What Is “Class”? – the American Mis-Confusion


So, somehow I overheard ( which is shocking, believe me, because I don’t really expose myself to this kind of news) that a few weeks ago “people” (who are they? some social media trolls?) got upset with Cate Blanchett (“they” always have a tendency of being upset for all the wrong reasons) on account of her calling herself “middle class”… And I thought: Aha! An excellent opportunity to clarify a thing or two!

Let me first confess: I have never been a big fan of Cate Blanchett as an actress… She has a good screen presence, no matter the setting, but that’s about it . And I’ve even seen her on stage a couple of times too… Including in Liv Ullman’s production of A Streetcar Named Desire, nearly 15 years ago. The critics and the audience raved about it, of course, but, as far as I was concerned, she lacked the emotional fragility necessary for the portrayal of a woman broken in that specific way of Blanche DuBois. I even got  myself in trouble with my fellow BAM patrons by not restraining my opinionated ass on account of that performance…  

But no matter, no matter – as this is not about her acting. This is about her socio-political statements…

(And that’s another thing: Why the hell do people always care so much about what the actors have to say about politics, or social structures, or international relations… Why the fuck the general public bothers itself with listening to  what Barbra Streisand, Bette Midler, Angelina Jolie, Ashley Judd, Madonna, or Cate Blanchett have to say about any of that instead of trying to utilize their own analytical capabilities and form their own opinions?)

So, here is how she described herself, while discussing her experiences of “working with refugees” (of some non-specific kind; yet, her Cannes’ red-carpet dress speaks volumes with that bright and glossy forest-green inset she kept revealing): “I am white, I am privileged, I am middle class…” And somehow it wasn’t the falsely apologetic tone of the whole thing, but the supposed mis-“classification” that got the people upset. Why? “They” explain: the actress’s estimated net worth is $95 million. And “they” think that it disqualifies her as the “middle class”.

Well, let’s see… Even though half-American (on her father’s side), Cate Blanchett was born, raised, and educated in Melbourne, Australia, and is encyclopedically considered an Australian actress. And in that country, as in all former and present parts of the British Empire, societal divisions are still very much defined by one’s familial origins, the ancestry and the hereditary structures. It really has nothing to do with the size of one’s coffers. There are two million millionaires in Australia – the prevailing majority of them are commoners. At the same time a blue-blood aristocrat can be dirt-poor. Therefore, by  these standards Blanchett is absolutely correct, deliberately honest, and entirely un-hypocritical – she is very much a middle-class product: mother’s a teacher, father was a US Navy officer turned an ad exec.

Furthermore, the only American billionaire I knew personally (through a theater charity as a matter of fact) also tried to instill in his three children the idea that they were of the “middle class”. He understood the hereditary class principles simply because his immense wealth placed him very close to the heart of the issue: he knew that his money didn’t make him the upper-class.

And since we’re talking about a screen/stage actor, here’s an example from another frequently produced classical play – Anton Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard… Keep in mind that Russia had been a monarchy with centuries-old ancestral aristocracy up until just 107 years ago… The play’s central psycho-social conflict is focused on the impoverished hereditary landowners unable to hold on to their estates, including the symbolically precious cherry orchards. Meanwhile,  the wealthy merchant Yermolai Lopakhin, with his peasant familial roots, understands only too well that, in spite of his hard work and all his millions, he can raise himself in the old societal class hierarchy only as far as the middle…  Just like the billionaire I’ve mentioned above… Let me reiterate: the wealth doesn’t make one an aristocrat. 

Generally speaking, the monetary approach to defining societal classes is very much the New World’s notion, which makes me believe that Cate Blanchett’s self-appointed critics are predominantly American. Not surprising at all.

The fact that here, in the States, the vast majority of people consider personal wealth to be the primal factor of the class distinctions is the testimony to two attributes very particular to our country:

A. The strength of our democratic, equal-opportunity roots. In spite of all sorts of privileges and preferential treatments applicable to various and variably defined through the stages of our history societal groups; and with full acknowledgment of the suffocating nepotism that’s been stagnating our progress for decades now – we are still the most democratic country in the world. The state built without castes, aristocratic substructures, and governing rights based on the land ownership. A nation, which believes that a self-made celebrity is equal to the blue-blood royalty. We see nothing especially special in Beyoncé/Jay Z meeting up and chatting with Kate Middleton/Prince William. Hip-pop royalty, sovereign royalty – same difference… 

B. Our preoccupation with money above everything else. And this one is a trait that affects pretty much every single aspect of our nation’s existence – socio-economic, political, and intellectual – not just the interpretations of the societal segregation into classes.

