Correction

Our ombudsman has reported an inaccuracy regarding yesterday’s over-charged opinion post. Mama-waitress actually has only two children. She had one at fourteen, the other at seventeen.

Our ombudsman has also urged me to apologize for sounding like an elitist schmuck. She pointed out to me that I am at times in company that makes me feel like I did not go to the right school, haven’t read the right books, or missed an obvious cultural reference that any well-educated person should get. She reprimanded me for treating others the same way.

Then she slipped this article (the link is in the title) under my nose and said:

“Read this and tell me how it makes you feel. And look – that woman is serving as a public service lawyer and caring for foster children. What are you doing you privileged bourgeoisie dilettante?”

To which I sputtered and said, “Ummm, I’m not that privileged! I just had parents who taught me that I could do something I love to do, and would be happier in the long run for it. I mean, we went to Ponderosa growing up, not The Palm! The Finger Lakes, not Martha's Vinyard!”

She looked at me and chuckled. “And look where that idealism got you. Who is working right beside that mama-waitress with the three kids?”

“But, I…”

“Exactly.” She said. And she turned around and walked away.




(PS. The Times article is the first of the series that I’ve actually read, but I’m hooked. It is a fascinating subject. I am going to pull the others up on the Times website.)

When it comes to the discussion of class, I always feel like I straddle a line. Technically, both my parents are “professionals”. But they are teachers. That allows for a much different lifestyle than the child of two lawyers or, better yet, two doctors.

But because they were culturally literate, articulate, and open-minded, I rarely feel completely out of my league when conversing with people. In some ways, our cultural wealth was greater than our monetary wealth. Which is the way I still live my life,

The “where I went to school” thing does stop me up at times. It is not a secret that my father sort of relished the idea of one of his kids going to an Ivy League school. We started visiting Harvard, Yale and Cornell when we were like, ten. And it may have been a possibility, but our interests steered us both in an entirely different direction.

And I have, since college, befriended a number of Ivy League alums. Around them I feel sheepish about my art school education. Completely self-imposed class issues. And yet I can talk Shakepeare with the best of them. Or Brecht.

Just not economic theory. Or philosophy. Or architecture. Or art history.

Maybe I just need to read more.