Miss Pelican's Perch

Looking at my World from a Different Place


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An Observation about “Class”

working handToday’s Daily Post prompt: “Every city and town contains people of different classes: rich, poor, and somewhere in between. What’s it like where you live? If it’s difficult for you to discern and describe the different types of classes in your locale, describe what it was like where you grew up — was it swimming pools and movie stars, industrial and working class, somewhere in between or something completely different?”

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I grew up in a blue-collar enclave surrounded by neighborhoods of affluence inhabited mostly by doctors, lawyers, college professors, and movie industry execs.  These people drove up property values so that when I came of age I could not (and still cannot) afford to buy a home there.    As an adult I moved to another traditionally working-class town only to watch it gentrify with all the “Silicon Beach” techies and execs.   My rent is becoming so high that soon I will not be able to afford even to rent there.

I have tried to improve my situation.  I have educated myself with advanced degrees and I move in circles of middle and upper-class professionals.  I would say that my social class has improved but not my economic class.    For all intents and purposes, I am still “working class.”    At one time, I was a little annoyed about the whole thing.

Now I am getting older and have given up trying to grab that golden ring — that dream of someone having a better life than one’s parents and owning a bit of America.    I am part of a growing over-educated and under-paid sub-group that doesn’t quite fit into either middle or working class.   The lines between have gotten a bit murky so I have given up trying to figure it out.

To quote Popeye, “I yam what I yam” and I am just trying to hold my own for as long as I can.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/west-end-girls/


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Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

the moon by me -- ljgHere is my response to this prompt at the WordPress Daily Post: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

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Dreams should not be taken literally — at least that is what I used to tell myself.

At one time I was big into symbolism. I used to think that images in dreams were the detritus of my mind, the bits and pieces of real-life issues that I had left unattended during my waking hours which would then float up to nag me during my sleep. These realities of my day would take on fantastical or striking forms in my dreams in order to get my attention. ALL dreams were like that. Yeah, that’s what I used to tell myself.

But then that changed.

A number of years ago I had a dream. Actually, it was an honest-to-gosh nightmare. It started out pleasant enough. I found myself in a backyard garden in Manhattan Beach. How I knew it was MB, I don’t know. I just knew. I was surrounded by people I did not know. They were obviously wealthy people dressed in fine party clothing — suits and cocktail dresses. Someone was grilling steaks and fish on a barbeque. Tables were laid with fancy appetizers and other dainties. Beer and wine freely flowed. The sun was shining and a salty breeze came off the ocean. I don’t recall any music but then sound has never been prominent in my dreams, but everyone was smiling, laughing, and having a good time.

Then I looked up and saw the sky turn color. From a bright cerulean it morphed into a puss-yellow. The party-goers looked up too. Some set down their glasses and plates, and they all stopped chatting and laughing. They, like me, were frozen in place. With our eyes fixed on the western sky, we saw them coming — at first dark specks, then growing into the silhouettes of planes. I felt my stomach tighten and my heart start to pound. I knew — we all knew — they were coming for us. If you have ever seen any movies about Pearl Harbor, you know the scene: the planes swooping in on defenseless people. You knew what was coming.

Just as the planes were nearly to us, everyone began to scream, including me. That’s when I woke up. It was the classic bolt-upright-in-bed type of nightmare response. I don’t know if I really screamed, but I was sweating and trembling in fear. I sat there for a moment and as I realized that I was at home, safe in my bedroom, and that it was only a dream, I calmed down. Then I began to analyze it.

Yes, I had been busy at work. Stress, that was probably it. Yes, I was worried about some family issues too. Yeah, that’s had to be it. Worry working itself out in the dream. Oh, maybe it was my health. That could be it too: my body telling me to take care of myself. Maybe I should make a doctor’s appointment. That’s it, that’s what I’ll do.

With it all figured out, I felt relieved and ready to go back to sleep. Just as I settled back down, I turned to look at the digital display on my nightstand:

2:15 a.m., September 11, 2001.

 

 

 

ljgloyd (c) 2015