Case in point:

It is without a doubt a reflection of our society’s values that lesser punishments are doled out to those who take away someone’s innocence, or even life, than to those who take someone’s money.”  

                                                                            I Built This Prison, Part III, p. 344

But let’s assume for a second that everyone around the world adopted the American way of thinking and dismissed the old-world traditions of the class division entirely… For the moment, let’s just focus exclusively on the money factor…

Does general public really think that all those doctors at struggling hospitals and private practices, faceless partners in large law firms, CFO’s of the companies barely breaking even – that they are the middle class?! Why? Because they  make lower, or even mid, six-figure salaries? Let me disillusion you about that! In a larger scheme of things, we are all poor – from welfare recipient to an owner of a multi-million-dollar company with a $500K annual salary. Monetarily, we are all the struggling lower class, with just a slight difference in the purchasing powers. None of us can afford to fly everywhere in the first class (let alone the private jets), stay in suites of the 5-star hotels, dine in restaurants with Michelin stars, casually buy designer bags and suits (especially at today’s prices)… Unless, of course, these luxuries are paid by some companies or some other persons… Moreover, children of the welfare recipients have better medical care through the states or the cities and broader access to the educational finances than those of the wage-paid parents…

And Cate Blanchett with her who knows how securely kept millions is somewhere in the median sector of the wealth curve… Truly of the middle class, no matter how you define the matter. Because the ones in the upper portion of the plentitude are what I call “the really rich people” – the sort of folks the dreamers insert into their billionaire fairy-tale romance novels.   

 

The Frustrated CFO on Ozempic®: Segment 1


If you, the reader, ever decide to delve into my crime memoir I Built This Prison,  you will find out (fairly quickly too, I must say, as I go into the whole “fat pig” thing as early as page 12 and then really expound on the matter in chapter 4 – Bucket of Tears… and Blood)  that I have been struggling with my weight since my toddler years… Nearly six decades now, dammit!

Pear-shaped, as the Nature supposedly intended, plus the squatty stature, plus the slowest metabolism in the history of the universe, plus the propensity for depressive eating… Dieting, severe dieting, extreme dieting… No fats, then no carbs…Atkins in my 30s for so long – I’m still working the accumulated cholesterol off with pills… Counting calories, like forever… Still voluptuous even in the thinnest of times… Then eating everything in sight for days, weeks, months, years… Terrible self-hatred and low self-esteem… Couldn’t even blame it all on genetics – no one else in the family ever got THAT fat… A lifetime of endlessly galloping that vicious circle – both vicious and circular – with no escape…

And I’m not making national news here by telling you that with age, not only losing, but even just keeping the weight off becomes a virtually impossible ordeal for pretty much everyone. (Except maybe for Calista Flockhart, or Lara Flynn Boyle, or Meredith Grey… Sorry, I mean Ellen Pompeo.) It’s not just the loss of the lean muscles and the further deceleration of the metabolism either. Nowadays, getting older comes with more uncertainties, more stress, more anxiety, more depression – hence, higher levels of cortisol. And it’s no joke: even with my notoriously ravenous appetite, it used to be so much easier for me to stay hungry. At 20, I was able to do a seven-day water cleanse… I can’t even think about it now. Seriously: as years went by, fighting off hunger got progressively harder and harder.   

Unless, of course, you are forcefully placed under the special conditions of deprivation… In nearly three years of my imprisonment, which happened to stretch between the 57th and the 60th years of my life, I ended up losing 70 lb. After 16 months of being out on bail and battling my criminal-proceedings anxieties with some pretty grotesque overeating, I went in as a blob of fat size 24, but came out as a yoga-practicing size 14.

Don’t get horrified (Why would you? But just in case.), thinking that NYS DOCCS starves people in prison. They don’t. Well, the food is pretty awful (it’s prison food – there is a special section about it in Part III of I Built This Prison called Our Daily Bread and State Mandated Waste); and its level of nutrients ranges from low to nonexistent; and the last meal of the day they serve you is the 5:30 pm dinner, which technically imposes 14 hours of intermittent  fasting during the most difficult hours – in the evening, after work/school/programs… Nevertheless, I totally could’ve (and many do) gained, not lost, 70 lb.: people get packages full of carbs with long shelf life; buy a lot of bread, pancake mix, pasta, and boxes of Little Debbie treats at the commissary, thus mitigating incarceration with indulgence…

But I didn’t: I didn’t get food packages and I had strict rules about my commissary buys: mixed-greens salad pouches were the highest priority, then whatever proteins I could get within the imposed limits… Little Debbie was classified into the same mortal-enemy territory as the most antisemitic of correctional officers… I think the psychological reality of the Bill’s of Rights loss as a punishment for my crime helped me to be as vigilant with my diet as I used to be very long time ago –  during the periods of intense romance in my youth.

