Non-Nonch: An Essay On Being Chalant
The crowd was bathed in the glow of fluorescent gym lights, packed onto the hard plastic bleachers. As his name was announced, friends exploded from their seats with joy, clapping their hands on his back as the crowd cheered loudly. Expression collected, he slowly stood up from his front-row seat, sauntering over to the center of the gym to accept his award. Muffled against the applause, I heard someone yell “Damn, he’s so nonchalant!” in an awe-filled tone.
The concept of nonchalance—or nonch, as it’s recently been dubbed— seems inescapable some days. It feels like everyone aspires for this seemingly indifferent or uncaring attitude. “Don’t double text him!” “Ugh, ceebs.” “I’m skipping tomorrow.” These offhanded phrases orbit around me in school hallways, fragments of conversations that seem to repeat themselves across campus.
But honestly? I don’t think I’ve ever been nonchalant in my life. Growing up, I was never good at casually enjoying anything. Incapable of just dipping my feet into something that interested me, I felt compelled to dive in every time. There was nothing I loved more than fantasy novels as a kid. It was never enough to passively absorb each novel: I would submerge myself in everything related to a series. My bookshelf was carefully organized by series and level of enjoyment, filled end to end with Land of Stories and Keeper of the Lost Cities paperbacks.
Memorabilia were proudly displayed from every corner of my room: a replica time-turner from the Prisoner of Azkaban, the Camp Half-Blood shirt my mom and I made ourselves. My Pinterest boards contained an infinite scroll of fanart, separated by book series and character ships. I spent hours watching my favorite edits and actor interviews on YouTube. I reread the same books until every detail was seared into my brain, all the while envious of the collected, nonchalant demeanors of their protagonists. I saw the irony, but it didn’t stop the seeds of jealousy from taking root.
My intense lack of nonchalance obviously didn’t go unnoticed. “It’s not that deep.” “It isn’t a big deal.” “Why do you care so much anyway?” It was an eye roll on the playground, a scoff at the dinner table, a shrug at the family reunion.
“It matters to me!” The words seemed to die in my throat once I’d open my mouth to retort. Each time I heard that passing remark, I could feel myself sink, embarrassment tinging the tips of my ears.
The thing is, I always knew they were right. The things that seemed to noisily crowd my brain never seemed to bother anyone else all that much. I cared so much about everything: an awkward conversation from two weeks ago, the wasted potential of a series finale, the lingering frustration of a months-old argument. I never understood how people were able to just let things go: nonchalance always felt so alien to me, and trying to embody it felt strangely untruthful.
As more and more seniors haphazardly stumble their way through their last semester, citing ceebs when questioned, I’ve embarrassingly struggled to be as careless. More often than I’d like to admit, I catch myself longing for the perceived nonchalance of my peers. I’ve succumbed to that envy before, diluting the obsessive parts of myself for others. “Oh yeah, I used to love that show,” I’d say about my favorite series. Discreetly closing an artist’s Wikipedia page, I’d shrug and say “I listen to a few of their songs, I guess.” It’s never worked: anybody with eyes could see through my false indifference in seconds.
I can’t help but think this desire for nonchalance is a bit of a paradox. The more that somebody cares about being nonchalant, the less nonchalant they actually are. The whole thing is like trying to fill a sieve to the brim: the more water you pour in, the more will inevitably drain out. It seems that the only way to attain this supposed nonchalance is to stop caring about whether or not you’re perceived that way. Maybe to be as nonchalant as I want, I shouldn’t try to stop myself from caring. Ironically, to be nonchalant, I have to embrace the fact that I do care too much.
As for why my generation cares so much about nonchalance (ha!), I can’t say for certain, though I suspect it has a lot to do with our collective fear of vulnerability. We can’t help it: admit it or not, I’m fairly sure everyone is at least a little hesitant to show their true selves to others. After all, doing so opens the possibility of others judging the real you. We were one of the first generations to grow up with the boom of social media, screens filled with influencers who seem to be effortlessly attractive, successful, and talented. It’s no wonder we’re afraid to be vulnerable when we spend our free time scrolling through impossible ideals. I’d be more surprised if we weren’t vying for that same nonchalance.
To be vulnerable means to accept the risk of getting hurt, and being afraid of that is completely justifiable. And the opposite of fear is indifference—it’s nonchalance. Maybe acting nonchalant serves as a self-preservation method for young people: though other generations emphasized macho, tough-guy personas to protect themselves, we chose to overcompensate for that fear of vulnerability in a different way. Different, but perhaps just as unsustainable.
Saying we should just “get more comfortable with vulnerability” would be a little out of touch. But maybe we should consider the why behind our prized nonchalance, and whether it’s something that’s worth our energy. It’s okay for things to really be “that deep”, and it’s okay for things to really be a “big deal”. Vulnerability is how we forge real relationships with others. My closest relationships aren’t with the people who have only seen me at my best: they’re with the people who have seen me at my most cringe-inducing, the people who know that I care too much and decided to stick around anyway. Showing the people you love that you aren’t invincible is the way we build trust.
I doubt I’ll be nonchalant anytime soon, and maybe that’s not so bad. There’s value in the vulnerability that comes with caring too much, regardless of how uncomfortable it makes me. Maybe my non-nonch personality doesn’t have to be a big deal—I’m becoming quite content with my own chalance.