The Bane of the Elite
What do we actually mean when we say "elite"? It’s a word bandied about but weakly defined. I would say it’s someone who has status, ensconced fairly high up in one of our many human hierarchies. Money helps, but it isn’t necessary—status within a human discipline is the key. Examples, by no means complete, include academics, corporate executives, and politicians. But classification of function seems irrelevant since they all seem so similar: the preternatural confidence, the practiced composure, and, most importantly, the quiet air of cynicism.
So imagine our generic elites at a party: wine, cheese, and more cheese. They are all trading personal stories, particularly adventures at Trader Joe’s, which, parenthetically, serves those with salaries that don’t match their education. They also discuss the politics of their generic city and the performance of their generic mayor.
A woman with red hair holding a matching glass of red wine appeared particularly well-informed, a charming characteristic shared by the elites.
“The mayor is useless. Did you see what he’s doing?”
The others nodded knowingly. Elites as a rule make a practice of nodding knowingly.
Amongst the group was a tall, skinny man in a jacket and black T-shirt. He did not say anything. He did nod, but it was less knowing than the others in attendance. He just looked out of place.
“The policies of this administration are just completely untenable,” the Black woman said.
A short, portly man also reiterated this sentiment, making a point to lace it with profanities. The elites of yesteryear refrained from this vulgarity, but now it is done with abandon. Whether it’s merely performative so as not to appear too effete—a trap elites fear—or because the new herd-like behavior is merely expected, it doesn’t matter.
“Where do they get these people?” said a twenty-five-year-old ingénue. “I mean, really.”
The group agreed that these people were absolutely unreal, hard to fathom, truly a class apart. They found it hard to comprehend that such people exist.
This went on for a while, a merciless piling-on of criticisms, infused with over-refined snark. Finally, the bald man spoke up.
“I think the city administration is doing a good job,” he said.
There was a brief silence. A man with a leonine mane challenged him.
“Good?”
“Yes, it’s hard to run a city. We can be too hard on everyone sometimes. There may be some glitches, but things are just hard to do without getting at least someone annoyed.”
The lion-maned man did not bother to counter the argument. Elites don’t do counterarguments; they generally prefer a more personal response.
He looked down upon the bald man, and while expertly swirling his wine, he queried, “Isn’t that a bit naive?”
And that was that. No one came to the bald man’s defense. The conversation simply glided past him, leaving him standing alone with his glass.
By the next morning, his fate was sealed. He was forever branded as naive, daring to believe. In elite social dynamics, the person who believes the least about human nature occupies the highest status. This man violated this credo, initiating his slow, passive-aggressive removal from the ranks of the elite.
The ensuing exile was a slow and barely perceptible process. At first, he was excluded from events. Then, important meetings went on without him. His text messages stalled at “Read,” and even the voluminous flow of email slacked off. So when the time came for him to be removed, it was barely an event.
The elites consider themselves quite forgiving, tolerant of the great unwashed, ready to offer a paternal hand to those who seem forever baffled by their own existence. But the one thing they can never have, never forgive, is to be amongst the naive.
