#upper middle class

Confused? Let me elaborate.

If you work a minimum wage or low paying job, such as being a teacher, retail worker, fast food worker, delivery driver, etc.. In this day and age, you’re going to struggle, unless you’re lucky or you have a partner who can assist financially (and even then, still.) You might, MIGHT, be able to go on vacation every once in a while, or visit family if they live far. You could go out to eat for a special treat maybe. But you’re limited on the luxuries in which you can indulge.

If you were to work as a CEO, or as some kind of rare niche job that pays fortunes, or as a congressperson (for the US. anyway) literally NONE of that applies to you. You could go out to eat instead of cooking just because you feel like it. Multiple vacations a year if your heart desires. Spa days. And that’s just the luxuries. You would be less likely to fucking die. because medical expenses aren’t as big of a deal when you have the money to spend.

It’s so baffling to me, as child that’s lived in both the lower and upper ends of middle class, (thanks to having split parents) the differences in lifestyle of my father and my mother.

The books’ characters are, as usual in Ballard, educated and middle class; no member of the underclass ever appears in his pages. This is not accidental. It is the educated class that is essential to running the country and that sets its moral tone; but “sheltered by benevolent shopping malls,” Ballard writes in Kingdom Come, it “waits patiently for the nightmares that will wake [it] into a more passionate world.” Believing in nothing, sated materially, it is capable of anything to escape boredom.

This represents an important insight. When I briefly served as a kind of vulgarity correspondent for a British newspaper—it sent me anywhere the British gathered to behave badly—I discovered to my surprise that the middle classes behaved in crowds with the same menacing disinhibition as their supposed social and educational inferiors. They swore and screamed abuse and made fascistic gestures and urinated in the street with the same abandon that they attributed to the proletarians.

𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐢𝐭𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫.

In Millennium People, the residents of an affluent housing project called Chelsea Marina “had set about dismantling their middle-class world. They lit bonfires of books and paintings, educational toys and videos. . . . They had quietly discarded their world as if putting out their rubbish for collection. All over England an entire professional caste was rejecting everything it had worked so hard to secure.”

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞) 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲. 𝐖𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝, 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐰𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞. 𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞, 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭, and he satirizes it in Millennium People. The book’s protagonist, a psychologist, infiltrates the growing middle-class revolutionary movement and attends a protest against a cat show in a London exhibition hall with Angela, a revolutionary:

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“Angela stared across the road with narrowed eyes and all a suburbanite’s capacity for moral outrage. Walking around the exhibition two hours earlier, I was impressed by her unswerving commitment to the welfare of these luxurious pets. The protest rallies I had recently attended against globalisation, nuclear power and the World Bank were violent but well thought out. By contrast, this demonstration seemed endearingly Quixotic in its detachment from reality. I tried to point this out to Angela as we strolled along the line of cages.

“𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘢, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺. . . . 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳. 𝘞𝘦’𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯.”

Angela never varied her step. “𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸?”

“𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮.” We stopped in front of a row of Abyssinians so deeply immersed in the luxury of being themselves that they barely noticed the admiring crowds. “𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥, 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘴.”

“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥.” Angela’s brows knotted. “𝘕𝘰 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱.”

“𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘴.”

“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘦𝘶𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘋𝘳. 𝘔𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰.”

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The press recently ran obituaries of Peter Cadogan, whom one paper called a “professional protester.” Another wrote that Cadogan “spent fifty years on a long quest of resistance to global injustices.” He appeared inseparable from a megaphone, and no man would have been more disappointed to wake one day to a world denuded of injustice. Apparently, someone read the protest poems of William Blake to him on his deathbed, and these roused him temporarily from a coma. Protest was the meaning of his life. His dying words evoked Blake: “Live differently.”

Not better, but differently.

This mind-set can result in the violence from which, as Ballard discovered early in life, we are always but a hairbreadth away, however solidly founded our comfort may seem. Civilization’s fragility does not make it unreal or valueless—quite the reverse.

———

Stop this useless infighting. From lower to upper middle class, we’re all the same. The elite ultra rich are the enemies.

The difference between 1M$ and 1B$? About 1B$.

The difference between 100M$ and 1B$? About 1B$