In an article published by the Princeton-Brookings Future of Children organization, Isabel Sawhill and Sara McLanahan describe an informal poll given to several scholars.  These researchers were asked an interesting question:  If you could be born with the ability to choose one of the following advantageous characteristics for yourself-race, class, gender or national origin-which would you choose?  The vast majority chose "class."

 From "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" to Horatio Alger, it's amazing how often the story is told of a naïve but earnest protagonist from the lower strata who aspires to and arrives at a respectable station in life. Bernard Shaw's 1916 opus major, Pygmalion, has been rewarmed and served-up on stage and screen productions such as "My Fair Lady," "Tammy and the Bachelor," "Educating Rita," and "Maid in Manhattan," just to name a few.  

Alexis de Tocqueville notwithstanding, social class in the U.S. matters big time. The interminable capacity of the Cinderella story to appeal to the collective unconscious speaks to the enduring awareness of social class.  The fact that this story reemerges from Broadway or Hollywood every few years is evidence that this sentiment resounds with people in powerful ways. I'm sure if the late Joseph Campbell were still with us, Bill Moyers could get him to wax poetic about the ancient mythological archetype that got all of this started.

Cues and clues as to one's social class are everywhere. In just a few paragraphs, you've learned a lot about me; that I've read Democracy in America.  That I've studied Carl Jung. That I'm a fan of the PBS Power of Myth series. What you don't know is that wherever I am now, I arrived here via Turnip Truck. If you're interested in how it feels to come from the rural lower class, bandana-on-stick, and get off the bus at a major university, read on. 

When I left the farm, I might as well have called a travel agent and asked for a ticket to Humiliation Island.  My hometown is on the Minnesota-Canadian border and about as remote an area as there is in the continental U.S.  There was only one TV station, and the reception was snowy on a good day.  I don't think the school library had ordered a new book since the Hoover administration. If there were any major newspapers around, I never saw them. Without any of the home "concerted cultivation" described by sociologist Annette Lareau, my level of cultural literacy was pathetic. 

The first week of college should have been a clue. An orientation adviser asked if I was interested in "the Greek system." Since I didn't know what that meant, I said "no" which, fortunately, was the best answer. New acquaintances asked me if I would be going through "rush" at one of the sororities. I had no idea what a sorority was or what all of the hurry was about. Afraid I would miss some important deadline, I visited one of the houses and asked a few questions. After their brief sales pitch, I asked why anyone would live in a sorority house when the dorms were so much cheaper. They all exchanged glances. I knew I had just stepped on my first social landmine. Some nice person added that the term "Greek" referred to the "Pan-Hel" system-which offered me no further clarification. I still didn't know what the Pan-Hel they were talking about.

Miraculously, I managed to get a B.A. in Psychology and an entry-level position as one of the university's academic advisers. Although I was a caring adviser and particularly empathetic towards those from Hoedown Junction, I had entered another world-the professional workplace, in academia no less-and experienced regular reminders that I was once again destined to walk life's metaphorical halls smelling of turnips.

I would've washed-out within a year had I not had the knack for identifying compassionate cultural translators who took pity on me. One such mentor was my boss of 10 years, who was raised in the upper middle class. Jackie knew the rules. A decade of her coaching early in my career was the best educational experience of my life. Here is a hypothetical illustration; I would attend a meeting with other student services professionals such as the university's admissions officers. Let's say we were discussing student admission criteria. One of them would make a comment such as, "I just don't know which way to go; how do we make the right decision now that we have both Brown and Bakke?"  Everyone around the table would sigh and nod knowingly-so I would nod too.  On my notepad I quickly wrote "Ask Jackie... Brown/Bach-y."  In the intervening week until the next meeting, Jackie would clue-me-in. I would find out everything I could about Brown vs. the Board of Education and the Bakke decision.  News of Supreme Court rulings never made it to northern Minnesota. It was as if I'd spent my childhood on Neptune. 

Today when I hear an unfamiliar cultural reference, I can fill in the blanks in 30 seconds using Google or Wikipedia. But I still feel the sting of class differences, especially where the social graces are concerned. Social occasions back home meant potluck dinners at church. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes were served buffet style. Paper plates were de rigueur; for really special occasions, we'd upgrade to the deluxe cardboard type with three discrete sections. Until I left home, I had never heard of an eggroll, a bagel or a croissant. Fresh produce isn't readily available in remote areas in the winter.  Consequently, potluck "salads" consist of a vat of lime green gelatin, with canned fruit cocktail suspended in it, garnished with a few carrot shavings on top.  Comedian Louie Anderson (also a product of the Minnesota proletariat) made a hilarious observation about this ubiquitous local foodstuff:  he says it looks like someone's aquarium froze up.  

Changing castes is not an event but a process. Every now and then, I still find an embarrassing gap in my Eliza Doolittle database. Since I began working at NCFR, I've identified several kind cultural translators who are willing to help. BYU Professor Alan Higgins, er, I mean Hawkins had to teach me how to pronounce Retrouvaille. And until I began traveling for NCFR and staying in nice hotels, I didn't know about the chocolate on the pillow thing.  I remember the first time a hotel staffer knocked on my door and asked if I'd like to be "turned down." I gave her the "thousand-yard stare."  To my ears, that question sounded as preposterous as "Would you like to be slapped?"

