The Hypocrite's Manifesto

I fear I may be a closet Marxist.

And that makes me a hypocrite.

I’m not poor. I’ve never been poor. I like to talk about the corporate enslavement of the masses and the tyranny of the upper class, but I don’t really feel it. How could I? I’ve always had a home, I’ve never run out of food; once or twice I’ve had to choose between dinner and cigarettes, but that was my choice. My middle-class choice. My parents never took me to Disneyland as a child, but we did travel across the country many times. Poor people don’t do that, do they? Poor people live in ghettos, poor people live in peeling run-down rented houses, poor people don’t have cupboards stocked with enough food to feed an entire post-apocalyptic town, as we did.

Still though, I like to think I’m different. That somehow I am in a lower class, as if this makes me special and strong and defiant. That I am fighting, heroically and without fear, against the ruling class, like I am some kind of reformer battling a faceless tyrant, the savior of my blue-collar people.

Bullshit.

For the first time in my life, I have a job where I don’t have to take out the garbage. This has long been a dream of mine. It’s a dream that began with an endless series of jobs – in stores, kitchens, gas stations, and hotels – and was finally realized when I started my current job, two years ago. In my current job, I never have to think about garbage. I throw out my wrappers, my used plastic, my rinds, and I never have to think about where they go. There are, after all, people who take care of such things. I don’t even know where the dumpster is, I have no idea how garbage makes its way out of my office and into a dumpster. I have no interest in knowing these things. I sit in front of a computer all day. It’s a nice computer. It’s new. I’m the only one who uses it. I have a little desk space, for my pictures and my coffee cup. It’s nice.

I live in – dare I say it, can I admit it? – middle-class comfort. I went out for dinner three times this week. I bought a new bed last month. I’m planning a vacation this summer. I like the idea of being lower-class, of living a life of quiet monetary desperation; I love seeing rich people with their designer handbags and expensive highlights, and laughing softly to myself. Pity they’ve never known my life, I think. Pity they’ve never struggled like I have. Although when asked how, exactly, I’ve struggled against the corporate bully, the rigid system of class, I won’t have an answer.

I am writing this on a nice MacBook, given to me for free by my work. I am watching Jeopardy on a nice flatscreen TV. I could check my bank account on this computer; it wouldn’t upset me. I use high-speed wireless Internet. It’s nice.

I am not poor and I have never been poor. I may be a closet Marxist, but I am an undeniable hypocrite.