“Class consciousness.” Never been truer than for the middle classes.
Now I grew up in nine different houses. Sometimes I got to put candy in the grocery cart, and sometimes not. There were vacations some summers, and some summers were spent under a lazy ceiling fan at home. I didn’t grow up with the security of a trust fund. And I never missed a day of school.
But little rich girl, yours is a different story.
Daddy’s here, daddy has money.
You want that dress at YSL? Get daddy’s credit card. Unlimited funds at your disposal.
Oh how terrible that you didn’t get exactly that shade of red for your $300 manicure! That incompetent woman, probably Asian.
You can never step out without that delicate gold bracelet on your well fed wrist, or the shiny diamond watch daddy gave.
You get paid to go to college? Why would you ever work hard?
No, work is for the people without the rich daddies. The scholarships and grants go to the people who work themselves dry.
And you, with the plushy comfort of your life, look down at them, and don’t understand.
People who’re stuck in the middle see misery and dreams of money. The poor in their tents and crumbling houses, and the upper crust, with their seven cars and gilded chauffeurs. The middle classes see both. And they empathize.
Daddy, daddy, daddy!
Why must I see these people around me? I won’t have to *gasp* get a JOB, will I? No daddy!
Take off your Prada glasses, princess, and look around.
The world is a whole lot more than can be bought with daddy’s card.