|
Law in Contemporary Society
|
|
Class-less-- By KaiKar - 13 Mar 2017 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? You are entitled to restrict access to your paper if you want to. But we all derive immense benefit from reading one another's work, and I hope you won't feel the need unless the subject matter is personal and its disclosure would be harmful or undesirable. To restrict access to your paper simply delete the "#" character on the next two lines:
|
|
