Take a look at this latest condescending snobbish snort published by The New York Times.
The writer — a Miami native deeply ashamed of her birthplace — decides to heap scorn on her native land. She barely disguises her scorn, even as she stoops to offer a few tidbits of backhanded praise.
And, with all of the earth-shaking events taking place in the world this week, The New York Times dedicates precious space on its pages to this embarrassingly snobbish puff piece.
Let’s make fun of those little people again. Aren’t they ever so tacky, so gauche, so utterly contemptible?
And those Cuban exiles: Mon Dieu, let’s make sure the world knows that they might have slightly improved Miami, but they remain so far below us all. After all, their children and grandchildren still don’t know how to speak English correctly. And… aren’t those Cubans even more déclassé than everyone else in Dade County, too? All they care about is their “stuff.”
The writer lives in Paris, and she stresses that point. So, there’s a little bit of bi-polar schadenfreude at work here. Most New Yorkers still feel they are still inferior to Parisians, but that no one other than elite Manhattanites can come close to Parisians, not even Londoners. The elites of both of these cities still love to look down on the rest of the world and to feel a deep sense of pleasure in measuring everyone else’s inferiority.
So, when a Parisian spits on Miami, it makes elite New Yorkers feel ever so good. It confirms their own snobbery: only rubes from Queens and Jersey go to Miami… and Eurotrash, too.
An overwhelmingly vast majority of those who consider themselves “intellectuals” in the United States venerate The New York Times. Sometimes, you have to wonder whether American intellectuals and all avid readers of The New York Times still have a lot of growing up to do.
I have no reason to take umbrage at this essay, other than purely ethical and aesthetic. Gloating over the inferiority of others is neither right nor pretty.
I don’t love Miami or hanker to live there. I only lived in Miami for 16 months in the early 1960’s, under miserable circumstances, and have only been back a few times since then. I have no attachment to it, for quirky personal reasons that some might think insane. I like living up North. I hate hot weather and love snow, and couldn’t live anywhere where it doesn’t snow steadily for at least four months out of the year. I love shoveling snow. I love looking at it. I love smelling it. I love to hear the snowflakes fall. My love of snow prevents me from living in Havana and Paris, for one city gets no snow at all, and the other gets damn little. Even New York City gets too little snow for me.
I understand preferring one place over another. But I don’t appreciate snobbery, especially when it’s thinly disguised as cultural commentary. This snarky solipsistic essay offends me, and it should embarrass the hell out of the author and the awful newspaper that deigned to publish it.
Miami Grows Up. A Little.
MIAMI — IF you had asked me what I wanted when I was 12 years old, I probably would have said, “to marry a plastic surgeon.”
You can hardly blame me: I was growing up in Miami. My life plan elegantly combined the city’s worship of bodies and money, and its indifference to how you came by either. When I left for college, I put Miami behind me, and tried to have a life of the mind. I got a graduate degree. I traveled. I even married a fellow writer, whose only real estate was a dingy one-bedroom apartment in Paris, where we lived.
But with kids came long summer pilgrimages to Miami to see family. It took a lot of effort to keep spurning the city, especially since the weather was so good. Miami had grown up a bit, and so had I. Hadn’t it developed a soul beneath its vapid, extremely pleasant, slightly menacing exterior? If I understood Miami better, could I grow to like it? Maybe I was the problem?
Like practically everyone who grew up in Miami, I knew little about its history. We were more worried about mangoes falling on our cars. It took just a bit of reading to realize that Florida had always attracted people with “an inordinate desire to get rich quickly with a minimum of physical effort,” as the economist John Kenneth Galbraith once described them.
And if the Miami of my childhood had the temperament of a spoiled teenager, that’s because, effectively, it was one. The city was founded in 1896, but for its first 60 years or so it was a segregated backwater, with fewer than a million people. (Despite the occasional celebrity sighting, “There was nothing, not even a Neiman Marcus,” someone who lived there in the 1950s told me).
The 1959 Cuban revolution was modern Miami’s unofficial birthday. Over the next 20 years, practically the entire Cuban upper class arrived. Many other Cubans followed. One of my neighbors in the 1970s had been imprisoned by Fidel Castro’s government. Another was doing his best to overthrow it. After the 1980 Mariel boatlift, which brought 125,000 more Cubans to Florida, surprised-looking children who spoke no English suddenly appeared in my sixth-grade class. Colombians, Nicaraguans and others arrived later.
The upper-class Cubans who became Miami’s new aristocracy had little trouble adapting to the city’s materialistic ethos. After all, they had been forced to leave all their stuff in Cuba. Soon there were two dominant modes of conversation in Miami: discussions about where to get your hair done, and anti-Castro rants.
Continue reading HERE to see how much worse things can get…..