September 12, 2025 at 4:00:00 PM
By Audrey Hua ’26
This piece is part of a monthly column called “Philosofly,” which takes everyday anecdotes to challenge commonly held views and expose questions we hide.
Humans are highly intelligent creatures. We’ve proved axioms and derived complex mathematical theorems. That’s why I found myself, alongside twenty-nine other highly intelligent creatures, walking as fast as my 5’ 4” legs could carry me to the lecture hall for a good seat. As we neared the speed of a modest horse trot, my friend panted, “Are we really being this chalant?”
Chalant. Adjective. To describe a person who shows any interest, emotion, or expression. The word derives from nonchalant, the greatest new compliment a teenager can receive.
In my middle school, it was not very cool to try. At Mercersburg, it’s different. Athletes wake up at 6 am to hit the courts. Dancers remain in the lower level of the Burgin for an entire weekend. Mr. Caretti’s office hours are fully booked. While I’m poked by occasional comments of “tryhard,” I don’t take it as a gibe, because everyone is trying hard.
But while trying hard in both academics and extracurriculars is seen as cool, trying hard socially has become downright embarrassing. Somewhere along the way, the “charismatic” guy everyone championed became the “nonchalant” guy everyone sought to be around. While nonchalance is not inherently bad, “nonchalant,” as the standard for societal admiration, strips away the joy from our childhoods. The reason we are so attracted to the concept of nonchalance is that we like mystery.
Now, I don’t deny that mystery is intriguing. But novelty wears off, and in the end, what keeps people around is authenticity. Some people are born more stoic and unbothered. It’s no less cool to be born naturally as an energetic and exciting person. If we’re obsessed with trying to be nonchalant all the time – i.e., trying to put on a mold that doesn’t fit – it gets pretty tiring, and, unsurprisingly, for those around us. Instead, letting yourself out can make socializing enjoyable rather than nerve-wracking, whether you’re someone who runs to the dining hall when there’s tater tots for breakfast or a cinnamon roll-looking painter who listens to Central Cee.
Childhood is shaped by the taste of grass and shame. Why? Because you fall on your face a lot. These years are the prime time to be a beginner and suck at what you do. But nonchalance can get in the way of that. Scared of embarrassing ourselves, we stop trying new things simply because we’re afraid we might miss the frisbee mid-jump. As Gazelle said, “Birds don't just fly, they fall down and get up/ Nobody learns without gettin' it wrong.”
In lacrosse season, one of the first things I learned was this: you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. And you’d be right if you guessed that most of my shots ended up quite a few miles from the goalpost.
Perhaps the most damaging aspect of the nonchalant culture is the repression of emotions. We cry because we care. I’d much rather ugly cry and be called dramatic, vulnerable, or a crybaby than suppress these emotions, or even worse, lose the capacity to feel deeply. In a time of vacillating hormones and rollercoaster emotions, teenage years are meant for bawling and hurting and yearning, not poker faces and unaffected attitudes.
Recently, I’ve started valuing charisma more than nonchalance. Unlike nonchalance, which seems to inherently denote a cavalier attitude, I don’t think there is a token “charisma.” It is most often the byproduct of fully expressing your personality, and hence, it looks different for everyone. Many of my friends are endearing to me simply for their unique types of charisma. I am in deep admiration of the passion and love they bring to the things they love. For that, I’m so glad they’re not nonchalant.