Skip to main content

Snobby Rich People

 


Imagine having to close a car door- I could never. Why with my infinite supply of butlers there to drive for me, eat for me and breathe for me, I could never partake in such peasantry as living.

By the way, I was being sarcastic. God I could never be like them. 

The high society with sleekly polished nails canvased to perfection, much like their readymade lives served on a silver platter, no taxes included of course. We, the butlers waiting on them hand and foot, put on our sharpest uniforms in their presence, and go home to our bills, our empty fridge, our children we couldn't take care of because we spent our day working for them. 

This "us" vs "them" mentality we see so prominently in our communities is undeniable in Sweat. The clearest example is how the factory workers refer to management. Those in charge have the power to make the rules, decide the fates of the countless workers below them, but as this power is abused, its no longer a "we" anymore, its "them". "They behave like they're doing you a goddamn favor" (37). Authority share the same struggles as the line workers, and therefore they don't share the same values. This divides the community into those chasing the money after those who stuff it "outta the pockets of a lot of good people" (91). 

Each side is visible but not understandable to the other, and this leads to further disparities. Employers of the factory aren't blind to the thousands of workers they've left hanging dry out on the streets, but why should they care? They are separate from "us". Consequences of the characters in the piece don't even leave a stain on the authority high above them, so in the eyes of an executive, 'their problem isn't ours'. 

Furthermore, we see this partition tear innocent relationships through Cynthia and Tracey. No matter how tight they were in their past, or even present, their close-knit circle is torn in a matter of hours when Cynthia is promoted. "I'm in there fighting for us" (71). Although Cynthia is no longer an "us". She part of "them" to Tracey, the inhumane bunch of manipulators that suck the soul of the poor, tired workers. Cynthia has done nothing of the sort, but this hatred is still built against her because Tracey unconsciously associates anyone in a higher position than her as "them". Even Oscar, who lies at an even lower position than Tracey is only looking to for extra cash when he discusses taking the job at Olstead's. 

But Tracey has built this bubble around her which is the only place she's comfortable to live in, in which anyone who isn't in her position is apart from "us". They are "them", and they are always the enemy. 

Comments

  1. I loved the sarcastic beginning because while it may seem outrageous to us, it's a normal mentality for them. As I was writing this I just realized I used us vs. them lol, so your point about the prominence of the "us vs. them" situation is extremely accurate. The sarcasm highlights that really well.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I love your sarcastic tone! It was fun to read. The italicizing of words that showed the "us" vs "them" mentality was a really cool style choice. I also liked how you said that after Cynthia got promoted, Tracey saw her as part of "them" rather than "us." I never thought about it that way before, so it was really eye opening.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Dear Mr. Brown

Dear Mr. Brown,  My name is Arya Shah. I am seventeen years old, and a senior at Troy High School. I stumbled upon your poem, "Labor", initially out of reluctancy to check-the-box on what I thought was a labor intensive English assignment. However, I quickly became so engrossed into the poem and I forgot about the trivial work I was pulling my hair out for just a few minutes ago.  What I admire most about this poem is its ambiguity, and the unsettling atmosphere it leaves. While you begin ranting about "cuss[ing] cutting grass for women", and shift focus onto the women, I thought surely the poem would reveal a tender heart, or wholesome relationship with them that would romanticize the labor or at least blur its pain. But instead, it's so discomforting. Your force us readers to sit with the fact that "they're all dead" because it isn't only the labor that's painful, but also the love. I find that so hard to accept most times, and can't ...

You're Nothing Like Me

You're fat. Your flabby  little  not so little actually, stomach rolls over your sari's petticoat. Pathetic.  You're ugly. Your eye bags are stripping away your youthful happy-go-lucky femininity which was an era long gone as your stretch marks remind you.   You're naive. Your hands are shedding their skin, bruised and burned because the kitchen is now engraved into your body. It's these hands with which you sign your children's papers so they can go on field trips and become people of their own, hands with which I once used to forge my own parent's signatures because I wanted to control my "destiny"—always written by someone else.   You're unwanted. I believed in Bollywood movies. I believed in a romanticized future, where a language barrier in a foreign country would mean they would laugh at my cute accent. Instead, they just laugh at you. They insult you and you can't even understand them. Your mannerisms aren't quirky, they're d...

Cleanup On Aisle Seven!

I'd like to preface this blog by saying the following original poem is written in a style completely out of my comfort zone, so through my eyes as a poet, it appears a bit of a mess. But hey, "dissonance is a kind of sense" I guess.  Cleanup on aisle seven Where the neatly stacked pyramid of oranges has fallen Where people pass by Without giving a fly Spurting juice under their fashionably protected feet Now there’s a traffic jam on aisle seven Where someone bumps into a shelf of wine And when people point fingers at each others’ faults All that’s left to say is  It isn’t mine  So someone travels to aisle four And rips open a pack of paper towels to clean the floor  But the liquid has migrated far beyond control  Where now are also  Soggy unraveled rolls  Finally the janitor comes over But he slips and his head lowers  Now there’s blood everywhere  But who should care  To clean the aisles When the janitor is also the owner  I initia...