‘Refugees are welcome’ is a completely safe political statement for people in my uncle’s ritzy neighborhood to make, because they know it isn’t something they’ll ever have to deal with.
I was up in the Berkshires a few weeks ago to visit my uncle. Every day, we’d go into the main town closest to him, Great Barrington, to eat breakfast. The place is loaded with rich folk of a particular caste: “It’s more Volvos and Subarus than Mercedeses and Porsches up here.”
You know, weekend warriors. Hedge fund managers decked head-to-toe in North Face gear, ready to hike the Appalachian Trail for all of three minutes; moneyed Stepford house-moms going Code Pink while their ethnically fashionable nannies—this year, it’s Tibetans, I think—watch little Madison and Morgan Jr.
My uncle, thank goodness, is not one of those people. He’s much more a you-get-what-you-get-and-you-don’t-get-upset kind of guy. My grandfather was a much severer version of that, probably because he never forgave the universe for taking his father when he was a kid, or our great-uncles for spending all the family loot on their hare-brained Wildcatting scheme, making him poor enough that grandpa and Uncle Bob had to share a Murphy bed in the motel my great-grandmother managed. He swore against all that was holy that he’d make all that lost money back, and he did.
Read the rest from Alex Grass HERE at The Federalist
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