top of page
Like What You See?

Share this post on social media. 

Bro-terns

Don’t be caught off guard, ladies. They’ll look like full-blown humans from afar. But you’ve lived here 5 years now. You know better.

It’s the Bro-terns. And they’re back with a vengeance.

Take caution. You’ll be overwhelmed by all of the toxic fumes and tourists in Midtown. But give your contacts a second to adjust. Don’t fix your hair or stop mid-conversation to Attention Laugh in his direction. He’s just an intern. He’s stapling papers in some back-lit office to pay penance for selling his soul to finance. He’s not the gainfully employed adult, fluent in 401(k), you thought you saw on the southeast corner of 42nd. This is a tot you’ve tangoed with before.

In New York…

Interns flock to the garbage-filled streets of Manhattan from across the nation to beef up their resumes bigger than their muscles (not a big task). But these particular interns are distinct from the usual city students. These out-of-towners are likely taking a bite out of the Big Apple for the first time and trying to sew their wild inseams along the way. But it’s not every intern that makes us want to throw an extra patience pill in our morning smoothies. We’re talking about the specific breed known as “The Bro-terns.” Bro-terns are traditionally well groomed, college-aged males interning in the financial (or like) industries.

You’ll see these newbies swarming your brunch spots, stealing your subway seats, and playing sidewalk Plinko with their company-branded backpacks. They have nice belts to match their nice post-grad employment packages. You haven’t seen them? They’re the ones trying equally as hard to get your attention in a bar as to grow facial hair. You know, the ones with flushed cheeks and stomachs full of light beer.

But how can you be sure you've seen a Bro-tern?

It’s some time between May and August, and the morning air is thick with humidity and Long Island accents. You’re waiting for your train, and like some PG horror movie, you hear childish echoes of “literally,” “dope” and “making bank” reverberate through the station. Your eyes wander to places your neck won’t move. Paralyzed with fear, the New Yorker in you says, “ignore at all costs.” (Unless it’s Pizza Rat. Don’t ignore that disease party.)

So you direct your eyes to your book. Read, Janet!

But you can’t focus. The echoes bring you back to last night in your bodega. Something was off: Stop STOP 1 was completely sold out of Pringles and Solo Cups. You took note, but in traditional New York fashion, you ignored. And even now – even though you’re having this moment of deep reflection on the lackluster chip selection in the bodega – you don’t put the pieces together. Not until Happy Hour. You’re sitting at the bar and, like a sleigh full of reindeer, a hoard of hairless men prance through the front door, cuff links clinking gleefully. You’ve got Chad and Brad and Kyle and Drayton. Campbell, Robert, Billy and Clayton …and the most unbearable of them all: Harrison. It’s like Connecticut Christmas in July! But instead of an Apple watch, Santa gave you Cole... who is primed to get your friend’s number.

This particular breed frequents distinct parts of town for after-work activities. Murray Hill and Kip’s Bay become Bro-tern Wild Life reserves, and spectators like me glance upon the species with awe and wonder. In one corner, a drove of Bro-terns are comparing portfolios and sizing up each others’ cuticles. In another, two Bro-terns slowly back-trot from each other and get ready to chest bump. These Lil’ Stockies smell strongly of Goldman Sachs and faintly of insecurity (if you get close enough to their popped collars). And they’re mating call, a piercing, “work hard, playyyyy harderrrrrrrr,” makes you almost forget about their attempts to lure you in with talk of projected future earnings. [Bleat] “Long hours, but [bleeeat] I’m chill. It’ll all pay [bleeeeeeeeeeeatttttt] off in the [bleat] long run.” [Scampers away] You don’t know where he went. But you do know by the end of summer, he’ll be re-hooved (a.k.a step up his shoe game thanks to New York), and start climbing up the professional ladder.

But in the mean time, his Bro-tern “buddies” are going to overgraze your favorite neighborhoods and mark their territories with Jack and Coke. [cue dramatic, electronica music]

Meanwhile, in Middle America…

Interns are relatively detached from each other. They roam the open spaces of suburbia freely, spend ample free time at Chili's with their deadbeat boyfriends. These interns are likely schlepping away at Dad’s Office and getting paler by the underpaid hour. Like moi.

After my freshman year, I interned in the glamorous world of Transportation and Logistics. Every girl’s dream. You could find me deep in the Caterpillar warehouse, being an Excel lackey for a company that did the kind of “widget work” you read about in math textbooks. My internship was filled with pervasive smells of rubber, plastic and middle-class sweat. Forget about cufflinks – jewelry of any kind was strongly prohibited (in case it got caught in an industrial machine and ripped off one of your digits). But c’est la vie! I strutted anyway [walked stiffly inside the designated pathways] in my close-toed shoes, earplugs and massive eye goggles. A modern-day Venus.

While not everyone in Middle America has this luscious internship experience, all us “normals” are in it for the work – not the nightlife. My after-hours activities as an intern included working the night shift at Dairy Queen or passing out to syndicated episodes of Chopped. So that’s why Bro-terns rub me the wrong way. While some may do quality work, most are so focused on getting la[ys Potato Chips] they don’t respect the average, graduated New Yorkers around them.

Take a Deep Breath and…

Ignore. You’re a New Yorker, remember? Ignore the Bro-terns because you’ve been there before, sans the perfectly-lotioned hands.

We’ve all been newbies, and we’re all semi-functioning humans. We know what it’s like to feel scared and inadequate, confident and powerful all at the same time. Basically, we’ve been a line in a Taylor Swift song at one point or another. And what you see as an insufferable Bro-tern, is really just a young buck trying to make it without Mommy and Daddy’s AmEx. In a way, it’s kind of cute – seeing the Bro-terns adult and all. So let's applaud them (and only give them inaccurate directions when necessary).

Have patience: don’t hiss at them when they cut in line at Trader Joe’s. Give advice: tell them of the best, safe places to cry at work. Look away: bite your tongue when they tell you about a “cool new spot” near Port Authority. We all know that doesn't exist. No need to add more fuel - or hair gel - to the fire. The Bro-terns are in a town that’s known for knocking people down a few notches. Odds are, they’re struggling more than their bank accounts tell. Just have some podcasts ramped up for your subway ride and stay away from Murray Hill until August. Oh, and tell that Bro-tern his fly is unzipped when he passes you in the crosswalk. Ciao!


bottom of page