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Class-less | |
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< | -- By KaiKar - 13 Mar 2017 | >
> | -- By KaiKar - 31 May 2017 | | | | |
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< | My time so far at Columbia has often evoked senses of irony, an awareness of incongruences in my own experiences and understandings with the statements or expectations of my classmates, professors, and, perhaps most potently, OCS.
An example: I had a conversation with a classmate about boarding school. I had never met anyone who had attended one before coming to Columbia Law, and the idea both fascinates and disgusts me. It has the simultaneous detachment associated with the ‘latchkey’ generation combined with (what I view as) needless flaunting of wealth and privilege. Somehow it is also steeped in antiquated class ritual and tradition. Irony.
I’ve learned not to express such opinions of wealth and class in polite company. But this time, perhaps encouraged by the cappuccino stout open by my side, I couldn’t stop myself from saying “Well, only rich people go to boarding school…” This offended my classmate. Ah, yes, this is why I stopped drinking in social gatherings, I remember. At the very least she immediately became defensive - her family wasn’t ‘wealthy’ and wasn’t from the ‘rich part’ of her home state. Boarding school is a ‘New England’ thing, she explained. This perplexed me, and I pushed her further. She is not poor – both her parents earn money and have skilled jobs. I pointed out that two middle class parental incomes could easily put her family in the top 20% of households – I’m not sure where else rich lies. She disengaged and walked across the room quite deliberately.
My conclusion (and, frankly, obsession) with this interaction is that ‘rich’ is always something we aim for – the people above us are rich. We are not ‘rich,’ no matter where that ‘we’ lies. A friend whose family is clearly in the top 5% of income earners, from my envelope calculations, has used the phrase ‘truly rich’ to describe another person he knows. The true top of the income ladder hide either behind their relative anonymity or, conversely, behind their relative infamy. The rest of America is a nation of temporarily embarrassed millionaires, and in the case of millionaires, it seems, temporarily embarrassed billionaires.
Another example: I visited the offices of Sullivan & Cromwell for a resume workshop (“light hors d'oeuvres”), where they gave us an office tour. They showed us a lounge they went out of their way to specify was used mainly for recruiting. It looked out over the Statue of Liberty. They were very proud of this view in this largely unused room.
I left as fast as decorum would allow. There is still something about that image – the recruiting manager standing in front of a large window with a painted smile on her face, wearing an outfit worth several times more than any I owned, excited that their building looks out over a symbol of freedom, safe haven, and equality – that I cannot shake. That felt like irony, the coupling of two opposing and unexpected symbols, one the pinnacle of corporate achievement, locked to only but the very few, the very privileged, and the other standing for the lost, defunct, but still resonant American Dream.
So here I have two questions: why do I have this feeling of irony, and why is it seemingly unique to my interactions within and associated with my law school? When Eben talked about the connections you build from an institution like this, I believe I was nodding along – the network and access to power were strong consideration when I chose this school. But now I feel like I am holding a live wire – I don’t know what to do with it, and it might kill me if I’m not too careful.
I came to law school to figure out a way to use my skills to enact change in society. I wanted to do so more efficiently and with greater impact than the small firm I worked for before, but I’m encountering and feeling something I was not anticipating – an incompatibility with the environment. I don’t think it’s the field generally, I’ve worked in several law firms, done legal work, enjoyed it, found it meaningful, and found a way to thrive. But I felt more comfortable at my interview in what could only be described as a dingy government office in Brooklyn than in any wealthy large law firm. Am I uncomfortable around money or power? Is it both?
Is this my own class blindness? Perhaps the comfort with which many of my classmates ignore the monetary privilege they have is analogous to my own discomfort with it.
The title of this essay is ‘Class-less,’ not because I do not belong to a social class, of course I do, but because I feel forced to examine the instances of class division and interaction more than most of the other people I encounter here. They seemingly feel without a class and I feel apart from it. I cannot imagine what someone not from an American social structure encounters and feels in this world. But this feeling may be why I’m afraid I could (or am) squandering an opportunity I deliberately gave myself, simply because of incongruence and feelings of irony.
This is a good first draft: it does the wondering. You've written
your way to the questions, which the next draft can begin taking up
more systematically.
In our society—where as you say class is supposed to be
invisible—shifting class locale always involves the sense of
incongruity you name here as "irony" (it is a form of irony, indeed,
of one subcategory). Like the shadow cast by an object we're not
supposed to be able to see, it "ironically" designates the
invisible, visibly.
So perhaps you can appreciate from this starting point one facet of
what I mean when I tell the lawyers who work for me that the only
indispensable component of our practice is irony. (I am primarily
referring to another subcategory, I admit, but the point will do
here as well). Your practice, wherever you lawyer, involves
managing this irony, among others.