Plus, I was made to walk everywhere – pretty long stretches on a large campus sprawled over the cheap land of Western New York. While writing I Built This Prison, I used Google Earth to calculate the distances I actually covered on an average prison day: it came to 3 miles… Just imagine – if you walk on your treadmill at a brisk pace of 3 miles per hour, it would take 1 whole hour to match that effort.

Stay on that regiment for 3 years (not 3 weeks or 3 months) and you get the 10-sizes body reduction… Then I came back into the “free” life…

I’m not going to keep you (oh, the hopeful me!) in suspense: 18 months later I was back at my pre-prison weight! Who does that?!!! And yes, I overindulged at the beginning… NYC and its limitless options, you know… I forced myself to never think about it while I was behind the barbwire and 370 miles away… But when it’s right in front of you and most of it is literally at your fingertips inside your iPhone? For a life-long epicure like myself? After prison?…

…I don’t know about you, but I loved all of David E. Kelly’s Law-in-Boston shows, including The Practice. (I don’t think it can possibly be qualified as a “spoiler” 22 years after its airing, so I’m not going to apologize for it): Season 7 finds one of the main characters, Lindsay Dole (Kelli Williams), in prison, serving a life sentence after being found guilty of a first-degree murder. Her husband Bobby (Dylan McDermott) comes for a visit and brings her a burger… Watching her devouring it within seconds, he marvels, “I’ve never seen anybody eating a burger this fast…” And she goes, “I’ll talk to you after you go to prison…” Or something to that effect – I’m not going to look for the exact quote… But you get what I’m talking about, right?…

So, as fat as fat can be – again! Weighing as much as my daughter and son-in-law together. Granted, they are skinny people. Still, two humans… I despaired, then got a grip, and embarked on the same course of actions I’ve always employed under similar circumstances in the past: stopped cheating with the calories counting and faithfully limited them to the maximum of 1,250 per day Sunday through Friday with a 1,500 allowance for the relaxation Saturday; got back on the rowing machine, and even bought a walking pad. Of course, who’s got the time in the “free” world to voluntary walk 3 miles? At – what counts for me as speed-walking now – 2.5 mph, it’s like 1 hour and 12 minutes!!!! But! I do 3/4 of a mile absolutely every morning – no excuses… A lot of foods got banished entirely and the ordering-out was pretty much outlawed… It’s a hungry and emotionally draining life… Talking about the struggle being real! 

And that’s when the whole weight-loss-after-sixty factor became vividly evident… Here’s the sad truth: After two years of sticking to that strict regiment… I’ve cumulatively lost 9 lb….

And yes, the vanity is still there: “It’s not fair!!! I cannot fit my arms into my fancy suit jackets!!!” and stuff like that… But on top of that, there are far more detrimental aspects of being overweight in the twilight of your middle age: particularly the exacerbation of the natural body wear, which manifests itself through such unpleasantries as degenerative arthritis of your knees (a few episodes before the very end, Raymond Reddington [played by James Spader, who is 8 months older than I am] says, that it’s the knees first and then the eyesight); or nonalcoholic fatty liver (and that’s just heartbreaking – I’ve never drunk!); or the rising blood sugar (I don’t even sweeten my coffee or tea and never drink soft drinks!).

The knee pain is particularly troublesome – it turns any type of stairs into a torture and completely removes the tiny grains of joy out of walking and rowing, turning any and all exercising into pure misery… So, a few months ago, during the semi-annual visit to my primary physician, I broke my “everything is fine as usual” routine and talked to him about the knee, and the walking, and the rowing, and the watching calories… And he went, “Well, there’s Ozempic…”

“O-o-what?!” …Now it seems inconceivable, but until he spoke that word I’ve never heard of it. Never-ever… Well, primarily, I guess, because I don’t follow the mainstream celebrity gossip… AT ALL… But, once you know about it, of course, you see it everywhere…

The doctor said, “I know you always research everything. So, do that…”

The first thing I did, I mentioned it to my daughter. “Well, mom,” she texted back, “Ozempic is the reason why Natasha Leone looks the way she does…” Damn! Having watched Poker Face, I was actually wondering about that… “Do you know its mechanism?” I, the life-long nonbeliever in weight-loss drugs, asked. She didn’t.   

