"Rich Boy," Sharon Pomerantz

           Sharon Pomerantz’ “Rich Boy” has a striking commentary on temptation and the consequences that ensue. Robert Vishniak successfully achieves his goals of getting out and getting rich, leaving behind the coupon-counting and scrounging of his Philadelphia home to join the glamorous circle of well-dressed lawyers at Alexander, Lenox, and Wardell in New York City. While Robert answers the voice that demands him to “get out of here, save yourself, make money, make money, make money” (222), he soon finds that monetary success comes at a cost. Through the novel, tracing his social rise, Robert plunges into isolation from his family, superficial love, and, ultimately, a loss of belonging.

            The first incident of Robert falling away from his family is his decision to attend Tufts. As he lies in bed during the college application process, Robert prays, “please, please, let me get the hell out of my parents’ house” (44). As he finally leaves for college and watches through the bus window at his family standing on the pavement, Robert “knew that he’d never live in Oxford Circle again” (46). The transition to college marks the beginning of a distinct transformation for Robert—from a poor, getting-by Vishniak into the world of the elite. Robert sets himself on the track for affluence, choosing the friendship of his wealthy roommate Tracey and his cohorts over the other college students who work in the kitchen; consciously or not, Robert chooses to associate with those whom he wants to emulate, rather than those like himself. Later, during the family’s trip to Atlantic City—a revival of a past tradition—Robert has found he has changed, alienated himself from his family. The Deauville hotel had once served “as a signpost of luxury” (313) to Robert as his family stayed in a “three-story kosher rooming house” (312) with “narrow hallways and shared toilet facilities” (312); now, though, Robert demands to stay there, as his family settles into “a motor inn closer to Brigantine, a little too far out for convenience, but good enough, clean enough” (316). As Robert stays in his own room with the rest of his family at a different hotel, he wonders, “Could [they] even understand his life anymore?” (317). As Robert drew closer to extreme wealth, his ties to his family disintegrated until, in essence, they lived in two different worlds.

            Through this social rise, Robert suffers from moral decay. In his college years, Robert experiences genuine love with Gwendolyn, but after Gwen’s death, he is encompassed by his desire for richness and the need to compensate, somehow, materially for what he has lost emotionally. When Crea, the daughter of an executive at his law firm, falls in his path, Robert marries her; “that he did not love her the way he had once loved Gwendolyn did not matter—he no longer had such expectations… he would be practical, for once, and take the deal that was offered” (322). Arguably, Robert did not marry Crea for love, but for money, leading to their superficial love and eventual fall-out. He equates life with Crea to an expensive watch, saying “the novelty, the heft, while still impressive, had worn off more quickly than he’d expected” (391). Therefore, unsurprisingly, Robert loses his zeal for this inauthentic relationship and tells his daughter Gwen about the woman to whom she owes her name, explaining “’I love your mother, but in a different way’” (498). And when Gwen timidly asks if her parents are getting a divorce, Robert does not deny it.

            Temptation is the cause of Robert’s ruin. At dinner with Sally the shoe-shine girl one night, he begins a conversation on temptation and wealth. Sally explains how she wishes she’d never met Robert: “’because then I wouldn’t have seen inside places like this, and gotten to ride in fancy cars, and, well, all of it…. I never imagined any of it would tempt me. But how can you be tempted by what you’ve never experienced?’” (461). When Robert responds, he touches upon an insight that defines his social rise: “’Good point,’ he said. ‘It’s after you experience it that the temptation really kicks in’” (461). Indeed, it is after Robert leaves for Tufts, after Robert has his relationship with Gwen, after Robert goes to law school, after Robert accepts the position at A, L and W, and after Robert spends vacations in Tuxedo Park with Crea that he is tempted by this lifestyle, this need for more. He transitions from the boy whose mantra is make money, make money, make money to the man who repeats to himself get more, get more, get more. It is not until his mother’s death—not until Robert finally returns to his home with his brother, Barry, and reflects on his life course and decisions—that “for a moment, a strange and wonderful moment, Robert Vishniak knew where he belonged” (514). 

"Rich Boy," Sharon Pomerantz

            In the first few chapters of the novel “Rich Boy,” as the Vishniak family gathers to toast Robert’s fortune of college acceptance, there is a distinct moment of foreshadowing that comments not only on the moral decay that is to come, but the value of tradition and solidarity in Robert’s Jewish family. As each relative shouts out a proposal for Robert’s future, they boldly pronounce their perspectives on each job—the honor or disgrace of each. This conversation about occupation, in hindsight from following Robert’s choice, underlines his betrayal of his family and their values.

