I was talking recently to the only person I’m close to who is also on the right, and the topic of Trump-hatred came up. I said that I thought a huge part of the intensity of that hatred was snobbery.
In other words, Trump is déclassé. He may have been born with a silver – or golden – spoon in his mouth, but his personality “reads” differently. He’s not an intellectual, which makes a lot of intellectuals think he’s dumb. He doesn’t speak in polite euphemisms, which makes them think – correctly – that he’s crass. He’s a braggart. He’s sometimes a bully.
Now you either find those things so repellent that you can see nothing else, or you don’t care all that much. I don’t care all that much, and I see a lot else that’s been good for the country and the world. Sometimes it pays to be a bully in the international arena.
Of course, it’s not as simple as that. But I think that snobbery is at the heart of the intense distaste so many people feel for Trump – including some on the right.
But this post isn’t really about Trump. It’s about snobbery, something I’ve never quite understood.
When I was a child my family was financially comfortable. We had a nice house, not big by today’s standards but more than adequate. Same for our food – unfancy but plentiful enough and tasty enough. Clothes? Again, their numbers fit quite nicely in my old-fashioned closet that was about three feet wide, but it seemed like an abundance to me.
I had friends who were richer and friends who were poorer. My parents – both of whom had been to college, and a father who was a lawyer – had friends who had college degrees and friends who had dropped out of high school because of the Depression. I found it merely sort of interesting to hear my mother tell stories of their personal histories – she’d known almost all of them since childhood – but it had no bearing whatsoever on whether I liked them or not.
In childhood I was envious of those friends who had more harmonious home lives than mine, not friends who had more money. I spent a lot of time in the homes of friends – observing, observing, observing, like some infant anthropologist.
And I had certain déclassé interests myself, although I didn’t think of them that way because I didn’t have the concept back then. When I was about eleven years old, for example, I wanted to grow up to be a hairdresser. My mother at first thought it amusing but then thought it needed to be discouraged as not a proper ambition.
And then there was my love for the roller derby. I suppose that’s where this essay was going from the start. From about the age of seven to ten, I was a huge roller derby fan. I watched it on TV every week – I think on Sunday afternoons? – and looked forward to it immensely. I knew the names of all the skaters, and their numbers. For my favorites, I even knew their birthdays. It was something, I suppose, like pro wrestling – which of course is part of Trump’s world, although I’ve never been keen on wrestling and lost my taste for roller derby in adolescence.
But for a while I found roller derby thrilling. It had that element of real athleticism and of good-versus-evil pageantry and showmanship. And even the women in the roller derby had to be aggressive and sometimes fought. My childhood had involved a certain amount of physical battling, as well, and so I was no stranger to the need to defend myself against more powerful forces (an older brother, for example).
I was not repelled by the roller derby. I was inspired.
I started nagging my parents to take me to see a roller derby game in person. That involved going to Manhattan’s 14th Street Armory. They refused, but our kindly housekeeper volunteered to be my escort, and that’s how I ended up having that wish fulfilled. It was a huge place with a huge crowd. I already knew that the roller derby tracks were banked, but in person the angle of the bank seemed far far greater than on TV. I was astounded that anyone could skate on that steep a track. But one thing was disappointing – the entire room was shrouded in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. In those days, smoking seemed not only allowed but required.
And suddenly I wonder whether the vastness of YouTube includes some clips of the roller derby of my youth. Sure enough, it does. And although this is taken a few years earlier than my time, I recognize some of these players:
