Caste

I’ve recently been reading the book, Caste, by Wilkerson. The author makes a strong comparison between the caste system in India to the racial disparities of the United States. She takes an anthropological approach to study the roots of disparity and subjugation in various cultures such as India, America and Nazi Germany. Not only is it a matter of keeping groups in a hierarchy of strata, but she mines the emotional component of the ideology. If we categorize people based on skin color, sex or age, it’s easier to identify what perceived grouping to which they belong. However, if we look at India where many people of varying castes are the same color – how do you easily identify the subgroups of the masses? The answer is demeanor. There are physical cues such as the way a person dresses and, of course, occupation but casteism has a deeply emotional foundation. The way a person is treated affects the way they carry themselves. This really resonated with me. I’ve been advised several times that when I enter a room or a new situation to walk in “like a boss.” While I find this to be excellent advice, I find it difficult to act like a boss when I haven’t been treated like a boss. I have tales of ancient injustices which I roll out for a good story when pressed, but the sad part is that I also have recent stories where I have been treated as less than; and this emotional component stays with me even though I try to shake it off. The recent events echo because they are shared experiences with my husband who is physically my polar opposite – male tomy female, tall to my short, white to my brown, outgoing where I am reticent and perhaps privileged to my restricted.

Two years ago our daughter was dorming at a facility on the upper east side of NYC. One weekend we decided to pick her up and bring her home for the weekend. My husband drove in and stayed in the car while I ran into the lobby to pick her up. We would normally have her meet us at the car but I really had to use the bathroom after the long drive so I went in to the foyer. She met me in the lobby and identified me as her mother to security. I asked politely if I could use the bathroom in her dorm room several flights up. The response was, “ma’am, we need to see your id.” I didn’t have it with me because I left my purse in the car. I then asked if I could just use the bathroom one floor down in the common area. The response was the same, “ma’am, we need to see your id.” I ran out to the car around the corner, while my daughter waited in the lobby, and retrieved my driver’s license. They issued me a pass and I went up to my daughter’s room and used the bathroom. Yes, this was inconvenient but I was reassured that the security of the building was enforced with veracity and my daughter was in a safe building. You’d think that’s the end of the story but here’s the flip side. The yin to my yang, my husband, came later that weekend to drop my daughter off at the dorm. After spending the weekend at home, she had brought back food, clothing etc. My husband walked in carrying a box and, at the lobby, left it on the counter instructing our daughter to carry it upstairs with her. Our daughter identified him as her dad and security asked why he wouldn’t take the box upstairs for her. He replied that he was double parked. Security advised him to go on up to her dorm room with the box and they would watch his car. He came back outside a few minutes later to find the security guard sitting on his bumper protecting his car from a tow or ticket. He was never asked for id or issued a pass. He came home to tell me his experience, finding it funny, after the way they treated me a few days before. Where he found humor I found frustration, regret, sadness, anger – I can’t identify the emotions fully.

Earlier this year we were flying home from Arizona. I have a very complicated relationship with airlines as I find their policy of charging for luggage, seats and even overhead disturbing, gouging and reinforcing a traveler caste system. I say this because I refused to pay extra (and twice in my mind) for seats prior to the flight. On the day of the trip we were assigned seats, but not together. This is not really terrible as we can survive just fine sitting away from each other for a few hours. However, when we were at the gate I decided to go up and ask the gate attendant if we could possibly switch seats so we can sit together. The gate attendant’s reply was, “ma’am, because you purchased basic economy seats I can’t make any changes.” She looked again at her screen and I imagined that she saw available seats on the flight but again repeated, “ma’am, because you purchased basic economy seats I can’t make any changes.” I walked away thinking that at least I tried. Just before boarding they announced that they would wave luggage fees if we wanted to check our luggage at the gate. We had two small carryonsthat would easily have fit in the overhead compartment but because we were “basic economy” we would have to board the plane last and it would be difficult to find overhead space. Therefore, we decided to check our two carryons. My husband went up this time with our boarding passes and our luggage. A few minutes later he came back to me smiling. He presented me with two new boarding passes at an exit row. He said the gate agent offered to change his seats for no additional charge. He swore to me that he didn’t even ask. Again, he found humor in the situation while I fumed.

Wilkerson is on to something when she identifies an emotional component to the caste system. When one group is treated with privilege while another is asked to follow the rules, there’s an eroding of that feeling of “being the boss.” Was what I encountered racism? You could argue that it wasn’t because I was simply asked to follow the rules. But how did it make me feel? There’s the rub.