            Cece, Robert’s grandmother, is the first to speak up, explaining how when she was a girl, everyone in town would fight over who was allowed to shine the shoes of the town doctor because it was an honor. Her dream “was that Robert should become the one whose shoes got shined instead of the one doing the shining” (45). Cece’s comment foresees the events to come, for Robert—as a lawyer—does in fact get his shoes shined. However, the girl who shines his shoes, Sally, is actually more honorable, more genuine, than Robert himself at that point.

            Visniak suggests a lawyer, which incites a grand debate over the corruption and deceit of high-paying occupations. “’Lawyers are crooks,’ a cousin blurted out. ‘Have an accident at work and they come out of the woodwork’” (45). Robert later becomes a lawyer, and this conversation resonates through his experience. Though he never actually steals money, he is a “crook” in that he cheats himself out of having a satisfying and content life. Everything Robert does has the objective of making money, of being wealthy. Such an aim, as Robert realizes far too late, excludes the possibility of happiness, of pursuing genuine interests, and of finding true love.

            After the cousin’s outburst, another relative chimes in: “’Stockbrokers,’ said Aunt Lolly, ‘A license to steal’” (45). Again, coincidentally, this parallels to Robert’s life as his brother, Barry, later becomes a stockbroker. This “license to steal” (45) proves true, as Barry has lied to Robert about how much money he has made him in investing, exaggerating the numbers. After the stock market crash, the brothers’ tension and frustration—both with their mother’s death and the extreme loss of money—incites a fight. When Robert begins to move his mother’s furniture to take it to his apartment, Barry claims, “’You’re stealing from me. I deserve half of that!’” (510) to which Robert retorts, “You want to talk to me about stealing?’” (510). As they physically fight, screaming at the each other about ruining their lives, stealing their money, the moment appears the manifestation of their aunt’s warning, as well as evidence of the corruption of these occupations.

            In the wake of Robert’s college acceptance, he finds a conflict between his family’s values and the desire he holds for himself. Robert “gave little thought to the fact that the family had gathered to celebrate his launch into the world of the college-educated, a world they believed to be rife with corruption and dishonesty” (45). Robert wants this for himself—to make money, to get out, to escape his parents’ difficult existence. To do so, he must decide whether to embrace of discard their values. In essence, he must either become one of them or isolate himself in his quest for wealth. To his family, “only the world of working people—the world of suckers, as Vishniak put it—was an honest one” (45). Robert’s choice to attend college is more than a choice for an easier life; it’s a choice to divide from his family.

Anisha Lahkani, "Schooled"

            It was well established in our class that we considered Anna Taggert—the unlikely heroine of the novel and projected identity of the author herself—a hypocrite. As she shuffled her way through the East Side private school, succumbing to the temptation of material wealth and designer brands, Taggert criticized those who did the same, when—in actuality—she was criticizing the lifestyle she chose. Therein lies the hypocrisy. This begs me to wonder if our hate for Anna—and by extension, Lahkani—that we are so comfortable articulating, stems from a recognition of that same hypocrisy in ourselves.

            The reign of the expensive private tutors in Anna’s experience is one where teachers use this side-job to supplement their oh-so-meager salary. However, there’s a catch: to be one of these top tutors, raking in somewhere around two hundred an hour, you must be willing to renounce all that you stand for in the teaching field. As Anna notes, to be a marketable tutor, you must essentially do the homework for the student—a loss of integrity in education and a loss of morality.

            It is simple for a reader to flip through these pages, lock onto the brand-name references, and turn a disapproving eye. Likewise, it is simple to turn the book over, see the image of Lahkani with her starched Oxford button-up and pearl earrings, and shake your head with disdain. Anna Taggert has fallen victim to the underground economy of prep school tutoring; Anisha Lahkani has revealed the “dark truths” of elite schooling with the objective of making money off a bestseller. Is it really so simple to judge them? Is it really so simple to scoff and shout vulgarities? Implicit in those actions is the message that we, then, are cherub-like individuals, with a wholly intact moral code. Is this really true? For most, probably not.

            Paulina Porizkova explains it well in her review of the novel: “I stayed up way past midnight, alternately laughing and cringing as I made plans to go and blow some money on designer clothes with all the money I’d save by home schooling my children.” Reading through the corruption of the elite schooling realm, it is easy to judge Anna Taggert and Anisha Lahkani. However, thus judgment and criticism only serves to reveal insecurities. The novel, “Schooled,” does more than present a one-dimensional image of corruption and temptation; it forces readers to challenge their own hypocrisy. It may not be private tutoring to buy a Chanel bag, but—as Anna Taggert reminds us through example—there will always be temptations, there will never be purity of motives, and there is somehow a shortcut to get there. 

