What strikes me about this is the percentage of people that our play is about. The characters in our play are part of the 12 percent that make up the Upper class. I found out that when I think about Russia and Chekov, I am only thinking of that class of people. Maybe that's another reason why it is difficult for younger people to connect with the class system. I know I hate to believe that there is a class system. At the same time I don't think I cannot take the all the blame myself. I think it is rare to see theatre or film that deals with the lower class and their struggles. I would love to see a play that sides with the upper class in their mistreatment or abuse of the lower class. It would probably be completely inappropriate, but it would be interesting.
Here is an interesting article about one's first experience of class.
The main difference between the boys in the article is education. hmm.
June 12, 2005 My Nanny Was a Dreadful Snob The first time I became aware of class? Darling, what a question, but here goes: my nanny was a dreadful snob.
I loved her dearly, but she was Canadian, born in the late 19th century, and thus deeply imbued with British class-consciousness. She read magazines that discussed in theological tones what Viscountess Margaret of Dimquith wore to tea with the Duchess of Wrenphrew - that sort of thing. (Today she would be reading Hello.)
I had two best buddies in those days. One lived down the street on his own private island connected by a causeway to the Connecticut mainland. His mother was John D. Rockefeller Sr.'s granddaughter. His father was a dear but somewhat purposeless fellow with the nickname of Bingo who seemed happiest shaking cocktails behind the bar. He called his wife Muffin. You would recognize them as Thurston and Lovey.
My other best buddy - who coincidentally had the same first name, but let's call him Tommy - lived on the other side of the woods in a pleasant working-class neighborhood made possible by the G.I. Bill. This Tommy's dad was a jovial, beer-bellied veteran of Iwo Jima who sold Mack trucks. He called his wife Marge. She called him Dick. You would recognize them as Homer and Marge.
When Tommy No. 1 came over to play, bringing with him very cool toys (real guns, swords, tractors), my nanny would practically curtsey. "Can I get you a chocolate milk? How are your parents? I read that your older sister will be having her coming-out at the Colony Club this fall. How thrilling for her!"
When Tommy No. 2 came over, also with cool toys (cherry bombs, copies of the latest Playboy) she would make no effort to conceal her disdain. "Oh, it's you, Tommy. Christopher can't play long today. He has to practice his piano and do his French lessons."
One day, after she had been particularly rude, I asked her why she didn't like Tommy 2. The papery skin of her aged brow furrowed and her eyes wandered about the room thoughtfully. I sensed that she was weighing her words, knowing that her answer would register on my young mind. Finally she threw up a hand and uttered a helpless "Oh, I don't know - he's so common."
A furious argument ensued touching on the theme of the Rights of Man and the Noble Savage, but there was no convincing her, and I was sent to bed with no TV that night.
I later related the incident to my mother, also Canadian-born and bred. She loved both Tommys equally. She smiled and said, "Well, you know, servants are the worst snobs of all." This put the matter in perspective for me. But I must confess that it wasn't until much later on that I realized that conversational mentions of "P.L.O." referred to the Palestinian Liberation Organization, not to "People Like Us."
Christopher Buckley is editor of Forbes FYI magazine; his newest novel is "Florence of Arabia," a Middle East comedy.
It is strange to me that our play is centered on people who make up 12 percent of the Russian population. When I think about Chekov I always vision these types of families who talk about money and money problems, but are still wearing fancy clothes and eating big fancy meals. Maybe I just haven’t read enough Chekov, but that is definitely the impression I get from the plays that I have read. I do hate believing and recognizing class systems at work, but I think the blame doesn’t fall entirely on me. I rarely am exposed to class difference in theatre and film and most features I have seen about lower class seem to be so distant and far away from where I am. I would place myself in the lower middle class and they still seem far away. Maybe what we need to have this awareness of class in the play is exposure to it in everyday life. I think class comes out a lot in judgment. Is so and so smart or worthy of my attention and time? When and how do I rank myself in response to other people?
Well I thought my last post was deleted and lost into cyberspace so I wrote another reflection. Ah well....
Interesting...
