9 March 2010

Class-less Distinctions

Americans have a hard time understanding the concept of “classes”. We threw off our yoke of aristocracy for the idea of “all men created equal”. And after our brief 200 odd years of existence, we presumably still find that ideal a mythic factor in our country. I emphasize mythic, because we do have many types of distinctions, which could be equally ascribed to differences in class. The main one of course is economic distinctions with a presumption that more money/income obviously means you are of higher standard, intellect, experience, education and blessed by whatever deity (presumably protestant) you observe. Since we are all bastards of multiple nations there is no real concept of breeding obligating birthright.

However, it does not mean we are not interested in slotting people right away. At introduction you are confronted with the universal conversation starter in the US, “What do you do?” There is an implied connection with what you do with who you are and how much you earn and how far up the economic ladder you have traversed. While all men are created equal, it is your job that defines how much more equal you are. And of course if you are female, a person of color or ethnicity, you have to be very rich to be thought a success or therefore of high class.

There are no class allowances made for accent or dialect either with the exception of a deep southern consonant swallowing dialect of the bubbas from Miss’ippi or ‘Bama. Even then it is only for a “good ole boy” who is a stockbroker or exploiter of capitol and/or people who can be received in good standing by the finer families of the Boston “Havad” ilk. So money makes class in the US not birth or background or dialect.

Thus it is a mystery to Americans why the British find nothing remarkable in the idea of class as a perfectly acceptable operating principle. Only the Queen is a “1” with Phillip a likely ‘”2+”. All the gradations go down from there to the lowest of all, the “5’s”. As a public health consultant, I would sit in meetings with my English colleagues who would say, “Oh, we need to do a much better job reaching the “class 4s”. I had no idea what that meant but there would be general nodding around the table and without a description or discussion everyone would go off to promote non smoking or some other health innovation to the 4s in their communities. They would know just where the 4s lived, where they went to school, which health service providers they frequented and what language dialect they spoke of the many in England. And I suppose, if there is any obvious giveaway of class in England it is dialect.

Americans have continued to struggle with racism and prejudice as each new wave of immigrant raised awareness of distinctions of ethnicity, disturbing our ideal of classlessness. And accents, with the aforementioned southern dialect excepted having to do with the residual of our civil war, were to be stamped out in the melting pot of assimilation. Hidden behind that effort is the need to eliminate class distinction that betrays you with language in the effort to all be equal. Not so with the Brits. Each person’s language is a marker of class and makes it easy to understand who and what you are and where you are from. And after that they just get on with it.

All these thoughts were rummaging through my mind as I entered the gates of the Merton Castle estate as part of the hoi polloi surrounding their annual open day for villagers. I had happened to be visiting my English cousins that week and was invited along for the experience of seeing the Lord of Merton Manor’s annual welcome speech and of course, reestablishment of the fiefdom that had governed this little corner of Surrey since the Norman French kicked out the Anglo Saxons kings 900 years ago. And being half Norman French, I was interested in seeing how that phenomenon had evolved. My cousins, though also part Norman French, do not see my interest in these things, being completely assimilated Brits. They went along for the pageantry and food I suppose and to continue a long tradition of going every year.

Lord and Lady Merton were charming hosts, as they could afford to be (ah, there my half -American roots showing through again). The tables set out on the manicured lawn in front of the manor were filled with shanks of ham and lamb. A grilled bovine of some ancestry, turned on a spit. A barrel of ale, the warm british kind, was flowing freely. I, who do not drink warm or even cold ales of any kind, looked around futilely for wine, to no avail but did manage to find some nice Irish whiskey among the predominant bottles of scotch set up on a table at the edge of the lawn

It was at this corner of the field that I regarded one of Lord Merton’s closest friends, Lord Blingbling. He was holding court with some of the more genteel locals, regaling them with stories and creating great roars of laughter from the surrounding crowd. Me, I could not understand a word he was saying. The words exited his mouth after being swallowed along with the scotch which flowed down his throat from the large tumbler he held in his beefy hand. I thought, this must be one of those markers of his class. He must be a class 3 plus, or maybe even a 2 minus as his accent was nearly indecipherable to me, each phrase hiccuped out in endless vowel sounds, almost like the southern bubbas of my experience in the US.

It was evident that Lord Blingbling had also not missed very many meals in his lifetime. I could visualize him at the long table in his house, consuming vast quantities of beef, washed down by ale, throwing joints away on the floor to his hounds massed around him and growling over control of the next bone tossed their way. At least that was my fantasy of how this barrel shaped man had led his life and I decided to wander around to meet people more on my class level. Hmmm, I wonder if there are any 5’s here?

After a bit, I heard a large crash and shouts for help back over by the whiskey table. The throng surged over, murmurs of concern rippling out to the edge of the gathering. Lord Blingbling had been in the midst of a long story when he clutched his throat, eyes bulging and toppled over onto the table, scattering bottles of single malts. What must have happened? Well it was clear to me. He had obviously choked on his swallowed words.