileged White Girl, or PWG, remains a staple in male dating habits nationwide. They’re characterized by their refined upbringing, tastes, and high levels of self-consciousness. They are usually artistically inclined, most commonly in literature and art history. Some are known to pursue the fine arts. A small number find their “forte” in finance. PWGs are found in private educational institutions across the country. Most are identified by uncommon names and/or common names with uncommon spellings.
Sage Hill School is a private, liberal arts-focused high school in adjacent Newport Coast, CA that sits approximately one mile from the beach. Olive was a 17 year old high school senior at Sage when I met her at the holiday party of a mutual friend. I was 16, a sophomore at a public high school, and instructed to bring my guitar. I knew three people at the party, counting the host. The three friends schmoozed while I planted myself at a restored early 20th century French butcher table with a Bud Light and the guitar. The house was expensive and untouched. The guitar stayed in its case. Everyone else drank PBR.
The host asked me to play a song. I played “Far, Far Away” by Wilco. I was noticeably buzzed; I had switched the order of several lyrics. I remember singing it good enough. I noticed Olive watching me from between people’s heads. We locked eyes a few times during the song. I finished and the four or five others clapped and assured me I did well and walked away. She was alone and came up to me to say she really liked that Wilco song, though her favorite was on “Summerteeth,” the one before “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.” “You know that one, right,” she asked. I nodded yes and sipped. She eyed a boy that brushed past her. Olive was pretty.