ReplyDeleteWhat strikes me about this is the percentage of people that our play is about. The characters in our play are part of the 12 percent that make up the Upper class. I found out that when I think about Russia and Chekov, I am only thinking of that class of people. Maybe that's another reason why it is difficult for younger people to connect with the class system. I know I hate to believe that there is a class system. At the same time I don't think I cannot take the all the blame myself. I think it is rare to see theatre or film that deals with the lower class and their struggles. I would love to see a play that sides with the upper class in their mistreatment or abuse of the lower class. It would probably be completely inappropriate, but it would be interesting.
Here is an interesting article about one's first experience of class.
The main difference between the boys in the article is education. hmm.
June 12, 2005
My Nanny Was a Dreadful Snob
The first time I became aware of class? Darling, what a question, but here goes: my nanny was a dreadful snob.
I loved her dearly, but she was Canadian, born in the late 19th century, and thus deeply imbued with British class-consciousness. She read magazines that discussed in theological tones what Viscountess Margaret of Dimquith wore to tea with the Duchess of Wrenphrew - that sort of thing. (Today she would be reading Hello.)
I had two best buddies in those days. One lived down the street on his own private island connected by a causeway to the Connecticut mainland. His mother was John D. Rockefeller Sr.'s granddaughter. His father was a dear but somewhat purposeless fellow with the nickname of Bingo who seemed happiest shaking cocktails behind the bar. He called his wife Muffin. You would recognize them as Thurston and Lovey.
My other best buddy - who coincidentally had the same first name, but let's call him Tommy - lived on the other side of the woods in a pleasant working-class neighborhood made possible by the G.I. Bill. This Tommy's dad was a jovial, beer-bellied veteran of Iwo Jima who sold Mack trucks. He called his wife Marge. She called him Dick. You would recognize them as Homer and Marge.
When Tommy No. 1 came over to play, bringing with him very cool toys (real guns, swords, tractors), my nanny would practically curtsey. "Can I get you a chocolate milk? How are your parents? I read that your older sister will be having her coming-out at the Colony Club this fall. How thrilling for her!"
When Tommy No. 2 came over, also with cool toys (cherry bombs, copies of the latest Playboy) she would make no effort to conceal her disdain. "Oh, it's you, Tommy. Christopher can't play long today. He has to practice his piano and do his French lessons."
One day, after she had been particularly rude, I asked her why she didn't like Tommy 2. The papery skin of her aged brow furrowed and her eyes wandered about the room thoughtfully. I sensed that she was weighing her words, knowing that her answer would register on my young mind. Finally she threw up a hand and uttered a helpless "Oh, I don't know - he's so common."
A furious argument ensued touching on the theme of the Rights of Man and the Noble Savage, but there was no convincing her, and I was sent to bed with no TV that night.
I later related the incident to my mother, also Canadian-born and bred. She loved both Tommys equally. She smiled and said, "Well, you know, servants are the worst snobs of all." This put the matter in perspective for me. But I must confess that it wasn't until much later on that I realized that conversational mentions of "P.L.O." referred to the Palestinian Liberation Organization, not to "People Like Us."
Christopher Buckley is editor of Forbes FYI magazine; his newest novel is "Florence of Arabia," a Middle East comedy.
It is strange to me that our play is centered on people who make up 12 percent of the Russian population. When I think about Chekov I always vision these types of families who talk about money and money problems, but are still wearing fancy clothes and eating big fancy meals. Maybe I just haven’t read enough Chekov, but that is definitely the impression I get from the plays that I have read.
ReplyDeleteI do hate believing and recognizing class systems at work, but I think the blame doesn’t fall entirely on me. I rarely am exposed to class difference in theatre and film and most features I have seen about lower class seem to be so distant and far away from where I am. I would place myself in the lower middle class and they still seem far away. Maybe what we need to have this awareness of class in the play is exposure to it in everyday life. I think class comes out a lot in judgment. Is so and so smart or worthy of my attention and time? When and how do I rank myself in response to other people?
Well I thought my last post was deleted and lost into cyberspace so I wrote another reflection. Ah well....