There are folks who ask immediately "who" you are - and actually mean to ask what your grandparents have accomplished of public note, whether you grew up at the right address and attended the appropriate private school.
By that pedigree, I am a certified mutt. My parents and grandparents pushed open the door for me to go to college with strong, broad shoulders. When I was in high school, I wouldn't have known how to get to the "right schools" by bus line.
Almost 30 years after high school graduation, I am still amazed to discover that the location of that singularly unspectacular event still matters to some people.
My father shares the first and last name of a noted hematologist of no relation. At civic and social affairs, those with the need to enquire as to my maiden name immediately assume that's my bloodline. After all, I AM talking to THEM in THEIR space. I MUST be one of them.
Nope, I say. My Dad was a State Trooper, then served as a town judge in Pembroke for more than 30 years.
"So he was a lawyer," they smile.
"No, a cop. Town Judges are elected and don't need to be degreed."
The conversation frequently ends there. Often abruptly.
This type of exchange infrequently occured in the rarified air of Sea Island where blueblood and blue blazers were the order of the day. Over the years of working in Five Star/ Five Diamond luxury, I learned that the more legitimate the pedigree, the less my lack of the same mattered.
Although they had lineage with a capital L and the assets of several countries combined, the family that owned the resort defined class as an attitude - a way of respecting yourself and treating others - not simply a lucky sperm club.
Thus running into this wall in Buffalo - the city of no illusions - is sometimes startling.
Fortunately, I didn't come back home for that "society" -- but my brothers, my cousins and their children.
I surveyed much of our motley mob at a family graduation party last week. Gorgeous children squealing and splashing in the pool, fluid clusters of loud conversation, my father - now the patriarch - slowly moving from table to table chatting up the "kids" - many who now have their own grandchildren. Our generation, and our children, are now of the professional class. We could "pass" in most any circumstance. But we enjoy each other completely and laugh heartily.
We bring too much food and put as much as we can in "the envelope" because our grandparents taught us to care for our own.
When Charlie started working on our cottage porch the week before, relatives with tools and equipment appeared without an email or ask. Boats, barbeques and other plans could wait until the structure was framed.
The families of the "workers" gathered lawn chairs and coolers in an impromptu party around the raised wood frame tableau of power tools and sweat. There was a rough poetry in watching them improve on the sturdy bulding my grandfather built before I was born.
Grandma would have been proud to see "the kids" together in that way and would have said it. Grandpa wouldn't have said a thing, but would take silent note of the solid, careful construction.
For too many years, Bernie, Craig and I - stairstep cousins each nine months apart - lived in three different states.
In last decade, each of us faced a serious health threat. And each of us has done our best to be there for the other despite the geography.
Bernie and Craig are guys' guys - prone to embarassing humor and absurdly manly pursuits. But every time we say goodbye to each other we hug and "I love yous" are always exchanged.
I know very few folks who can imagine being that rich.
Am I from a "good family?"
Absolutely.
The best.

Copyright 2006 Judi Griggs