The Quiet Cruelty of Class

The First Time I Was Called “White Trash” by Megeen Harris

The first time someone called me white trash, it wasn’t shouted across a parking lot or written in a cruel comment thread. It was said quietly — wrapped in a smile, cloaked in polite society.

It came from my ex-husband’s family.

An old-money, industrialist clan where the women looked at me as if I wore a scarlet letter — not the kind that marked adultery, but something smaller, meaner, more insidious: minker, a whispered word that meant whore without ever saying it.

The men, meanwhile, didn’t bother with subtext. They stared too long. They brushed too close. I was never “good enough” to belong, but apparently good enough to touch.

That’s how classism often works — not as outright hatred, but as humiliation disguised as hierarchy.

It was the first time I realized that you can be the same color, the same gender, the same nationality — and still be treated as if you’re from another planet. The dividing line wasn’t race or religion. It was class.

The ‘Good Family’ Myth

When men used to say they wanted to be with someone from a “good family,” I used to wonder what that really meant.

Did it mean educated? Cultured? Kind?

No. It meant wealthy. It meant connected. It meant the type of family that had summered in Nantucket since before there was an Instagram to prove it.

Classism dresses itself up in good manners. It hides behind words like “refined,” “elegant,” “fit,” “well-bred.” It’s the last socially acceptable prejudice — a hierarchy maintained through tone and taste instead of slurs and laws.

We talk openly about racism, sexism, ableism, and ageism — and rightly so. But classism remains the invisible “ism,” still allowed to operate freely in the polite corners of society. It’s the microaggression you can’t quite call out, the insult embedded in the compliment, the quiet look that tells you you’ve worn the wrong label, the wrong shoes, the wrong life.

The Performance of Belonging

Classism doesn’t just exclude; it exhausts.

You learn to overcompensate — to polish, to perform, to prove. You learn to read rooms faster than anyone else because your belonging depends on it.

In those circles, everything becomes a coded test. Your diction. Your dinner order. Your handbag. Even your silence.

The women performed restraint like a religion.
The men performed dominance as charm.

And I performed survival — trying to convince myself that if I just said the right thing, wore the right thing, or became the right thing, I might finally belong.

But belonging built on pretense isn’t belonging at all. It’s indentured servitude of the soul.

The New Face of Classism

Today, classism has evolved. It’s no longer just about country clubs and cotillions — it’s about access, aesthetics, and algorithmic aspiration.

We’ve replaced pedigree with “vibe.”
Old money has become “quiet luxury.”
New money calls itself “wellness.”

And exclusion has gone digital — disguised as aspiration.

Scroll through Instagram and you’ll see the modern class divide in plain sight: private members’ clubs disguised as creative hubs, $400 face creams marketed as “self-care,” and $5,000 wellness retreats masquerading as “healing journeys.” It’s a hierarchy built on “taste,” not tax brackets — but the result is the same. A system that confuses wealth with worth.

Even spirituality has been monetized into a new moral hierarchy: abundance mindset, high-vibration living, manifesting your destiny — all of it subtly implying that poverty is just bad energy and burnout is a choice.

Read the full post on my Substack by Meggen Harris

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