by Andrew Bard Schmookler 1 I was once, several incarnations ago, a Harvard man. Among Harvard students, the native population of the surrounding territory was known by the name "Townies." Most of us had little to do with the Townies. Each day, we'd see little troops of high school students migrating across the Yard. "Sullen peoples," to borrow a phrase from Kipling. They were generally regarded as a lesser breed. There was some contact between us college students and the Townies-- I mean more than just the exchange of coins across a shop counter. I remember one night hearing a young woman with a broad Boston accent calling out to a couple of Harvardians retreating up the street. "You Harvard guys! You all think you're kings!" It sounded as though the wounds of generations were catching in her throat. I never knew how those young men had given offense. But I could imagine. Elitism, combined with sexism, can be an ugly thing. All this came back to me recently --when I realized that now, I am a Townie. My town is Washington, and though there are various sanctified classes in this town, there is one that stands out. For it is beyond the law. I mean the class of diplomats. Once in a while, the papers carry stories of diplomats with thousands of dollars in unpaid parking tickets. Out on the Beltway, the cars that drive as if you're not even there are often the ones with those special licence plates. And some scenes I've witnessed in local shops have made me think that some of these guys must be saving all their charm for the State Department. But what brought my college days back to my mind was something that happened the other day-- when I was riding my bicycle. Now, we bicycle riders are, in general, an oppressed group. In a world where momentum equals mass times velocity, we simply lack the clout. In this particular instance, I was proceeding north on a narrow, two-lane residential street. The southbound lane was blocked by a double-parked police car. (Another group sometimes above the law.) As I approached the police car, so also from the other direction did a shiny car with special plates and four men with expensive suits. I managed to catch the driver's eye and, feeling reassured by this that he recognized that I had the right of way, I continued with my progress. The diplomat then swerved out to pass the police car. I barely got out of his way. Elitism, combined with automobilism, can be an ugly thing. After I'd saved myself, I wheeled around wanting to shout at his retreating tailpipe" "You diplomats! You all think you're kings!"

Andrew Bard Schmookler is the author of The Parable of the Tribes.