My Marxist Morning

I don't usually think about social class, but then I don't usually witness proletariat oppression or stroll with a famous politician either. So this morning was an all around exception.

It started at McDonalds, where (consistent with the theme) I don't often go. Being out of milk, I had skipped breakfast, making me weak and unable to resist the thought of an egg sandwich and hash browns. So me and the Blue Biscuit (see last post) went for a McBiscuit.

Inside the restaurant, a man wearing a suit was bossing employees around. He didn't appear to work there—he had to ask someone where the iced tea was—but he was confidently putting food into his bag, in addition to the bossing, so I guessed he was the owner and had come to get a free breakfast. He seemed irritable with the manager about something, and after I had ordered, the manager came over and gruffly told my cashier to enter the number of coffee creams requested each order into the register. You could feel the tension behind the counter, as the bad bile passed down the chain of command. Then the suited man turned his irritation at a hispanic boy wrapping a sandwich—my sandwich it turned out. "No! What are doing?!" the man snapped. I couldn't make out what the kid was doing wrong. "Don't just stand there looking at me with your mouth open! Duhhh!" The man was mocking him, really being nasty, and I felt sorry for the kid, even after I realized it was my sandwich that was apparently being mishandled. More than pity for the kid, who did seem to be taking it rather well—he looked at my cashier and they seemed to share a mutual relief that the man would soon be gone, even a hint of amusement—I was irritated at the man. Or rather The Man. Couldn't he show a little respect?

After getting my meal, I went to the beverage counter to put sugar and cream in my coffee, and The Man came right up next to me. He was filling his cup with some blue punch—I guess he changed his mind about the tea—and I felt like I should punch him, or at least say something. It was after all my sandwich he seemed so concerned about. Who better to stand up to him? And maybe if someone said something he'd think twice about being rude in the future. If nothing else it would be registered that someone thought his behavior was inappropriate, which seemed like a decent human thing to do.

But I wavered. What if The Man was having a bad day? Maybe that kid really was thoroughly incompetent and that was the last straw? What if The Man were to snap at me and make a scene? They were somewhat lame considerations, but let's be honest: I'm not the confronting type. The Man left and I followed him out, squinting at him, hoping he would trip. He didn't, but at least he held the door open for me.

I watched him go to his car, a Mercedes SUV, which was more evidence he was the owner and not an off-duty manager. He squealed out of the parking lot, and that refueled my annoyance. What an all around dick! The only consolation was that he seemed genuinely unhappy.

Then I wondered, Who was unhappier—this guy or the McDonald's employees? What about in general—the owners of businesses or their low paid employees? I've worked jobs at least as bad as McDonald's (washing dishes in a fish restaurant), and though I would hate to go back to that, I didn't mind so much at the time. Maybe because I knew it wasn't permanent? How permanent was working at McDonald's for the people there? Did they live in the neighborhood, and if so how could they afford the $1000+ rent? I couldn't help thinking of class struggle, even though Marxism for me is kind of like Freudian psychology. They each have their own little obsession with a conflict (class and infantile psychosexual, respectively), and I'm surprised people still take them seriously. Anyway, I considered these matters for a while on the way to work, but I had to focus on something more productive, like work.

But then, waiting to cross the street onto campus, I was distracted by a blatantly bourgeois family. The woman—or matriarch?—gave it away. She was wearing a pink power dress with a matching pink bonnet with—here's the clincher—a black mesh veil, which didn't quite reach her eyes. She was also wearing a lot of jewelry and white butler gloves. It looked like she was ready for Easter service, but I guessed she dressed like this wherever she went. She was talking loudly but in a refined manner, and to no one in particular—something about the decoration in a friend's house, which was very "exquisite." I imagined that she never had to work, that her biggest concern was finding the most exquisite decorations. What a contrast to the McDonald's employees! I looked over the rest of the group. There was a mildly attractive woman my age with odd moccasin-like shoes (the daughter), a man the woman's age in a suit (the father), and two bearded men carrying plastic shopping bags and wearing yarmulkes (uncles maybe). I chuckled silently about my earlier Easter association.

Walking behind them onto campus, I overheard the father talking, and I noticed his voice bore a striking resemblance to that of Joe Lieberman's. A little while later he turned to talk to his daughter and his profile also looked quite a bit like Joe Lieberman's. Wait a minute. This is Georgetown. I walked up closer behind them, to better eavesdrop, but then the daughter turned to look at me—I was getting too close, so I backed off. But just then the wife addressed the man as Joe! It was too much to be mere coincidence. It had to be him. I was walking behind the man who was practically elected vice president! One of the Gang of 14. I looked at the back of Joe more carefully. He was kind of short. His suit was a bit wrinkled, and the material looked thin and cheapish, and his shoes looked a little old and scuffed. I wondered if he maintained a slightly disheveled look to seem more like the common man, as politicians seem to do. He was Joe after all, and not Joseph I., as a business executive might prefer.

I tried to listen in from a non-suspicious distance. His wife, who was farther in front, was still talking vaguely to the whole group, like a tour guide. This time she mentioned something about her daughter's generation (I couldn't catch the daughter's name), and something else about what Joe was doing for it. I wanted to keep following them, but we were coming up on my building, and I wasn't catching much anyway. I felt that if I went inside I'd be losing a big opportunity, but for what? Should I say something? "Hey, I voted for you"? Nothing good came to mind. Also, the thought of saying something made me re-question it was him. People walking toward us did look at him, but they didn't gawk or say anything. Anyway, I didn't say anything either, and I went inside to my lab.

Once inside, I felt again that I should have said something. It was The Man all over again. It seemed like my morning had some sort of theme, like there might have been some hidden lesson. But what? Speak up, or feel regret? But maybe I'd feel even more regret if I'd said something. And what of Joe Lieberman, member of the "ruling class"? How did this fit in with my musings on social class? His posse was walking around without Secret Service after all, and—with the exception of the bonnet—looking rather ordinary. This pushed me toward thinking that maybe class has little meaning in America, as some sociologists think. It's certainly a lot more complicated than in Marx's time. In my case, a city boy born and raised in working class South Detroit (again, see last post) is now a scientist, or is trying to become one.

Speaking of which, it's time to get back to work. There's nothing to conclude anyways. As Marx purportedly said on his deathbed: "Last words are for fools who haven't said enough."