Wealth Vs Class

"Can wealth alone determine your class?"

I still remember this question being thrown out in a freshman English class. And I felt differently back then to how I feel now.

We were studying The Great Gatsby at the time and yeah, I got that the book was saying that Jay Gatsby could never be a part of the elite no matter how rich he became- but I had been looking at my own life- at real life- at girls like Cherry Valance and guys like Randy Adderson- and thinking the only thing that made us really any different was money.

"Mom, Dad, this is Ponyboy Curtis. Pony, this is Shirley and Harold Martin."

Elizabeth Martin was a petite redhead like her Mom was, with the intense blue eyes of her dad. Despite being just over five feet tall, she was all curves and full lips- cute but sensuous. She drove me crazy- not just with her looks but with her smarts too. She had studied law and economics at NYU, where I had been studying journalism and where we had first met.

"She's too smart to be that pretty," Two-Bit had said on meeting her. And I had agreed in my mind. The first time I stood behind Lizzy Martin in the cafeteria, I had assumed she was a cheerleader studying performance arts or some shit. But this girl could do the kind of math in her sleep that made my brain ache. Not only that but she cared about people. Lizzy was a trainee civil rights lawyer. She was anti war and pro equality and she had taken me to protests I'd have had no knowledge of if not for her.

"How do you do?" Her father said, shaking my hand firmly.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sir," I had responded as winningly as I could. I shook her Mom's hand next, hoping that she'd be more welcoming- Mom's usually liked me, I figured, but her face was just as impassive as her husband's.

"They liked you," Lizzy had said on the cab ride back, leaning her pretty head against my shoulder. I took a breath, hoping her pretty perfume would compensate for the great untruth she was laying on me. Sometimes I walk around with my head in the clouds, but I'd be stupid as shit not to read the situation the way it had been clearly painted. 'It's nothing personal- but you're not good enough for our daughter'.

"What does your father do. Pony boy?" Mr Martin carved enthusiastically at his beef, keeping one eye on me across the table. The table was enormous, way too big for four people and Lizzy felt a million miles away.

"My father's dead, Sir." I answered, followed by a polite smile.

Lizzy looked mortified. Her blood red lips become a deep frown, etching lines into her pretty forehead.

"I told you this, Daddy…"

"I know, I know, but surely he did something before? What was his profession?"

I willed myself not to look at Lizzy, not to raise my eyebrows and ask her 'Is he fucking kidding?"

Instead, i forced a smile and said, "He was in the shoe business, sir."

"Shoes? You mean, design?" Mrs Martin brightened a little, only to lose any color when I answered.

"No, repair, m'am."

Nobody answered me and in the silence that was left, Lizzy jumped in with:

"Ponyboy's been offered a job at NY news. Assistant producer. Unheard of at his age."

She wasn't boasting. Well, maybe she was, but it was true. I had worked my ass off to get where I was and the job was a dream. But I felt angry at her. I knew she didnt care what I did, but she cared what they thought of me, of my family, like she had to boast about what I did to compensate for what they did.

"I bet that's pretty decent money," Mr Martin said.

Mrs Martin shushed him, told him to stop being so crass. I carried on eating, smiling politely, wishing I was any place but here in some inflated house in the Hamptons, with people who thought I was trash.

"And your brothers, what do they do?"

I cleared my throat a little, locked eyes with Lizzy, and then looked at Mr Martin head on.

"Soda's a mechanic. Darry's a roofer."

"A roofer?"

"Yep, he roofs houses. That's how he put me through college."

Their smiles were sympathetic and the conversation went on, but all the while I could see what their eyes were saying- Nice boy, but not one of us. Not for our daughter.

That night in bed, I was quiet. Lizzy snuggled up to me, nestling her head on my chest, a hand reaching up to stroke my cheek.

"I'm so proud of you. And I'm gonna be even prouder when you make producer. Which you will."

After she fell asleep, I lay awake for a long time thinking about what made us the same and what made us different.

We were both ambitious, hard workers, certain things came easy to us that didn't to other people. She liked movies, sharing my popcorn, late night walks where we did little but hold hands and watch the circus of New York pass us by. And we could talk- about anything and everything. She told me about the miscarriage she had had from her high school boyfriend and I told her about the guilt I felt about my parents death.

And it hadn't seemed to matter to either of us that she was born downright wealthy while I was born dirt poor.

But tonight, in her parents house, it had mattered. Not because it mattered to them, but because it had mattered to her. Because she had boasted about my new job as though if I had been a mechanic or a roofer, I wouldn't have been good enough. She hadn't said 'Hey, Dad, Ponyboy made me laugh so hard last week I shot pepsi through my nose.'

She hadn't said 'When I had the flu, he made me soup and he typed up my economics essay for me.' She had boasted about my job, my impending wealth, as if saying, he's not come from great stuff but he's changing that.

And the worst part was, it wasn't even going to be good enough for them.

They were old money, old values, and some white trash scholarship kid wasn't going to cut it for them in terms of their daughter. They wanted blue blood grandchildren.

We had been dating for three years now- the last year I would have considered us as serious- and she had never introduced me until now. They're protective, she told me. And I wasn't too fussed about it. Who really wants the pressure of having to meet your girl's parents? But now I wondered if it was them she was hiding from me or the other way around.

"Can wealth alone determine your class?"

Hell no, it can't. I know that now. Because there was a lot more than dollars that separated me from Mr and Mrs Martin.

It was different when I was a student. I had two jobs and sneakers with tatty laces. I had a bicycle to save money on the subways, and nobody was ever going to mistake me for a rich kid. But nobody cares in college. The other kids wanna know if you can party, if you can make em laugh, if they can borrow your study notes. And the answer was yes to all of those things.

LIzzy started talking to me because I freed her quarter from a vending machine in halls. She didnt care that I was due a haircut, that I had odd socks on, or that I was quite openly stoned. She said she thought I had a great smile. That I made her laugh. And that she thought I was a gentleman.

Dates proceeded to be squeezed in around my pizza delivery and bar jobs. I couldn't take her to the best places in town but I gave her more free pizza than she could ever eat. We walked everywhere, her quick short strides somehow levelling out my long lazy ones. We worked in sync, holding hands, me opening doors, her grinning up at me from her tiny height, all long hair and lashes.

I was converse and hooded sweaters, ripped jeans, and cigarette smoke. She was high heels and dresses, belted mackintoshes and expensive perfume. And maybe some people looked at us, and thought, what is she doing with him? But we never thought about it, because it never mattered to us.

But now, now I wear a fine suit to work and shiny shoes. I get my hair cut at a fancy place on 9th avenue and I am about to start a job that I cant even believe is mine.

In the interview for NY radio, they didnt ask me what my father did and they didnt ask me what neighbourhood I grew up in. Sure, I was never gonna pass for a New Yorker, but an Oklahoman Soc kid…why not? I looked the part and I could do the job, and i guess that was all that mattered. But not for the Martin's. To them it was once white trash, always white trash.

Can wealth alone determine your class?

No sir, it can't. But you know what? I don't want to change class, that was never the goal. I don't want to cancel out my childhood, remove my hardships, forget where I came from. All I want is comfort and stability, and that I can buy.

And maybe I'll never see eye to eye with Lizzy's parents, maybe Lizzy will always be trying to persuade them I'm right for her.

But I'm not here to persuade anyone and maybe that's exactly where Jay Gatsby went wrong.

I will always be a Greaser from St Louis Street, Tulsa, son of a shoe repairer, brother to a mechanic and a roofer, and friend of too many felons to mention.

No amount of money is ever gonna change that.