I'm Not Sure What Class Actually Means
If someone were to hold a gun to my head and make me identify the class I belong to, you'd better believe I'd come up with something quickly, probably claiming my place in the working class and hoping that didn't get me shot. My bona fides for identifying that way include my lack of post-secondary education, the fact that I occasionally use hand tools and crawl around on the floor. The guys cutting the grass and mopping the toilets at work might disagree with me because 95% of time is spent in an air conditioned office sitting in front of an expensive computer. But, I know who my people are.
Income wise, I made the supremely wise decision to marry up, to a a partner who is a CPA and an associate VP of the university that employs us. She is a third generation college graduate and a professional in every sense of the word. She knows all the rules written and unwritten in dealing with her peers and the blue bloods of academia. I have to deal with the same folks and I delight in not knowing most of the rules and not following the ones I do know. Take doctorate degrees for example, I only call people Doctor if they are younger than me. That's my personal rule. The ones who are my age, get called Stan or Sheila. I feel extra satisfaction if it gets under their skin and have yet to have anyone tell me to refer to them by their educational title, which I would gladly do with a smirk if asked.
My ex used to tell me that she could tell who I was talking to on the phone by the accent I was using. I am very close to an uncle of mine who took me in when I was in high school. He farmed during those years and has a degree in swine and poultry science. He has exactly zero pretensions about anything and has never tried to impress anyone in his life. He is just who he is and his speech patterns reflect that. When I talk to him, I end up sounding like him unintentionally. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
My mother, who grew up on a tobacco farm and used an outhouse until she was a teenager, later became a nurse in a hospital in one of North Carolina's coastal counties. There she met and married a doctor whose life seemed to come straight from a novel. He had been a Fulbright scholar, educated at the Sorbonne in Paris. When President Kennedy drafted physicians after the Berlin crisis, this doctor went into the Army and became one of the early members of the US Special Forces, The Green Berets. He had a pilot's license and a plane and multiple sail boats. He played tennis and drove a British sports car. His manners and habits were European and there was absolutely nothing he could not talk about. The best thing though was that he loved my Mom like the sun loves the sky and he treated her with respect and dignity every day of his life. I came to find out that despite all the high-class background and trappings, that he was the son of a mechanic from Illinois whom he idolized. He treated every person in my family with love and my children revere him to this day.
In short, I care a whole lot more about how people act and how they treat others than I do about educational levels or wealth or background. I respect hard work, whether it be in a research lab or on the back of a tractor. I've known some really wealthy people who were generous and kind and I've met some poor folks who fit the same description. It may be an American thing to discount class, or it may just be a Lou thing, something I do alone. I don't really care.
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