What do lower class folk need to make it?  University of Minnesota researcher Ann Masten's work brilliantly and scientifically identifies the protective factors for resilience. Read her work-it's fascinating. For what my anecdotal experience is worth, I've found that SES underdogs need to find four things: financial supports, cultural interpreters, a sense of humor and the relentless drive to learn-even if it means humiliation.  

None of my life trajectory would have occurred without access to education-and access was possible only because of financial support. I couldn't afford a down payment on a free lunch. Virginia Woolf wrote that in order to develop her potential, she needed a "Room of One's Own."  What the title to her book doesn't disclose is that the "room" was provided by an aunt who left her a generous endowment.  College tuition is outrageously out-of-reach for the Nancys of today and burdensome for even middle class kids. Tuition increases have been outpacing inflation for years. Financial aid, when it is to be had, is increasingly offered in the form of loans vs. grants. This issue needs immediate and dramatic attention from policymakers. Most of the financial supports I had are no longer available. I received more grants than loans.  Then, as a junior, my father became disabled. Back in the early 80s, Social Security benefits were available to support full-time college students of disabled parents. With any gap in these opportunities, I would have needed quick training to generate income right away.  I would be working today in an honorable but my second choice profession: cosmetology.   

Even education doesn't close the gap entirely. Cultural mentors are essential. In a series of articles from the New York Times, journalists spent over a year covering some of the phenomenology involved in upward mobility. Each of these fascinating pieces was vicariously cathartic for me.  Through the eyes of these Americans' lived experiences, story after story revealed that cultural interpreters provided the education not available in a classroom. The secret to tapping these mentors, however, is being able to identify who will help you and then finding the courage to ask the questions... even at the risk of looking like a clod. The commodity is a piece of knowledge.  The cost for obtaining it is 60 seconds of mortification. With each transaction, I had to be willing to pony-up the full sticker price.  Sadly, this is the point at which the next layer of promising people will peel-off.  One in six Americans has a clinically-significant social anxiety disorder.  Embarrassment for them costs too much.  Equally tragic is the loss of these potential resources to our national human capital.

Finally, the ability to laugh at oneself and one's circumstances is crucial. Masten's seminal findings allude to the importance of humor. I accept that there will be destinations I will never reach. I'll probably always have unrefined tastes. I have a very limited capacity for abstract thought; no matter how hard I try to see his genius, Jackson Pollock's paintings always look like dropcloths to me.  When I meet accomplished people, I still seize-up momentarily. I've discovered that humor can bridge class differences like almost nothing else, especially if I own up to my one-down position right away.  When I met my new neighbor, an Art History professor, I froze as usual. [Quick, Nancy, think!  Make a connection between Art History and the lower class!]  I steeled myself, and with a twinkle in my eye I asked her why Piet Mondrian painted the Partridge Family bus. She howled. And I got my passport stamped again. 

If you're a student or new professional SES underdog, take heart; the day may come when you'll find that your dual worldview is an asset.  If you do ethnography research on vulnerable populations, you're the one who will be able to establish rapport in subject interviews.... and the dynamite qualitative narratives will come pouring out.  By the time you're mid-career like me, you will realize that those who would judge you solely by the color of your culture-and not by the content of your character-have less "class" than you do. 

Later still, you can embrace your shame and put it to work mentoring younger colleagues.  Our Conference Consultant Cindy Winter has given me permission to add her most embarrassing moment here. Cindy hails from a small-town in rural Wisconsin. When I told her sheepishly that I didn't know what "turn-down" service was, she said "I can top that!"  On her first trip to New York City, Cindy was awestruck. She stayed in her first luxury hotel. As she was leaving, she tried to hail a cab without success. Then the Bellman asked Cindy if he could get her one. Gratefully she said yes. The taxi arrived, and Cindy thanked him profusely.  Then the Bellman extended his hand... and Cindy shook it!  He helped her into the cab and extended his hand once more; and she shook it again!  She didn't realize what had happened until much later.

We're fluent in English-but it takes a while to speak the "language." It's pervasive.  Hailing a cab is an example. It requires a certain urban body language that I still haven't mastered. Last time I was in Chicago, I stood on a corner doing one-armed jumping jacks for 20 minutes until a driver pulled over. Cindy was lucky. In her day, only the Bellman witnessed her pratfall. Nowadays, with video cell phones everywhere, a curbside spectacle like mine could end up on YouTube in a clip entitled "Idiot on Halstad Street." 

At each NCFR conference, I get to test my comfort-zone; it's hard to imagine where I could find a more erudite community. But anxiety subsides quickly because everyone is so kind. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and hope that my intimate understanding of poverty, ignorance, and marginalization can serve NCFR in other ways.  As a student of family sciences, I know who Arnold Gesell is. Flag me down at the next conference, and I'll tell you who Arnold Ziffel is. 

To access some fascinating research on Social Class, be sure to read an excellent series of papers at www.futureofchildren.org . For entertaining stories about individual journeys, read the New York Times series at www.nytimes.com/class . Accessing the Times' articles requires on-line registration, but it's free.  And by the way, if you knew who Arnold Ziffel was without looking him up on Wikipedia, you's my kinda people!