An Argument for the Existence of Elites

8 October 2008

As much as it cuts against the grain of the so-called American creed of liberty and equality, I have to report now I stand even more convinced in my belief in elites, not simply in their necessity for society, but in their desirability.

All should be certainly equal before the eyes of the law and should be entitled to pursue what brings them satisfaction in this world. That doesn't mean, however, that we should afford everyone's opinions or interests an equal measure of consideration. There needs to be an order of well informed and educated, empathetic men and women of character who provide a steady hand on the tiller of culture, society, and the state. You might be wondering in response, "For what purpose? Why do we need such a steady hand?" The answer to such questions is simple: People is dumb.

In support of my contention, permit me to enter into evidence the following account of my activites last night. I think that it might cast light on the circumstances behind my repudiation of the more egalitarian impulses of my American upbringing. That, or it will convince you of the veracity of all manners of stories, jokes, and rumors concerning Norfolk inbreeding.

***

Last night, the Literary Society at UEA (more conveniently called "LitSoc") hosted an event where anyone who was interested met at the Odeon Theatre near Riverside in Norwich to see the recent film adaption of Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisted. Shannyn, Abby Reed, and I had all decided that we wanted to attend, so around seven-fifty, we left from Professor Rudalevige's house and boarded the bus from Unthank Road to Riverside. Arriving there, we met up with some of the people from LitSoc that I might have already mentioned-- the president and Chris Eiswerth doppleganger Max Gordon and the treasurer Hannah Willis--in addition to some new folks, such as a first-year Literature student named James who, apparently, misplaced one of his gloves some time ago and so now goes about in the cold with one hand uncovered. Though I had never read the book before and so I couldn't evaluate the film in terms of its faithfulness to Waugh's original, I enjoyed it very much. It dragged a little toward the end, I think; but in terms of the cinematography, language, and performances, it was a delight. I definitely want to read the book as soon as I can find the time in my bustling schedule here at UEA. (Ha!)

After the film ended, we then walked across the lane to "The Queen of the Iceni" where we enjoyed a couple of drinks--I had a pint of Kronenberg while Shannyn limited herself to a half-pint of Strongbow. (Abby had decided to go home after the film.) The range of the conversation was pretty broad, including a little discussion about the film, the relative virtues of the different versions of Final Fantasy, skiing, the social agenda for LitSoc in the next few weeks, and vampire films. It was pleasant manner in which to pass an evening. Pint in hand, engaged in good conversation.

We vacated the bar between twelve o' clock and twelve-fifteen, I suppose, because as one of the barkeepers unceremoniously informed, the bar was closing for the night. We were assembling outside, chatting for a while before trudging to the bus stop when this large local woman who was dressed like a girl half her years, accompanied by her husband who was dressed to impress with two earrings in each ear, a blazer, t-shirt, and cowboy hat, abruptly stood besides Shannyn, James, and me and began to listen into our conversation. This is where things started to get interesting.

"Um, excuse me," exclaimed one of the people in our cluster who was standing just across from me (sadly, I forget his name). "Yes," I chimed in. "Can we help you with something? What do you want?"

The woman said something in response, but since it generally takes me about a minute or two to adjust to a person's accent before I can begin to guess even what they're trying to say, I have not the slightest notion what it was. In any event, this woman then brandished a 5-pence coin from her purse, licked it, and then proceeded to try to stick it to my forehead. It held there for perhaps a half-minute before it fell to the ground. I picked it up, and because it wasn't mine, I handed it back to the woman.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said in my best, most polite voice. "But do you want this back?"

The woman took the coin from my hands, and at first, I think what I said didn't initially register with her. "Yes, yes, it would--" She replied, "Wait! Ma'am? Ma'am? Are you an American?"

"Yes, I am."

Tilting her head a little back, she continued, "Oh really? That's interesting. So, what do you think about everything that's going on there?" I'll admit that I was a little horrified by the question, not because I have any particular dread of a good conversation about politics or the current race in the States, but last night was nowhere near the ideal circumstances for such a dialogue. "Things have certainly been interesting," I spluttered lamely, a little embarrassed and frankly afraid of offending her or her husband.

