The Culture and Politics of Identity: Impression 2

The following is second in a series of five posts on my impressions about the culture and politics of identity while living in Europe.  None of them are complete thoughts.  Instead, they are reactions I had to situations and events during my last two weeks in the UK and France.

Impression 2: Cultural Capital and the Politics of Social Class

It was raining hard outside my train window, as we pulled into the Durham train station. I was tired and had too much luggage to bother walking home, to my room.  So, I blew five pounds and got a taxi.  Besides, I always like taking taxis, as I find myself entering into the most interesting conversations with cabbies.

Case in point:  Three weeks earlier, when my brother Warren arrived, we got talking with the cabbie, who asked us, given our American accents, where we lived in the states.

My brother said, "NYC."
I then said, "Cleveland."
"Ah, mate, you mean Cleveland Ohio?"
"Yes," I said.
"Well now, let me tell you, I love Cleveland, working-class town; a lot like northern England and Newcastle!" 

"Exactly," I said.
Then he said something I could not quite understand, as he had a thick Yorkshire accent. "Gul-din cure-ell!," he exclaimed in a loud voice.
"Sorry?" Warren said.
"Gul-din cure-ell, mate... you know...  fuuken steaks as long as your forearm!"
"Ah," my brother Warren exclaimed!  "The Golden Corral."
"Yeah, mate, that is it!  Me and me blokes love that place; went there everyday, gave the waitress a big fat tip at the end.  You Americans say you have economic problems; but the Golden Corral got enough food to feed the whole world, for fuuke sake!  Ah, those steaks!"
Warren and I were dying laughing with the guy.  He was so happy remembering his trip to Cleveland that I thought he was either going to (a) run off the road or (b) take us to the local pub to get piss drunk and eat steak.  I was hoping for the latter.
"Ah, the Golden Corral," he said finally, "I luved that place."

So, back to my rain drenched taxi ride back to my dorm room.

"So, where am I taking you mate?"

"I am staying up in the Castle Keep, near the Cathedral."

"Sure enough, help with your luggage."

"No, I am fine, thanks."

Noticing my American accent, "So, what brings you to Durham?"

"I am a visiting professor from Cleveland, Ohio here on sabbatical...  been here about two months."

"Ah, a professor."

After that, silence.  Now, maybe this guy was as tired as me, but it seemed to me that, upon telling him that I was a professor, a certain formality overcame our interaction--obviously, this cabbie had not been to the Golden Corral, so Cleveland did not ring a bell of glutenous joy.

Before we proceed, though, we need to get something straight.  In case you haven't noticed, I am a neurotic and my family constantly teases me, saying that I think too much about everything and over-read most interactions.  I probably do, but I couldn't help wondering to myself, nonetheless, what this guy was thinks about all the privileged faculty and students he drives daily up to the university?  Perhaps nothing.

But, then again, maybe not.

It was fascinating to me, during my time in the UK, how palpable social class, as a form of cultural identity, was in my daily interactions with people, albeit in very nuanced and sophisticated ways. Accents and dialects and clothing styles and eating behaviors all pronounce, often loudly, who one was.

Now, do not misunderstand me.  My discussion of social class, here, is not some simplistic Marxist "upper class/working class" thing.  Instead, it is all, as we say in social psychology, very sophisticated, scripted behavior: everyone seems to have a nuanced understanding of their social roles and positions.  The french sociologist, Pierre Bourdieu, refers to these roles, rules and distinctions as the culture of capitalism, or, alternatively, cultural capital.  

Still, in comparison to the states, what was so striking to me in the UK was how clear these roles were--from London all the way up to Inverness (See, for example, this New York Times review).  In the states, in contrast, we so desperately try to pretend that social class does not exist, so we say "Hi" to everyone and act like we are all part of the middle class.  But, then, you look at our social policies--for example, how we care for Mitt Romney's bottom 47%--and the realities of social class smack you straight in the face, and hard, with a bat--and, if that does not do it for you, how about our recent banking scandals, Wall Street corruption, and housing market disaster?  Do I need to go on?  And, still, some in the upper class in the states get upset, calling Obama a class-war instigator.  Are you kidding me?  The American sociologist, Daniel Bell calls these sorts of ridiculous arguments the cultural contradictions of capitalism.

In the UK, in contrast, social class is out in the open and therefore addressed; as a result, social policies are passed where the rich pay their fair share and the wealth is more equitably distributed.  If you do not believe me, look at the pound versus the dollar (about 1.60 to 1).  As another example, my wife, when discussing this point with me, told me how J.K. Rowling intentionally lives in the UK, paying more tax than she would by living in the states, because she received the financial help in the UK that she needed when struggling as a single mom writing the first Harry Potter.

So, yeah, I guess while taking this particular cab ride social class was on my mind. 

Suddenly, near the end of the drive, the cabbie spoke up, as if he had been thinking for a while about something to say.  Or, maybe, like me, he suddenly woke up from his rain-drenched drowsiness.

"You know, we have a Cleveland here in the UK, about 25 miles southeast, along the sea; did you know that?"

"Yes, actually, my friend told me all about it.  And, he told me that the English Cleveland's river even caught on fire like the one in the states, because of so much pollution.  In fact, our local brewing company, Great Lakes, named one of its ales after it: Burning River Pale Ale."

"No kidding.  Pint drinkers too.  So, you come from a similar working class town."

"Yeah.


Now, call me crazy, but something in the conversation changed during our final exchange.  The rules suddenly seemed to shift to a different set of scripts; both our guards down, we could put the former rules aside and interact in fresh ways.  As one of the kitchen staff at the castle said to me, when discussing social class, "Kindness doesn't cost a penny; and its goes along way."  Well said, i think, well said.