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K. and I attended the presidential shindig tonight, which turned out to be not at the president's house but rather at the fancy-pants new science center. (This is the president of Oberlin, not the chimp.) There were a dozen tables, each with different foods: huge strawberries with a cheesecake dip, bacon-wrapped scallops, honey-glazed chicken wings, tier upon tier of petits fours. A goodly chunk of the Oberlin faculty—formally dressed, carrying little plates and cups—milled about, chatting, gladhanding the donors who were there, listening to the string quartet (outside) and the acoustically unfortunate jazz combo (inside). K. and I met the president, who seemed glazed and frazzled—which, coincidentally enough, was how the spare ribs had been prepared—and I eyed the cute serving girls in their tux shirts, one of whom was a dead match for Amber Benson. Oh, my.
It was pleasant enough, but odd—Oberlin is in the middle of a labor contract negotiation, with a strike looming, and surrounded by all this opulence I felt I'd been subverted by the enemy: I wanted to shout, "Hey, I'm lower middle class, honest!" There was a weird avant-la-révolution feeling, as though the guillotines were being hammered together, off in the distance, getting ready for the ivory tower intellectuals in their spangly dresses and tweed jackets. Student sympathizers actually marched through the party, carrying signs saying things like "Money for black tie and hors-d'oeuvres, no money for health care?" They were politely ignored, even though most faculty support the union; what to do? I lifted a fist and muttered "Solidarity, sister" to one of them, who seemed pleased.
Kendra pointed out, rightly, that this was a party intended to squeeze money out of donors, so the catering bill will be repaid many times over by the donations from old geezers who were impressed by the catering. But it still felt strange, popping a bacon-wrapped scallop into my mouth while silent protestors filed through, like I'd somehow stumbled onto the wrong side of the glass.
It was pleasant enough, but odd—Oberlin is in the middle of a labor contract negotiation, with a strike looming, and surrounded by all this opulence I felt I'd been subverted by the enemy: I wanted to shout, "Hey, I'm lower middle class, honest!" There was a weird avant-la-révolution feeling, as though the guillotines were being hammered together, off in the distance, getting ready for the ivory tower intellectuals in their spangly dresses and tweed jackets. Student sympathizers actually marched through the party, carrying signs saying things like "Money for black tie and hors-d'oeuvres, no money for health care?" They were politely ignored, even though most faculty support the union; what to do? I lifted a fist and muttered "Solidarity, sister" to one of them, who seemed pleased.
Kendra pointed out, rightly, that this was a party intended to squeeze money out of donors, so the catering bill will be repaid many times over by the donations from old geezers who were impressed by the catering. But it still felt strange, popping a bacon-wrapped scallop into my mouth while silent protestors filed through, like I'd somehow stumbled onto the wrong side of the glass.
