I’ve missed my journalism class for the past two days due to my head aching for real, not just the demons – my prof asked me for a doctor’s note otherwise I will – gasp, harsh, over – be penalized. I told the truth : I have no health insurance. So not posh.
I have no notes or excuses. I could break down her door crying, but that may not achieve the result I want. Flattery will get me nowhere. Neither will baked goods. I’ll just have to work hard, or something.
Bad grades or not, the class is forcing me to read NYT every day and I love it. I actually know what’s going on in the world, and it doesn’t hurt. For instance, crux: my social class is totally apparent (I thought I could hide it)
Your class, Payne says, determines everything: your eating habits, your speech patterns, your family relations. It is possible to move out of the class you were born into, either up or down, she says, but the transition almost always means a great disruption to your sense of self. And you can ascend the class ladder only if you are willing to sacrifice many of your relationships and most of your values — and only if you first devote yourself to careful study of the hidden rules of the class you hope to enter.
Nice. That means my sense of low self worth and metaphysical discomfort around the UWS Ivy Leaguers is real. Can I cross the threshold? Perhaps only by playing the clown.
Must get back to expanding my mind even though it won’t change the fact that I’m not a contender for HQ. I’m not doing to well in the expansion department either. No genteel poverty here. Frankly, this whole summer intensive thing is killing me. No sleep, paranoid delusions, too much coffee and frozen treats and ruined relationships all around. Sorry, world. I guess it’s a matter of Posh or Not.