The affective economy of acting nice
Let me start by admitting that I’m pretty pissed off right now. I’m mad at my roommate because she owes me $111, she’s given my apartment the equivalent of house STD’s (fleas) via her chihuahua and won’t do much to remedy the situation, she smokes inside whenever she thinks I’m not around, she eats my food, and doesn’t ever clean — and yet, she still manages to make me feel guilty for disliking her.
Why? Because she’s good at acting nice, not actually being nice, mind you, but acting nice. Performing the role of a nice, easygoing stoner chick who thinks that telling you to “have a wonderful day” is a valid form of payment.
Oh, and did I mention that her mother (the ultimate Stoner Mother) has stayed at the apartment rent-free for a cumulative total of a month-and-a-half? Yes, besides doing the dishes two or three times, Stoner Mother spent her day, everyday, at the kitchen table playing Farmville from sunrise to set. And yet, I actually liked Stoner Mother as a person much more than I like my roommate. Because at least she was genuine, genuinely a little kooky.
But I digress.
All of this makes me wonder about performing nice-ness as a kind of affective labor. People, and especially women, who are socially rewarded for their masquerade of manners, seem to act nice when they can’t/won’t offer anything else. The transaction being: paying off a material debt by imparting an immaterial feeling that said debtor is a good person. Well, how clever! And I wish the world could run on rainbows and fat babies’ giggles.
The problem is I know she’s not nice because of moments when I saw her “being real.” Indeed, she’s “kept it real” when for instance, she called me a bitch but couldn’t give me reasons as to why, or when she told me all my positive work evaluations were meaningless, when she told me flatly that she knew my boyfriend was going to break up with me, or when she backhandedly complimented me for not having to worry about aging, as I have a “child’s body.” I could go on.
Yes, the masquerade has become unbearably transparent. I can no longer suspend disbelief when she tells me to “have a lovely day” because I know those words don’t mean anything! They are just sounds coming out of her mouth in the hopes of ducking out of paying her share of the utilities.
I can’t stand it anymore, dear readers. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when I found a flea happily gliding along my new slippers today. THAT’S IT. If we’re bartering with affectivity then the interest I will collect from her debt will be my unapologetic and genuine bitchiness.
I mean, if she thinks I’m a bitch anyway, then why not reap the rewards—or should I say, the payment?
