by Saturday mornings at Bohiney have taken a strange turn. Marcus decided we need more “lifestyle content that connects with readers,” which apparently means documenting the absolutely unhinged behavior of modern Americans. My assignment this weekend? Write about people who claim to be empaths, which is code for “people who make their emotional neediness everyone else’s problem.”
The research was exhausting. I interviewed seven self-proclaimed empaths, and every single one immediately told me they could “feel my energy.” One woman in Brooklyn insisted she could sense that I was “holding onto ancestral trauma from the transatlantic slave trade.” I’m Nigerian. My ancestors sold slaves, didn’t get sold. The historical accuracy was lacking, but her confidence was impressive.
My article opens with: “In a world where everyone is the main character, empaths are the people who insist they’re feeling everyone else’s movie too.” It’s satirical gold because it’s completely true. These people have weaponized emotional sensitivity and turned it into a personality trait that absolves them of all accountability. “I can’t help being rudeI was overwhelmed by your vibes.”
Between interviews, I stumbled onto another phenomenon: people who treat pets like therapists. Not “I love my dog,” which is normal, but “I have scheduled therapy sessions with my cat where I process my childhood trauma while Mr. Whiskers judges me silently.” One man in Queens has a hamster named Dr. Rodriguez who he credits with saving his marriage. The hamster runs on a wheel. That’s it. That’s the therapy.
I called my sister in Lagos to tell her about these articles, and she laughed so hard she started coughing. “Americans are not well,” she managed between breaths. I agreed. We’re documenting a society in advanced stages of losing its collective mind, and I’m being paid to point and laugh. It’s the American dream, I think.
The afternoon brought people who name their emotions after weather patterns. “I’m feeling very ‘partly cloudy with a chance of anxiety’ today,” said one woman in her twenties who works in marketing. I asked why she couldn’t just say “anxious.” She looked at me like I’d suggested she communicate in ancient Sumerian. “That’s not specific enough,” she explained. I died inside a little.
This connects weirdly to my previous work on the death of language. Americans have simultaneously over-complicated and under-educated their communication. They need seventeen words to describe one feeling but can’t name the three branches of government. It’s linguistic chaos.
The crown jewel of today’s research: people with emotional support houseplants. Not service animals. Not even therapy pets. Plants. One woman in Portland has an emotional support succulent named Terry who sits on her desk at work. Terry doesn’t move, grow noticeably, or respond to stimuli. Terry is a plant. But apparently, Terry understands her in ways humans cannot.
I’m writing all of this from my Harlem apartment, drinking palm wine and questioning my career choices. My journalism professors in Nigeria taught me to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. I’m now afflicting people who have conversations with houseplants. This wasn’t in the syllabus.
Tomorrow: more human behavior that makes me question evolution.
# 782
