I 

drink black coffee and therefore, I am a badass. 
It suggests that I have places to go, people to see 
and don’t have the time to fuss around with milk. 

It gives off the (vital) impression that I have my shit 
together.

My equilibrium is set at a healthy level of caffein-

ation at which I can then proceed to be a functional 
member of society. Which I am.

In my defense, I grew up next door to a coffee shop. 

Philz, a chain that sprouted within a grocery store in 
San Francisco, spread throughout the Bay Area and 
landed just across the street from me. In fact, it’s so 
close that my home Wi-Fi reaches the outside seating 
with a strong signal.

The Philz aesthetic can best be described as “grun-

gy granola.” The baristas are inked and pierced, ques-
tionable indie rock plays overhead, and the pastries 
are, of course, gluten-free. Back then I was into the 
doctored-up stuff, ordering my coffee sweet and 
creamy to hide the bitterness it inherently assumes. 
My friends and I hung out there after school and tried 
to study, but mostly just talked and dreamed of our 
futures. Philz was my fictional escape, my version of 
Central Perk or Luke’s Diner, the coffee shop where 
my splendid, teenage shenanigans ensued.

There I submitted my college essays and had inter-

views for schools I didn’t get into. I eavesdropped 
on some disastrous Match.com dates, which I vigor-
ously transcribed and will later develop into a comedy 
series called “How Not to Date.” A boy asked me to 
the school dance with a coffee and a note that said, 
“It would Phil(z) me up with joy if you went to prom 
with me.”

There was also the matter of the cute barista. He 

wore tiny black gauges that my parents would have 
hated and listened to The Growlers, a “psychedelic 
rock” band that I pretended to like because he did. 
His Instagram almost exclusively featured his (ille-
gal) graffiti art, and on his breaks he would sit with 
me and tell me about his sleepless night of artistic 
inspiration. I thought he was dreamy. He was dark 
and twisty in all the right ways, so we flirted and he 
gave me free drinks.

I’ve recorded those afternoons at Philz into perfect 

memories — the sunny California weather, the young 
people, the coffee. To be fair, the weather was perfect 
because the state was experiencing its worst drought 
in decades, but I didn’t care, because I was 16 and in 
my sweet, creamy bubble.

By the end of high school, I was having my coffee 

with a splash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar. I’d 
had my first taste of loss, failure and rejection. I’d also 
learned to steer clear of guys that are into psychedelic 
rock.

My freshman year at the University of Michigan 

came and went with all-nighters and morning classes. 
Naturally, my body craved the strong stuff. The end-
less reel of college life left no room for extras and so 
my equilibrium had to adjust. My year was fast, exhil-
arating and always caffeinated.

When I returned home for the summer, Philz 

seemed, at first, just as I’d left it (except for the curi-
ous disappearance of the cute barista). Lines of decaf-

feinated civilians wrapped around the door and the 
smell of roasting beans wafted through my bedroom 
window at 5:30 in the morning.

A year older and somewhat wiser, I returned to 

Philz and ordered a coffee that my freshman year of 

pseudo-adulting had inspired: no cream, no sugar.

It hit the spot, but this summer, spending time at 

Philz felt out of place. Sunny afternoons paralyzed me 
like unwelcomed memories from the past, ones that I 
couldn’t ever re-live, nor did I want to. I’m still young 

and naïve — I know — but I’ve also made a place for 
myself in a world that is bigger than what it was a 
year ago. I’m 19 and impatient. I want life go faster, 
to discover everything faster. Going backward feels so 
unnatural.

Maybe black coffee is just a placebo, an attempt to 

convince myself that I can handle the bitterness that 
real life is laced with. Because, as much as I don’t 
want to admit it, things have changed. The friends 
that I spent afternoons drinking coffee with, the ones 
I thought would be mine forever, have drifted into dif-
ferent directions. The fantasies I created from across 
the street of the house I grew up in — of internships 
I’d have and men I’d meet and places I’d live — seem 
less and less realistic. At least for right now. College 
has turned me into a bit more of a realist, less likely to 
fall into the traps of the romantic storylines I’d con-
coct in the safety of the little shop a minute away from 
home.

Maybe it’s OK to grow out of things and grow into 

new things and try to forget that some things hap-
pened all together.

I’m a little less sweet now and don’t need as much 

cream to dilute reality. But, as previously mentioned, 
I’m also kind of a badass. So I can take it.

Wednesday, September 14, 2016 // The Statement 
7B

by Danielle Yacobson, Daily Arts Writer

ILLUSTRATION BY EMILIE FARRUGIA

Black Coffee

“Maybe black coffee is just 

a placebo, an attempt to 

convince myself that I can 
handle the bitterness that 

real life is laced with.”

