There is no phrase I hate to hear in our lexicon more than “I’m just keeping it real”.
You want to talk about being put “in chains”? You want to talk about being a slave?
You want to understand upward mobility in the United States of America, and moving up, and out?
If you want to rise up in America I know one thing concretely having lived these sixty-six years of existence. Having grown up in lower middle class Parkville, Maryland and working my entire life to escape such surroundings.
“Keeping it real” will be a self-imposed exile, a self shackle of chains, a way to keep yourself swimming against the tide of upward mobility, only to crash right back to you original station in life where things are indeed very “real”.
When I grew up in Parkville, Maryland I learned early that the very worst thing you could do in proper society was to “keep it real”. And while I didn’t know it then, I soon learned after, that if you intended to “keep it real” then your intention was to never leave your current station in life.
My very first and early recognition that “keeping it real” wasn’t in my own best interest was a hard lesson learned in church. The sermon was administered by mom.
My mother was very active in our church, the local Catholic Church. She volunteered for everything and anything. She knew every priest well but was most enamored by the Monsignor, he was from Ireland with that Gaelic accent, and that Irish charm. The gift of gab and that easy way of putting everyone at ease. But with a stern demeanor when required. Mom having Irish roots, she adored the Monsignor.
We had attended one of those odd services, a Wednesday morning, a Friday morning, some service that only the die hard Catholic would even know about and attend. I was but six, maybe. On the way out of church the Monsignor greeted those leaving in person, and made small talk. Since my mother insisted we sit in the first row, we exited last, getting the Monsignor all to ourselves for a longer and more detailed conversation.
Of course after some discussion about Ladies Sodality, fresh flowers for the altar, and other small talk, Mom noticed I was being fidgety but quiet. She asked me if I had anything to say to the Monsignor, this head of our Parrish, where I was in the first grade.
“I ain’t got nothing to say” I said.
Oh man.
As a member of the lower middle class and solidly “Parkvillian”, my reply certainly fit with the vernacular in use in the neighborhood. But it didn’t sit well with Mother.
To my rather prim and proper mother, I’d just committed a mortal sin. I’d embarrassed her in front of the Monsignor.
Mother said her “goodbyes” and we departed. To walk the one long block from the church to home. My mother’s face as hard as stone. And when I got home, man, I got a whupping.
Don’t ever say ain’t, use proper English in front of the Monsignor, you know better, you know how to speak, and don’t fidget in front of the Monsignor, be respectful.
And beating.
And beating.
And beating.
Somewhere in between beatings I was getting the message.
Never say “ain’t”, makes you sound like a low class hillbilly.
Never address the Monsignor with anything less than the king’s proper English.
Never embarrass your mother when she is in line to be the head of the Ladies Sodality.
Apparently I was “keeping it real” based on the behavior in the local streets. But you didn’t take the local streets into the narthex, and certainly not the sacristy.
Sixty years ago and I remember it as if it was yesterday morning. I can still see my mother wince when I said “I ain’t got nothin’ to say”.
Stand up straight.
Speak correctly.
Speak when spoken to, respect your elders, get that dirty shirt off and put on a nice clean dress shirt. Look at those pants, how did you get a hole in them, get upstairs and change, look proper, shine those shoes, comb your hair, what did I tell you about standing up straight?
You could get beat in my household for just about any small transgression. Even those of which you were blissfully unaware.
The very last thing my mother wanted from any of her children was for us to “keep it real”. For her it was “pinky out”, don’t slurp, close your mouth when you chew. Don’t pick your teeth. For God sake realize that everything you do reflects back on the family!
But it wasn’t just mom making some valiant attempt to not only educate me, and make me into a Little Lord Fauntleroy. The nuns pitched right in.
I distinctly recall a nun damn near beating me in front of the entire seventh grade for sounding like Baltimoron in my colloquial speech pattern.
You see it was recognized very early on that I was both good at reading, and spoke well in public. So they made me a lector at church. I did the readings at mass. They encouraged me to be a public speaker, to use my ability to read with inflection, and feeling, and to convey passages from the Bible with a real sense of emotion. I’m not bragging, but I was quite good at it. I could just feel that I could hold the rapt attention of the congregation. Whether they were shocked a 7TH grader could be so eloquent, or that I could read so well in front of people, I don’t know.
There was a class mass, some mass devoted to our class at the Catholic school, and I was selected to represent the class and do both a reading, and give a small speech from the podium.
As we rehearsed the big entrance to the church, the proper procession of seating, and the way the mass would be conducted, I was instructed to get up and give the speech, so they could edit it if needed.