So, I hit all my research buttons… What I found out was life-changing-ly revelatory… It turned out that semiglutide (Ozempic’s chemical name) works by mimicking a naturally occurring hormone GLP-1, which stimulates insulin secretion by pancreas and lowers blood glucose (hence its primary purpose as a Type 2 Diabetes remedy). But here’s the thing: As the levels of this hormone rise, the digestive system sends a message to your brain, signaling that you are full. Reportedly, these mental prompts are quite similar to the effects of bariatric (aka stomach-stapling) surgeries…

You know how once in a blue moon you literally have an epiphany that you’ve been missing something most crucial from your life? Well, that’s what happened to me when it became vividly clear that my endocrine system simply doesn’t generate that GLP-1 hormone. Because, I have never experienced the sensation of that blessed fullness… If nothing else, I’ve been hungry all my life.

On the other hand, I’m quite familiar with the concept of fullness: Not only that I’ve met people who underwent the bariatric procedures and felt nauseous after drinking a full glass of water, but I’ve also known naturally skinny individuals and I’ve observed them getting full – literally unable to take another bite – after consuming modest quantities of food… It’s the reason why always say that when a skinny person says that he ate a lot and a fat person says he ate nothing, the amount of food consumed by the former is still smaller than that ingested by the latter.

And now these people (I mean, Ozempic’s manufacturers) are telling me that I can get full? And quickly? On small amounts of food? This medicine will curb my appetite and will make the dieting easy? I need that shit!!! Now!!!  No, let me correct that: I’ve been needing that shit all my life!

And the doctor offered it! So, I can get the prescription and start my self-injecting weekly cycle, like, tomorrow! Right? Not so fast…

TO BE CONTINUED…

 

      

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

I Built This Prison: Teaser #4: Maslow Hierarchy of Needs for White-Collar Employees



Off the Cutting Room Floor of I Built This Prison: Clip #2: Why Are You Crying?


 “My, as I call it, ‘crying in awe’ goes a little bit further than the conventional lacrimation with the divinity of the (oh, so appropriately named!) Requiem‘s installment –  Lacrimosa. It’s hard not to cry together with 35-year-old Mozart over the heart-breaking truth of him being within hours from the grave and  all his life’s struggles as well as our own sins and fears of the unknown punishments yet to come. Everyone with a soul, no matter how shrunken, weeps listening to that.

I, on the other hand, is known to commence the waterworks even when watching a ‘comedic’ act – if it’s brilliance manages to impact my aesthetic receptors. Like the first time I watched Bo Burnham’s ‘Make Happy’ on Netflix: twenty minutes in, the tears just started pouring out of my eyes in recognition of the boy’s astonishing talent. Stuff like that – in the movies, at plays, in the museums, over books…

And don’t even get me started on J.Ivy’s poetic contribution into Kanye West’s ‘Never Let Me Down’ – it’s profound beauty invariably triggers my tear ducts, every time I listen to the song… 

Unfortunately, that’s not the bulk of my tears production. Genius is rare, desperation abound…

♦♦♦

…Even though they were the biggest contributors into all that wetness, it wouldn’t be fair to place the entire blame for it on my most prevalent pain bringers – my parents first and my employers later. Even in my personal safe heavens of academic institutions – the places where my abilities and efforts have always been singled out, appreciated, rewarded, and even lauded – once in a while, there would be somebody to trigger the tear ducts. This primarily goes back to my Soviet youth – the time when I was powerless to do anything about, for instance, a Philosophy Department Chair openly expressing his surprise about what he perceived as an incongruity between my wild Jewish hair and my deep knowledge of classical marxism. (Dude! I had straight A’s in everything – that’s just how I was.)  And that’s the truth of it – sometimes random strangers can be as harmful as people who already know your soft spots. It’s funny how this type of small stuff sometimes ends up to be so devastating. It’s so difficult to shake off such pointless rudeness. Its emotional violence feels as if a metal-studded cat-o’-nine-tails landed between your shoulder blades. And then, your breath catches, and you lose control of your ducts…

