The confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court brings to mind a scene from “Animal House” in which the frat rats begin to chant, “Toga! Toga! Toga!” Because, let’s face it, what’s a judicial robe if not just another cover-up of a naked truth—that we lowly serfs shall forever be lorded over by members of an embedded, privileged class.
Where I grew up, there was no such thing as a privileged class, save for the B.P.O.E., locally known as “The Best People On Earth.” So my family settled for the next best thing and became Latter-Day Saints. However, as I grew older, the mantle of latter-day sainthood began to slip—beginning shortly after I moved to Provo, where I learned that God’s chosen people are all conservative Republicans.
After discovering that an undergraduate degree from BYU is of no value unless I should choose to work in the congressional office of Brother Orrin Hatch, I decided to move to Salt Lake City and enroll at the more liberal University of Utah. Sadly, I was denied admission by the dean of the English Department, who wasn’t swayed by my argument that applicants most in need of an education should be moved to the front of the line.
No matter, I rented a room on University Street and proceeded to go through the motions of one who was enrolled in graduate school. Where I lived then was only a stone’s throw from Fraternity Row, which in turn is right next door to Sorority Row. This gave me an opportunity to observe how the class system works, and to understand why I, being of lowly birth, would never become a player. No chugging, ralphing, or boofing; no rush weeks or beach weeks or Greek weeks for me. Or, as one sorority sister I met so aptly phrased it, “Eeewww, he spoke to ME.”
No matter. All this was back in the late nineteen sixties when revolution was in the air. Specifically, it was the revolt of the upper class—something that never before had happened in the entire history of the planet. Young people of entitlement were turning their backs on the system, walking away from their mansions in Federal Heights in order to wear animal skins and live in dirt-floored teepees, And because I had by then relocated to a humble one-room shack in the woods, they adopted me as one of their own. Once I had the right friends, and had forged the right connections, the doors of upward mobility at last swung open.
Today I’m doing just fine, which is not to say I’m in favor of what’s going on politically. For one thing, I remember what it’s like to be poor and powerless, and I haven’t forgotten wise counsel received from castoffs and outsiders with whom I conferred during the years I resided on the socio-economic fringe. Take, for example, lifetime drifter and hobo Floyd Eaton, who served as self-appointed lawmaker of the Wendover City dump. When I asked Floyd whether he had ever voted in an election, he answered no.
“When it comes to putting gangsters into public office,” said he, “I want no part of it.”