Anisha Lakhani, "Schooled"

            While shuffling around Anisha Lahkani’s website for her novel, “Schooled,” I was struck by the multifaceted image of commodification that Lahkani presents. In the novel, elite schooling—as seen in the microcosm of Langdon, an East Side private school—is treated as a luxury product, to be bought only be those capable of doing so. Later, the tutoring market becomes an asset to be purchased. Underlying the events throughout the novel, there is a persistent premise about class: if you have money, you don’t need knowledge to progress. Rather, like almost anything else in the book, you can buy it.

            The dedication of the book is to one Harold Moscowitz, which appears legitimate and acceptable until reaching the back cover, where her bio proudly explains, “She lives in Manhattan with her beloved Shih Tzu, Harold Moscowitz.” And, indeed, under the tab of “Class Mascot” on her website, there is her dog with a large, decorative book propped up in front of him and the cutesy caption: “Harold Moscowitz prefers encyclopedias.” Aside from schooling and tutoring, Lahkani commodifies pets as a symbol of status. Thorstein Veblen examined the topic, stating that dogs are “nearly ideal tokens of wealth and the owner’s capacity to waste large amounts of economic resources.” With the designer labels and dropping names of New York City venues, Lahkani positions her dog at the forefront to commodify him as a possession. She uses Harold to display social position and wealth, just as she engages elite schools as a luxury for those who can afford them.

            Within the world of the privileged, there is an impeding sense that money can buy anything. Indeed, Lahkani solidifies this idea when, on her website she says, “Welcome to Schooled, where even homework has a price.” Even homework has a price. Just as the seventh graders flaunt and wealthy parents pay five-figure tuition bills, homework can be bought with the commodity of a private tutor. For a sky-high hourly wage, these parents can buy their children’s essays and homework. In essence, as “Schooled” presents, money can buy anything, even knowledge.

Roberta Rosenberg, "I Hate This Book: Middle-Class Virtues and the Teaching of Multicultural Texts"

            While teaching Carolyn Chute’s “The Beans of Egypt, Maine,” Roberta Rosenberg perceived a noteworthy tension among her students when analyzing the novel. While they had spent weeks “analyzing many different racial, ethnic, and religious cultures” to which the students were able to critically respond and handle difference, one form of difference caused them to hesitate and claim that they hated the book: social class.

            Class issues, Rosenberg suggests, are typically hidden as an “unacknowledged impediment to multicultural understanding”; her students could accept disparity in terms of race, ethnicity, and religion, but with class, American middle-class assumptions and values became an obstacle in recognizing—and, furthermore, understanding—socioeconomic inequality. Middle-class views are pervasive, defining different social spheres according to its dominant perspective; in short, Rosenberg argues, a middle-class reading of society is the norm.

            Within the context of said dominant view, poverty is then characterized by “fatalism, helplessness, dependence, and inferiority” (Ehrenreich 49). This also tends to “infantilize” the poor, seeing them as inept and incapable of true adulthood, rendering their decisions and lifestyle in terms of incompetence as a fully-functioning human being.

            Relating this to “The Bean of Egypt, Maine,” the rural poor of the novel are seen through this dominant, pervasive, middle-class lens that depicts them as immature, helpless adults. As Rosenberg’s students read the novel, they projected middle-class norms onto the characters, viewing them as “individuals who cannot or will not grow up and join independent American society.” This not only simplifies the nature of poverty, but also tends to isolate the poor from the structure of class-based society, placing them in what Rosenberg terms the “underclass.” With this negative perception, the self-defined middle-class attempts to distance themselves, detach their values from that of this “uncivilized” existence, withdrawing further from the context of rural poverty. In effect, the readers lose all empathy and connection to these people.

            So long as middle-class perspectives continue to be dominant, continue to define the separate social spheres, poverty will be the “other.” Just as Earlene tried to distinguish herself from the Beans, readers will attempt to distance themselves from this world of the underclass. What does this accomplish? Will there always exist a divide between dominant views and subordinate classes? Can we ever truly avoid creating “normative models” that “present variations from the mainstream as abnormal, deviant, lesser, perhaps ultimately unimportant” (Lauter 9)? If not, will we ever be able to understand difference, accept it, and ultimately, understand ourselves?

