While I was in class at Columbia, struggling with the esoterica of jury, my father was on a bricklayer’s scaffold not far up the street, working on a campus building. Once we met up on the subway going home — he was with his tools, I with my books. My father wasn’t interested in Thucydides, and I wasn’t up on arches. My dad has built lots of places in New York City he can’t get into: colleges, condos, coffee houses. He made his living on the outside. Once the walls were up, a place took on a different feel for him, as though he wasn’t welcome anymore. Related by blood, we’re separated by class, my father and I. Being the white-collar child of a blue-collar parent means being the hinge on the door between two ways of life. With one foot in the working class, the other in the middle class, people like me are Straddlers, at home in neither world, living a limbo life.
What drove me to leave what I knew? Born blue-collar, I still never felt completely at home among the tough guys and anti-intellectual crowd of my neighbourhood in deepest Brooklyn. I never did completely fit in among the preppies and suburban royalty of Columbia, either. It’s like that for Straddlers. It was not so smooth jumping from Italian old-world style to US professional in a single generation. Others who were the first in their families to go to college, will tell you the same thing: the academy can render you unrecognisable to the very people who launched you into the world. The ideas and values absorbed in college challenge the mom-and-pop orthodoxy that passed for truth for 18 years. Limbo kids may eschew polyester blends for sea-isle cotton, prefer Brice to Kraft slices. They may wear clothes the neighbourhood raises their eyebrows about. But they still live at home, speak the language of the house and climb back there at the moment of reward.
But for the white-collar kids of blue-collar parents, the office is not necessarily a sanctuary. In Corporate America, where the white-collar class is seen as foreign to working-class people, a Straddler can get lost. Social class counts as the office, even though nobody likes to admit it. Ultimately, corporate people learn as good middle-class adults, business types say, how to work with those kids. They follow the way of getting along: diplomacy, nuance, and politics to grab what they need. It’s also the reason they find following a set of rules laid out in a manual that blue-collar families never have the chance to do.
People from both the middle class and the college degrees have lived lives filled with what French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu calls ‘cultural capital’. Growing up in an educated environment, they had access to Picasso and Mozart, sports and career behind. In a world where actual French intellectuals are networked: Someone always has an aunt or golfing buddy with the inside track for an internship or the right dinner-table talk would happen that day from and with the family, the doctor’s office, the engine executive. Middle-class kids can grow up with a sense of entitlement and can carry them through their lives. This belongingness is not just related to having material means, it also has to do with learning and possessing confidence in your place in the world. Such easy entitlement and direct exposure to culture in the home is the more original, ‘legitimate’ means of appropriately cultural capital, Bourdieu tells us. Those of us possessing ‘ill-gotten’ Culture’ can learn, but never as well. Something is always a little off about us, like an engine with imprecise timing. There’s a greater method between these class and the institutions in which the middle class works and operates — universities or corporations. Children find the middle and upper classes have been speaking about what life is for the culture.
Read the sentence and infer the writer's tone: "The politician's speech was filled with lofty promises and little substance, a performance repeated every election season."