Fortunately, Shannyn stepped in and saved my rear end. "Yes, we're all hoping that things will change very soon."

"Good. You know my daughter's been in the British Army for six years now..."

What followed was an interesting conversation concerning the difficulties of a soldier's life--my cousin served two years in Iraq with the U.S. Army National Guard, so I'm not entirely unaware of what it entails--and the conflict between wanting to go home and wanting to remain with one's comrades. The lady's husband, apparently, was also a veteran, having served with the British army for twenty years before calling it quits. He lifted his cowboy hat to show a series of old suture marks just above his forehead where he'd once been struck with shrapnel. The most awkward part of the whole affair was when my new female acquaintance threw her arm around my shoulder, planted a kiss on my cheek, and then used me like a brace for her drunken bombosity for five minutes or so. I wanted to scream.

Finally, we had to bid them adieu and proceeded toward the bus stop, which was located in the shadow of the rail station. There we encountered another party of locals, five in number, all male, large, drunk, and clothed ominous in threatening shades of navy blue, black, and dark brown. Again, we were simply talking about our recent encounter outside "The Queen of the Iceni" when the de facto leader of the group, a tall black man who, when later asked what his name was, said it was "My Name," approached us. "Are you all Americans?" He said, gesturing toward us with the can of Strongbow in his hand.

"No, no, I'm from London." Max replied politely. Shannyn and I remained silent, while everybody else nodded or explained that they were from England.

"You're from London?" Our newest friend continued, "So, you're not from America. What the f*** are doing here in Norwich then?"

"I'm a student at the University. We all are."

"Oh, really, you're all students..." For the next ten to twelve minutes, while we waited for the #25 bus, "My Name" proceeded to unfold the true nature of the world to us, explaining that to the government, we were nothing but numbers--"codes" was his word of choice--who were there to pay taxes and support them and that as students at the University, we were nothing but sheep whom the government was preparing for the sheering. "You all are standing round me in a semi-circle. What's up with that?" He ased at one point, "You know what I think it is; I think you're used to sitting there and listening to your professors while they pour all sorts of f***ing worthless b****** into your heads. That's what I think it is."

"Actually, we sit in a circle," Max responded. "That way, everyone has a chance to have a say."

Our friend ignored that statement and continued with his homilly. In addition to some of the themes I have already mentioned, he criticized our choices in major--"what are you going to do studying English? You already speak it."--and asked us after whom we modeled our individual styles of dress. Max said "Steve McQueen," Hannah said that her style was her own, I didn't say anything because I don't think he'd know who George Strait was if I handed him a picture and a free CD, and Shannyn later told me that she wanted to say "Boris Johnson." The man didn't respond well to Hannah's response, saying that she had to model it after someone else because as University students, we are incapable of free thought. Unlike him and his mates of course.

For most of the conversation, I have to admit that I was terrified, dreading that one of us might say something that'd offend him or his friends in which case I would be placed in, shall we say, a most unhappy position (fortunately, the worst thing that happened was that "My Name" flipped us off as we boarded the bus because we interrupted his diatribe against such airlines as British Airways, Virgin Atlantic, and Ryanair). However, there was one moment that brough me a measure of joy: I didn't speak really for much of the time, but at one point, I expressed my "agreement" with a discernible "that's true." Damn American accent gave me away. "So, some of you are from America!" "My Name" crowed exultantly. What could we do? Shannyn and I broke our silence and confessed. "So, what do you follow more? What sport do you like? American football? Baseball? NBA basketball?"

"I actually follow all of those sports, more or less," I responded.

"Oh, really. What teams do you like? Who do you support, man?"

"Well, for baseball, I'm a Chicago Cubs fan, and in American football, I'm a fan of the Green Bay Packers." I didn't bother to say that I don't particularly care for any team in the NBA, since they don't really play fundamentally sound basketball. "What about you?" The man never answered my question. Later on, I heard he and his friends trying to figure what Chicago was.
Eventually, providentially, finally, the bus arrived and we boarded it, leaving our friends to drink, rant about our obvious stupidity, and disentangle that profoundest of mysteries, "What is Chicago?"