I know what
barbecue they grill their meat on. What shirt, shoes and watch they wear. I
know what nanny they hire to look after their children, how their homes look
like, what sports they practice and what phone they have in their pockets. I
know where they go exercise, what books they (don´t ?) read, what their favorite
conversational topics are and what wine they drink while holding those
conversations. And, obviously, I know what party they vote for.
Or do I
just think I know?
Are wealthy
people more predictable than non-so-wealthy men and women? Or am I just a
prejudicial, superficial Censorious Sapiens that puts all and everyone into a
box?
Considering
my huge, innate and still quite inexplicable passion for boxes it could be in
fact my need to give an order to the world surrounding me that makes me think
to know “the rich”. Or maybe, quite dully, just fear of not being able to keep
up. Mixed, I have to admit, with a dash of silent arrogance (“Yeah, they have
money but me, I...”)
This
dilemma has been tumbling in my brains in the past hours and I somehow I feel ready
to abandon my “self-reassuring biases”. I think I am actually eager to do that.
Because I
want to laser-cancel this idea -tattooed in my mind- that only humble people who
went through struggles in life are the real profound thinkers. Those are the
ones I know and highly appreciate. I will value them, their stories and
inspiration as I did so far. But I am starting to recognize my mistake: looking
at “the rich” and not seeing them. Not even trying. I let their barbecues, their
shirts, shoes and watches, their sports, phones and homes speak to me. I should
know better. There´s another voice I should be listening to. How can I accuse “the
rich” of being shallow when I judge them in the most superficial way?
They are men
and women, and kids. No different than me.
I like to
think that there is a reason why we stumble upon people. Now I think I know why
the sleek, young golfer.
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