A class act

A vintage movie in the ‘50s, entitled All About Eve, told the story of a young, ambitious starlet played by Anne Baxter (the Eve in the story) who vowed not to stop at anything – stoop if she must, kowtow and even sleep with the director as they say – just to reach stardom. Bette Davis portrayed the role of the seasoned actress who saw through Eve. In one cocktail party, Eve immediately spotted the producers and tried to catch their attention to the point of annoying the other guests. Bette Davis, aware of what she had in mind’s snickered and declared nonchalantly, "Fasten your seat belts we’re in for a bumpy ride."

This is how some characters strike me when they throw their weight around for the limpid thrill of wielding or obtaining control. They are harsh, cold-blooded, full of themselves and can send an icy, frightening tingle down your spine. They are gross and classless. And worst, they target those who are considered "poor" whether in spirit or because of hard luck and economic constraints.

Class, loosely defined, is a social rank based on high style or quality. But it takes more than an impeccable knowledge of fashion to grasp it because you liken it to a still, small voice that gives you the sense between right and wrong. It is your exclusive, built-in Rotary four-way test.

Back when we were young, we were taught that class was of the essence, and one surest measure of it was not how you related upward (to the boss, the tycoon, the bank owner or the chairman) but how you related downward (to the clerks, janitors, the nannies, maids and drivers). It wasn’t about money or the right schools either. It was an attitude. How you carried yourself in the world and the ease with which you dealt with people, all manner of people.

Those who exuded this hybrid of kindness never showed any brittle haughtiness or snobbishness toward those who attended to them but instead displayed an assured grace. They were neither overbearing nor patronizing.

I remember how my mother, busy preparing for a catered dinner, would brief the hired waiters and bartenders about the floral arrangements (flowers I picked from the garden myself), where to set up the open bar, the music, the makeshift kitchen. Her hair still in bobby pins and nails freshly manicured, she handled herself with a sort of easy warmth toward any and all who waited on her or who came into our house to perform various tasks. Without apology or condescension, my mother always hit a perfect note, one that said to the assembled staff, "I respect you and your work."

I therefore squirmed when I witnessed a society matron who let me inside her bedroom while she prayed the rosary. Between each mystery she’d stop midway to shout profanities at her maid. With beads in hand, she murmured, "Pray for us sinners now and tonta, gaga! (dumb, dimwit), where’s my diet soda? Why didn’t you stock up on this, stupid, and at the hour of our death, Amen. Boba, give me more ice!" Visibly irked, she suddenly broke into a phony smile when she remembered that I was watching and listening. "It’s the only language they understand," was her lame excuse.

Back in the corporate world, I never quite forgot what the chairman of a publishing house told a group of fresh recruits, "Acknowledge and be kind to the rank and file in your work place. Should Lady Luck leave your side, who knows? They may be the only people who would still treat you like a human being on your way down." I like the way he referred to them as his charmed circle.

One, of course, cannot dismiss the effects of working in a highly competitive working environment. The stress fractures show, sometimes in a kind of overzealous managerial style where the boss shows "impatience" and curtly flips his fingers at his secretary with a "don’t-bother-me-get-out-of-my-sight" gesture. The successful lady executive we admire dresses down her secretary with stone-cold detachment. That same arrogance is displayed even during their leisure hours. Witness how some men, arrogant, conceited and vain, demand this or that from a waitress, a parking attendant or the janitor or the pulot boy at the tennis court. These men don’t think they’re rude but the message is clear: I am of a different make, you are here solely to serve me.

Unkindness is abusive. Unkindness from someone in control toward someone in a subordinate position, like the incident in the society matron’s prayer room, is the unkindest cut of all. It is demeaning, graceless, very déclassé. Even if you’ve been ranked among Manila’s 400, your graceless attitude has just dragged you down to the level of the uncouth, the gutter.

Listen to what a veteran diplomat quoting Ann Fleming told me, "The grace of dealing with subordinates is the thing that tells the most about us and the depth of our decency." What after all says more about the essence of our conduct, our very nature than the way we treat people over whom we have some power? Graciousness towards those who work for us can produce far more tangible benefits than just the satisfaction of doing the right thing.

On a business trip to Switzerland and Japan, I made it a point to talk, to be solicitous or even beguile a little, those whose services I depended upon: driver, house keeper, messenger, AV technician, Xerox girl, and conference aides. All reciprocated in kind, making me look and sound good – and, not incidentally, feel good.

Some incidents in the past also reminded me of the basic human impulse to help – dare I say, serve – one another. During Typhoon Yoling in the 1960s when I awoke at the helpless barking of my dog, Pluto, I was horrified to see everything in our sala, dining, kitchen, garage, floating if not already under water. The creek next to our subdivision overflowed and flooded us out of our home. There emerged a wonderful, if fleeting, sense of community. While we were trapped on our roof, volunteers came to the rescue in bancas and amphibian tanks to move us to drier (and higher) ground. They even brought sandwiches and hot soup to settle our croaking stomachs. Something rare just happened in the city, and this country, where the economic divisions between the haves and have-nots are ever widening, the tensions ever escalating. For a post-flood minute, those divisions disappeared. The roads were impassable, the lines were down, there were no buses and jeepneys running. As a result, some people found themselves in never-before-seen parts of Manila as they attempted to get and give help. There was a high degree of civility and concern going back and forth; not phony concern, just deep-down understanding of our shared plight, our shared humanity. During a tragedy like this we do give birth to heroes – the proverbial good that was drawn out of the bad.

As I got older, I realized that the people I admired most have been those who moved between and among worlds – from the chandeliered and glossy interiors of stately palaces and board rooms to their own houses – without a variance of behavior toward others, without a deviation in kindness or respect. That’s class. That’s what all of us should try to emulate, for ourselves, above all else.