And what else can you possibly do but go and let it all pour out? In secret, of course… What other quick and ready means you have for mitigating the impulses to throw punches and yell, for disarming the triggers that have a potential of sending you into scandalous fits. Effectively, it helps you to dissociate: Regardless of what was happening inside my mind and at the center of my soul, I still went to work every day and performed all my duties, attended meetings and functions; kept the bosses’ businesses and my own household running smoothly, without a single visible glitch. Never a fucking mess in public. With all the pain hidden so deeply that other people, affected by the same terribly hostile environments, would frequently marvel, “How the hell do you manage to stay so composed? How do you bear this? How do you keep yourself so calm?” And I would just smile in response, while letting the nuclear devastation scorching away my sanity… Years of control-building and the aforementioned secret crying – that’s how…

Yet, the bile’s buildup had to manifest itself on the surface in some ways…”

                                               Deleted from I Built This Prison, Chapter 4 – Bucket of Tears… and Blood  

 

  

 

On Columbia Campus or NYS Prison Camp, Antisemitism Is Inescapable: I Built This Prison Excerpt


Over and over again, I am consistently stunned by the political blindness of hate. It’s incomprehensible to me. How can people loathe all Catholics because they still worship the papal Christianity or all arabs because of 9/11 and ISIS? Or how pro-Palestinian convictions automatically translate into hostile animosity  towards all Jews dispersed throughout the globe – many of whom are not religious whatsoever, have never been and don’t plan to go to Israel, and some (especially here, in the States) don’t even understand what the conflict over there is all about? Aren’t the haters at all concerned that their blanket enmity completely obscures the essential meaning of their political standpoints? Shouldn’t they be more focused and direct their efforts against the forces behind the territorial and largely economic conflicts? What can possibly be achieved by inciting violence against the students and the teaching staff of an educational institution 5700 miles away from the epicenter of the military actions? It’s truly bizarre!

On the other hand, I’m quite accustomed to the pervasive, persistent, and profuse plain-ass antisemitism no matter how many political, nationalistic, self-righteous, and morally confused shrouds anyone throws over it. Look, I was born in the most antisemitic country in the world – Soviet Russia, with its pre- and post-revolutionary history of oppressing my relatives and ancestors going back centuries.  Thus, as the Soviet Jew I was raised to believe that antisemitism is simply written into the genetic code (my mother was among the first generation of Soviet physiology students to be taught genetics at universities in the 50s) of every non-Jew and there is nothing we can do about it: Whether openly or secretly, and with some even subconsciously, goyim will despise you. Live with that. Period.

And when I escaped Russia, the Soviet Union, though on its last legs, was still live and kicking, the communists were still in power (many of them still are – lightly disguised), and anti-Jewish state policies were still as prominent as the nationalistic hatred of the Russian populace. But, of course, decades of the subsequent NYC living… It lulls you with its ethnic diversity, and religious freedoms, and Jewish mayors, and Philip Roth, and Woody Allen, and Kubrick, and the overwhelming popularity of Seinfeld and Friends, and everybody eating lox on their bagels… And you (I mean me), a cultural non-observant Jew, start feeling… Well, I wouldn’t go as far as to say “free of the ethnic bias”, but you definitely push to the back of your Jewish kop the teachings of your grandparents – that if you ever forget that you are a Jew, there will be an antisemite nearby to remind you.

Of course, Ivy League schools, even those – like Columbia University – located in Manhattan, are nothing like NYC. Their student bodies, professorial staff, and administrations consist mostly of transient people from all over the world. Not just all fifty states of our own nation – most of them not nearly as diverse as our city, but from the foreign countries with their own socio-economic backgrounds as well. These people are here not because they belong, but because it’s good for their resumes – if I had to generalize. So, it shouldn’t be surprising at all that these educational institutions are prone to become fertile grounds for antisemitic protests.

And apparently the ones at Columbia earlier this week got so threatening, Jewish religious leaders urged students to STAY HOME (!!!) Here, IN NEW YORK CITY! And the university’s administration (as well as the law enforcement – let’s be honest) are so powerless in the face of these protests, the solution they offered is online classes! This is Columbia we’re talking about!

I don’t even know, though, why I’m so shocked. I mean, I’ve already got exposed in the fairly recent past to similar displays of open antisemitism and the passivity by “the powers that be”. Because, guess what? The New York State prison system is even further removed from NYC than the hodgepodge of Columbia campus. It’s staffed entirely with ethnically and culturally isolated upstate prison guards; and among the inmate population, there are plenty of multigenerational neo-Nazis – proud to display their various tattooed insignia and the compatible attitudes – as well as intellectually confused people.

From I Built This Prison, Part III – Impressions of Imprisonment, •The Jewish Thing:

To continue: p. 428 


The featured image:

© Marina Zosya, My Personal Nazi Brigade – Self-portrait in Mise-en-scene, ACF, 2019