And I’d hit a point in the reading where the little penguin nun would just explode. Yelling, screaming at me from the pews, I couldn’t understand what was upsetting her so. She kept making me repeat, repeat, repeat. And apparently I made the same mistake every time, because she exploded in corrections and emotion.
Apparently I kept saying hour in that thick, Baltimore idiot accent, and it was driving her nuts. Instead of “our-er”, I kept saying hour as aaa-er. The same way I’d say shour, for shower. or inerr for in there.
The nun jumped up ran to the podium, damn near slapped me, and screamed at me to stop speaking like some Baltimore trash moron and to enunciate properly so people didn’t think I was the lower middle class trash that I actually was. I wasn’t just representing myself up there, I was representing the entire grade.
Frankly I was so steeped in speaking with an idiot Baltimore accent I hadn’t ever realized that I was revealing my background just saying words absent any reveal of what I might be wearing, how I cut my hair, or the expense of the watch I might have on.
Later in life the quickest I ever got “caught” on the accent was on a trip to Las Vegas. I was getting a massage and had wandered into the locker room and couldn’t figure out how to use the odd key they’d given me to open the locker. I turned to the locker room attendant and merely said “can you help me”, and he said “where are you from in Baltimore”. I was astounded. Four words. he said the way I said “help” as “hep” gave me away.
Speaking the language of the Baltimore streets, according to my elders, revealed me to be Baltimore trash, and that I should work very hard to eliminate my natural accent so as to not reveal myself to be lower class to people so immediately.
So I worked on it, I worked on presenting myself better. Standing straighter, speaking more clearly, dressing better. I noticed how they dressed on the nicer side of town, a bit preppier, more expensive shoes, belts. I began to make the connection between a better presentation, and better opportunity.
I began to take my education a bit more seriously. No more crapping around in class and not being concerned I was averaging a “D” in all classes. Try to work on some better grades to present to the colleges.
Later, in job interviews, I bought nice suits, custom made shirts, silk ties and matching braces. I attempted to speak better, enunciate, lose the curbed and shortcut language I might use at home.
And guess what?
I got the jobs. I got the promotions. I began to elevate myself up and out. I gained opportunities in white collar positions not normally handed out to the neighborhood where I grew up, with everyone coming home at 3:30PM from the construction site, and eating dinner at 5:00PM.
I have to laugh now, remembering leaving the full-time work force to return to college and needing a part-time job for support, to keep some flow of pocket money so I could live, fill the gas tank. I walked into a restaurant applying for a waiter job in a suit and tie, with a resume. I’d never waited tables before but knew you could make great money working a shift in a white table dining establishment. The floor manager took a look at the suit, I saw him give a wry smile as he reviewed my resume, and I got the job.
Later the other wait staff who’d seen me apply said they all went to the back and laughed their ass off, never having seen anyone walk int to apply for a waiter job in a suit, with a resume.
Hey, I got the job, and made big bucks part-time trying to get back to college.
The point I am making is, " keeping it real” is a self-imprisonment. It is a way of demonstrating that you hail from the lower class, that you are comfortable easing back into bad habits, that you do not push yourself to improve.
All those “ain’ts” all those colloquialisms, all that street vernacular, those are anchors, tying you to your roots, your low class standing. Corporate leaders, titans of industry, don’t speak that way. Shareholders don’t want to see trailer trash at the podium.
I used a line in a previous column this week and I have to say, I liked it. No idea where it came from, but I like it. No one ever ran the town government from the trailer park. It is true. They always come from the leafy part of town.
All those axioms they taught me, all those lessons on best behavior, are what gave me greater opportunity to advance.
People with face tattoos may be able to get recording contracts if they are in the music business, but they don’t get board seats on Wall Street. They don’t get C Suite jobs.
My success in life, what little I had that helped me climb out of Parkville, was due to embracing the lessons of “15 minutes early is on time”, “a short pencil is better than a long memory”, “prior planning prevents poor performance”, “plan your work, and work your plan, “organization is the key to success”, “dress for success”, “dress for the job you want, not the one you have”.
They may all sound cliched, but you can bet those in the C Suites took these things to heart.
They didn’t show up for the promotional interview with a nose ring, pin through their cheek, and arm sleeve tattoos. Or God forbid face tattoos.
Saying “ain’t it great to get this chance, I even took a shour”.
Keeping it real will keep you treading water in the same damn place. It can only work one way, to keep you down.
As I’ve always said to my own children, “life will work hard to keep you down, the world is a tough place and will work against you at every turn, don’t help them by being hard on yourself, don’t help them by handicapping yourself”.
I never doled out any beatings, but I made sure that out in public, no one was “keeping it real”.