Class(less)

(with thanks to lildb!)

Here we are, year 3 into the Hub's residency. About to move up that ladder we call "class" for whatever reason. And we are neither here nor there...wherever "there" is.

I often wonder what really constitutes lower, middle and upper classes. It seems too simple to divide them simply on an economic scale. And in some ways, pointless. First and foremost, it is an easy way to measure the health or distress of a capitalistic system. But beyond that, is there a use for it? It says nothing of personal worth...of how interesting, or sympathetic a person might be. It is a system of stereotypes. And the problem with stereotypes, is that as soon as you begin to really know people as individuals, the stereotypes cease to exist.

I grew up in a "lower-middle-class" household in an "upper-middle-class" to "downright-loaded" neighborhood. This all due to good timing on my parents part. They moved in the mid seventies. With a nice neighborhood comes expectations...that you will wear the "right" (read preppy) clothes, like the "right" music (I never figured this one out), and date the "right" people...you know...the ones with parents who were never home so more often than not had the house to themselves for binge-drinking, tin-foil pipe, hand-mirror type parties. Wine coolers and fuzzy navals, vodka scented with OJ in a big plastic tumbler. You know. Classy.

I was the daughter of a organist/grade school teacher. Which automatically put me deeply in the realm of geekdom. I knew more about classical than current music, hated sports (but would put-up with volleyball), loved weeklong canoe jaunts in Maine, never knew what to do with my hair (except that it didn't involve a pom-pom on my forehead), and didn't have the patience for primping (unless I was going on a date...then I could prep for hours). I walked (more often ran) to school instead of driving in a sweet-sixteen red camaro supplied to many of my classmates by their doting (and not-very-smart) parents.

I worked throughout all four years of high school, at the public library, which was an old building that smelt of ancient tomes and well oiled wood. I loved working there. I paid for my clothes with that money, with an annual $100.00 subsidy from my parents when it was time to go back to school.

In a way, we lived outside of the class system. We were rich in experience, if not in money. I knew only a little of what I was monetarily missing, like expensive clothes to be bought without a thought, a car, an allowance. I told myself I didn't value those things (since I couldn't have them anyway), and that they didn't really matter. My grandfather built his home with his own two hands. That mattered. Our family went into Boston almost every weekend to go to museums, or plays, or the public library, or orchestra rehearsals (we all played intruments). We did cool, interesting things. Which isn't to say I was some kind of enlightened teen from beyond space and time. Because even though I knew with my head what was important to me, I was still angry. And jealous. And even a little bitter. I used that energy to distance myself from anyone who dared so much as a snigger in my direction. Why did they think they were better than me? Of course, who knows what they were really thinking, but in that time and place, it was me against the world. I was a class unto myself in a sea of stereotypes.

Fast forward twenty years...through travels, school, more jobs, boyfriends, first love, first traumatic moments of self actualization. I learn that everyone has their own story. I learn what my demons are. I recognize patterns, cycles in my relationships with others. Some time after the worst relationship of my life, where I lost, then found myself, I met my partner for life.

We met years before either of us knew he would actually go to
med school. We were both in that "hot-off-the-diploma-wilting-on-
the-day-job-that-pays-the-bills-but-is-not-what-we-really-
want-to-do" time. We were constantly on each other to keep
trying for better and better jobs.

For me it meant letting go of my bookseller existence at Borders (which paid for school) and nailing a job doing graphics at an architecture firm. When things got tight there, I freelanced for a while, collected my much earned unemployment, and eventually found a job designing direct marketing for a medical publisher.

There I was, working for "the man". And a global one, at that. My little punk art-school chick self seemed very far away. I'd made it to the "middle class". At least, by Philadelphia standards. Then we moved to Boston. And here, monetarily, we are poor.

But we are also simultaneously, through the Hub's work, entering the upper class. In Brookline, stereotypically speaking, this means the moms all have Bugaboos and MacClarens to go with their luxery condos, Moser furniture, SUV's and seasonally updated wardrobes. Now here I am, with my Stokke towering over the existence of our 2 bedroom apartment, the mish mash of trash-picked, hand-me-down, and recently-aquired-through-the-grace-of-tax-returns bed and sofa, our 10 year old Ford Escort, and my 1 to 10 year old wardrobe. Since everyone sees the Stokke, on the surface, we fit right in.

Has this been my ticket to acceptance here? I don't think so. My relationships here have been built through commonalities...the mothers I've grown to like meet early at the playground. We meet there on an almost daily basis. They are not competitive. My friendships have grown through misunderstandings, through humor, through sympathy. In these most important ways, we are classless.

But there is always that spectre of "proper form" hanging around. The Hub doesn't want to wear t-shirts to the park. In his perspective, he looks like a slob, not like the professional he is. It doesn't matter that the other dads seem perfectly comfortable in their t-shirts, and shorts, and baseball caps. When he comes to the playground, in a sense, he is visiting my office. He wants to be dressed to show me off.

The spectre touches other parts of our lives. We feel awkward about inviting some people over with our mismatched "silverware" and chipped dishes, and vinyl tableclothes. But I also know, that to those friends I've made in the past year, these things will not matter. And this time, I really feel it to be true.

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Hey! Let us out!