Carolyn Chute, "The Beans of Egypt, Maine"

            In a class discussion on the novel, someone noted a connection between the Roberta Bean’s children and the puppies beneath the house. This point was particularly poignant, considering our previous link between those and poverty and an animalistic quality. Carolyn Chute employs animal imagery and metaphors to underline the de-evolutionary nature of the poor, and—in the context of Egypt, Maine—the way they trap those around them.

            The novel opens with Earlene’s statements about her life, leading into a discussion of the Beans. She explains that “Daddy says the Beans are uncivilized animals. PREDATORS, he calls them” (3). This first introduction to the Beans conditions the reader to understand their character in a certain light. As the novel progresses, one attribute links all the unnamed Beans and their blank faces together: “their fox-color eyes” (11). Whenever Earlene begins to describe a Bean, she mentions their fox-color eyes, and this becomes a recurring symbol not only for their appearance, but as a statement about their nature as people living in rural poverty. The choice of “fox” as a color description is intentional, for the animalistic quality of their living condition filters through their entire being.

            In addition to the fox-colored eyes as indicative of their animalistic behavior, the puppies beneath the Beans’ house parallel to Roberta Bean’s children, demonstrating how Earlene—as well as other non-Beans in this small town—will inevitably succumb to this level of existence and become animal-like themselves. In the scene where Beal brings Earlene to the crawl-space beneath the house, it’s dark, dark enough to need a flashlight, underlining the idea that the process by which Earlene degrades into this form of poverty is something she is unaware of, and cannot foresee. They “hear squeaks… [and] there’s a low growl… the thump of a tail” (78) before Earlene can decipher what is living below the house. Without warning, the puppies “charge toward me, flying at my face. They box at me with their little feet. They pass over me from all directions… seems like fifty of them” (78). Earlene is overcome by the puppies, and can’t control them as they bound toward her to “lap and suck my eyes” (78-79). When she says, “they are everywhere, dragging me down” (79), the connection is clear; like the puppies, the Beans swallow Earlene with their poverty, with their animalistic existence.

            Robert Bean’s babies themselves serve as a microcosm of the Beans, the rural poor, the animalistic humans who can scarcely survive. Around Roberta’s legs, “they come to stand in the bedroom doorway, five nearly look-alike babies in diapers and crinkly plastic pants” (106). The babies are nameless, faceless, a herd of animal-like creatures that flock around their mother. They “scuttle to their mother’s legs, bunch up handfuls of their long johns” (107). Like the Beans at large, they are numerous; it doesn’t matter so much who they are, but their presence is overpowering and encompassing. Through the fox-color of their eyes, the metaphor of the puppies, and the herd of Roberta’s children as a microcosm of the Bean clan, Carolyn Chute illustrates the animalistic nature of the poor and the inescapable cycle of confined, rural poverty.

Carolyn Chute, "The Beans of Egypt, Maine"

            Carolyn Chute, in her novel “The Beans of Egypt, Maine,” presents a narrative of the poor in a rural Maine community. In a TIME article from 2009 (found at: http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1932076,00.html), Christopher Ketcham surfaces the parallels between the lives of the novel’s characters and the experiences of the best-selling author, reminding readers that, though fiction, class oppression and the disturbing effects of deep poverty are, indeed, reality.

            Chute is an acclaimed author, often compared by critics to “Faulker and Steinbeck because what she wrote about so well and so convincingly was the back-broken underclass in Maine.” Convincingly, it seems because Chute draws the character of Earlene Beal from herself.

            As the image of Roberta Bean and her quickly-multiplying children flashes in the reader’s mind, Chute underlines the lack of healthcare in these communities; in fact, Chute and her husband Michael—one of those “Maine woodsmen with beards to their bellies” strikingly similar to Beal Bean—lost a baby in 1982 “after the local hospital refused to treat the complications from her pregnancy.”

            Within the novel, the Bean establishment is anything but a home; it’s dilapidated, crammed, and dirty. Coincidentally—or not—Chute and her husband “live in a drafty unfinished house with no hot water.” Indeed, they have no septic system, using an outhouse even in the coldest of Maine winters, just as we see when Beal Bean shovels a path through the feet of snow to the outhouse in their yard.

            In appearance, too, the main character of “Beans” and the author of the novel coincide. Like Earlene’s haggard mien in the concluding chapters, Chute—as the writer of the article sees her—“wore big boots and a blue bandanna that tied back long kinky hair.” This similarity suggest the possibility of an autobiographical factor in the fictional piece, which begs deeper reading. Rather than merely a bleak image of poverty in a rural community, Chute is attempting to expose this condition of existence—as reality.