Recently I experienced “class” in America. It was a terrible shock. All these years–I’m 76–I thought for sure I was middle class. Now I don’t know. I knew I wasn’t upper class because I live near the railroad tracks and shop for clearances at Target.
But I am educated, I recycle, I listen to PBS and occasionally I wear fake Birkenstocks.
My class displacement trauma began when the Chicago Symphony doubled the price of our series tickets for the new season.
For years my son and I had tickets for the last row in the gallery with an obstructed view.
It’s the nosebleed section where powerful binoculars are a given if one wants to see where all the music is coming from.
Although the moneyed masses aren’t clamoring to sit in the oxygen-challenged environment, the gallery still was hit with a 100 percent ticket price increase. Demand for Saturday night, I was told. We were offered a cheaper series on Thursday night, but the 190-mile round trip from South Bend and 1 a.m. home arrival precluded acceptance, to no one’s surprise, I suspect.
By losing my seat with an obstructed view in the last row of the gallery, I learned that money–lots of it–makes “class.”
Not education, not recycling, nor listening to PBS, nor abjuring red meat.
Only money. Now my low-class self is on the street with an unobstructed view, and the city looks great.
I wonder if Target has clearances on old Chicago Symphony CDs. After all, sometimes even the Chicago Symphony has no class.