Being a lawyer, you are never far from class awareness. Having a
much more than average American income—which is likely to be
your condition from here on out—will put you in one class
position, while your work (whether for those much richer or those
much poorer than you) is likely to juxtapose your class situation
with those discordantly different. (You could decide to specialize
in lawyer divorces, or lawyer personal bankruptcies, or something
that puts your clients in your class neighborhood, but that's not
very likely.) So this ironic awareness of class, which is
ever-present and largely unmentionable in our comfortably
self-deceived American neo-aristocracy—where one house of
Congress can vote on party lines to deprive more than 20 million
Americans of health insurance in order to give a half-trillion
dollar tax cut to the upper class—is not a phenomenon of law
school, but in all likelihood of your lawyer's life.
So let's try a draft in which your relationship to this lesson isn't
self-doubt, or self-criticism for feeling something that might get
in your way. With confidence, because you're right, how do you
imagine managing your awareness of the "irony" of a self-imagined
classless America riven by constant one-sided class struggle, in
which you are committed to seeking justice? | >
> | Joke
My time so far at Columbia has often evoked senses of irony, an awareness of incongruences in my own experiences and understandings with the statements or expectations of my classmates, professors, and, perhaps most potently, OCS. The most prominent examples range from off-handed hypotheticals in professor’s prompts regarding property prices to pointed statements from classmates revealing their own educational experiences (boarding schools are not as common as the Columbia Law incoming class would have one believe). | | | | |
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> | This irony arises clearly from a difference in class experiences. The poor are raised from an early age to emulate and desire the lifestyle of the leisure class, but the more fortunate are told the same. This creates a blindness in the upper classes that do not (yet) own their own private islands; they must strive for more, so the ones striving for what the upper classes already have are unimportant, invisible, and unnoticed.
The idea that a hypothetical given in class, that owning a summer home pilfered by thieves in the winter months, could be a normal and relatable experience was absurd to me. As funny as I found the example the professor gave, I also found myself laughing alone.
When experiencing this discord between my classmate’s reactions and my own (at many, possibly countless other examples), I was alternatingly frustrated, despondent, and defeatist. How could I survive in this environment when the ones I grew up in were so different?
Why am I seemingly the only one in on the joke?
Punchline
The obvious first solution was to find others who were in on it.
So I made friends with the other first generation professionals, swapped stories about apartment nightmares and high school jobs, while building a network of people I could relate to.
But it wasn’t enough.
When I had conversations with other classmates whom I respected and knew were brilliant, I felt a tinge of distaste. I hated this feeling. This would not do. I could not limit my intellectual circle to only those in on my jokes at the exclusion of most others around me (well, I could, but it would make for an even more frustrating and isolating experience).
Hoping that I hadn’t damaged relationships beyond repair yet, I examined my discomfort. I wish the progression had been as clear as it feels now.
My unease was rooted in some simple aspects – an inability to empathize with the unfamiliar as well as different rituals than my own. However, some differences are going to take more examination than simply reminding myself that others are sometimes not like me. I still find certain habits at this school insulting to those who cannot afford them (dress shopping for Barrister’s Ball being an oddly stinging one for me, I bought a dress for less than many rented). I find the amount of wealth spent on recruitment by firms disconcerting – it begs the question of why the money needs to be spent in the first place. (The answer, of course, is to throw enough money to make the future associates feel part of that Veblenite leisure class). These questions are important, and they can only arise if I refuse to dismiss those with different experiences from my own out of hand.
It takes more work than I expected. It forces me to question knee-jerk assumptions and encounters. It is extremely rewarding.
Delivery
The title of this essay is ‘Class-less,’ not because I do not belong to a social class, of course I do, but I feel forced to examine the instances of class division and interaction more often and more closely within the walls of the law school than my peers. This examination, while painful and alienating at times, is valuable. I recommend it. It is a different sort of examination than when you work with the very poor or victimized with some goal of bettering their position or assisting them in a case… to transcend a class boundary with no intention (or desire) of altering it, only coming as an observer. Admittedly, I am not there, for I see waste in many interactions and experiences that I still have to look away from them – it helps identify and flag the aspects of this culture that I want to avoid. Nor should complete objectivism be the goal, for there are toxic and wasteful aspects of pecuniary culture that lawyers fall into easily, particularly a dependence on a much-higher-than-average salary. I should be aware of these pitfalls.
The idea of experiencing and respecting another social class is essential to my theory of social action and the guiding principles in my practice. I acquire knowledge best through experience. Only through knowledge can true understanding arise, and only through understanding can purposeful, substantive actions be taken. Still not knowing the exact type of clients I will work with, the ability to learn from them and understand them from a relatively objective viewpoint is important to me. I do not want to condescend, purposefully or accidentally, to my more financially blessed clients (or friends), just as I do not want to condescend to the financially distressed ones. Understanding allows for empathy instead of pity (or envy). A relationship, professional or otherwise, can be built on the former, but it is very hard to build a relationship between equals if one pities or envies the other.
While I originally asked myself why I felt a discord with my peers, I now understand this discomfort will reward and enrich. I cannot turn my back on it. | | |
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