I Lived It: My Goodrich Barista Made Fun Of Me For Asking For Breast Milk

Mornings are for coffee and contemplation? BLEGH! Mornings are for waiting in a long-ass line at Goodrich while thinking about all the work you have to do that you have not done yet, while also checking the tiny little whiteboard to see what is out of stock so you know which of your favorite orders are actually plausible on a cold, chilling Williamstown morning.

[The Williams Haybale Automatic Fact Checker: One might argue that this falls under the umbrella of “coffee and contemplation.”]

Editor’s Note: The Williams Haybale Automatic Fact Checker is not powered by AI. It is powered by the **** and ****  and sex **** yum. 

Maybe I chose an intriguing morning to make my first Goodrich visit. It was so windy that my eyes teared up, and so cold that my tears froze on my face. After a horrible hike from my dorm, there was nothing better I could imagine than a hot, steaming latte. A little latte art on it wouldn’t hurt. A flower, a heart, a blob shaped like the indomitable human spirit? I’m not picky. But nary a flower nor heart nor blob did I receive atop a latte.

See, this girl (yours truly) did not receive a latte at all.

On the tiny, small mini-school whiteboard, Goodrich was out of whole milk, skim milk, oat milk, almond milk, goat milk, yak milk, moose milk, coconut milk, condensed milk, buttermilk, and raw cow milk. This was no problem for me because there’s only one milk I drink, which I have been drinking since I was a wee babe.

Approaching the front of the line, I felt my pulse quicken with excitement. When it was my turn, I jumped at my opportunity. 

“Hi, what can I get for you?” the barista asked. Her hair was up under her hat. Just like mom—!  

“Can I get a hot latte?”

“Sure!” she grabbed a cup. “What kind of milk?”

“Could I get breast milk?”

She paused. “Sorry?”

“Breast milk? Like, b-r-e-a-s—”

“No, I know how it’s spelled. We— we don’t have breast milk?”

“Really?”

“Well, not now. Only during Family Weekend.”

“Oh,” I said. (What about the friends? I thought. I decided I didn’t need the answer.) “Could I…do you have any left over?”

“All cleaned out.” 

I paused. Think, I told myself. What would a smart, Williams College Leadership Studies student do?

“Can I get some of yours?”

“Umm, no? Why would I have any? I’m not even dating anyone!”

Huh, I thought. She thought I was hitting on her. Why did she think that? Did she think I was flirting? Why would she think that asking for breast milk is flirting? She must be crazy. Women are crazy. Hey! That’s misogynistic. I’m so mean to women. I’m so mean to me. I should be nicer to myself. I should give myself grace. I am so loved. I am so important. I am so special. I am so…

I tried to backtrack. “That was a joke! Obviously, like,..., aren’t we all purple cows, right? Shouldn’t we all be able to get breastmilk whenever we want some?”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “Can I get you anything else?” An idea strikes my head.

“What if I could get some? Like, if I bring my own?”

The barista gave me a look. “What do you mean?”

“Like I could make some. Or bring some from somewhere else.”

“Umm…sure? Whatever you think works best.”

As I turned away to contemplate this exchange, all the baristas erupted in a roar of laughter. What was that? They pointed. Can you believe she believed us about Family Weekend? They laughed. Why is she wearing athleisure in Goodrich? They pointed and laughed. 

Furious, I ran out of Goodrich and all the way back to my dorm. My eyes stung with tears, but not enough to limit my vision. I spent the rest of the day going through the entire list of thirty thousand Instagram profiles that follow @williamscollege and found the four baristas who laughed in my face. (In hindsight, I realize I could have started with the Goodrich Instagram. Unfortunately, I am not very smart.) I found them and blocked them and reported them for bullying and harassment and then posted their usernames on a private story to all my friends and ranted about how much they suck. I laid that night in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the things I wished I could say to them. It’s not that weird! And it’s not just a phase, mom! Silence is a curse. The high road is a curse.

How dare they laugh at me. I am undeserving. I am above them. I am below them (we had sex last night). And one day, I will get my revenge (can’t do it now because I am being ghosted). Be forewarned.