When we went to Disney Springs for dinner & shopping, the other night, I felt impressed by the elaborate architecture of high-end stores & Disney-related wares displayed ubiquitously in such a fantasy land. Sometimes, I feel very working-class when colleagues assume I’ve visited Disney World before or that I traveled extensively growing up. An authentic person, I’ll explain that I didn’t travel on a plane until I was 23, when I could pay to go myself from a personal loan I secured for an abroad grad program. People look apologetic, even pitying, & a sudden jolt of cognitive dissonance reminds me that I don’t belong.
It’s weird how class difference can make you feel embarrassed for not having more money or a wealthier family as a kid. Even my parents felt bad they couldn’t do more for me, even though they were very generous given what they had.
As I saw families shopping in retail stores, lining the many walkways towards elaborate restaurants, I felt almost guilty. My little one has been having so much fun meeting characters & attending fancy dining experiences, & I’m glad he’s getting this opportunity in a way I’ll never know.
But I worry, too, about keeping him humble & thankful, not expecting things but rather being surprised by them. I want to protect that child’s heart from materialism, greed, & entitlement.
As I dined with the team, looking out at the sunset reflected in the water, I felt the pang of Gatsby, that American literary icon of upward social mobility through dishonest means, reinventing himself in order to access a world of extravagance from which he’d been previously barred. Now, I’m not a bootlegger, but I know one of my brothers sees me as spoiled social climber, someone with airs looking down on my roots & hometown.
How do I explain that my mother’s stories of extreme poverty in the 1940s in that same town fueled my drive to get out, to achieve things my mother would have likely exceeded had someone, anyone, told her it was possible?
My mother taught me to dream big, expect more from life. That anything is possible through hard work. And so when I work long hours & drive myself to achieve more, much of that ties to honoring my mother’s sacrifices. I no longer speak with a Laconia accent, saying “Weirs” instead of “Wee-‘ahs.” My mother may pronounce my niece’s name Briana as “Bree-anner,” but she’s also the person who taught me to read, encouraged expanding my vocabulary with words like “facetious” & “voracious.” How can I honor my roots while also assimilating to an academic culture?
These things run through my mind, as I walk through the Disney Springs of plenty, bounty, abundance, even excess. I wish I didn’t worry about such mundane things, but I’m a child of Silent Generation parents, the youngest of six kids in a Roman Catholic family from an old mill town in NH. Great-granddaughter of a crippled millworker & laundress, French Canadian & Irish immigrants.
It’s in my blood.
