I don’t keep up with all noxious social trends that occupy a small corner of the online tableaux (maybe too fancy a word; let’s say “bulletin board”). Last week I read a smart article, “’Microlooting’ Is a Luxury Belief,” in The Wall Street Journal by Rob Henderson, who, in his mid-30s, has created a running thread in various publications (and at the Manhattan Institute) pushing a take-down of the self-described “educated elite” who are guilty of “Luxury Beliefs.” It’s cogent criticism, and Henderson, an industrious man who overcame a dysfunctional family and industriously made his way in the world, isn’t shy about tooting his own trumpet. Fine by me: unlike other self-promoters, say the insufferable Bari Weiss or Ezra Klein, Henderson’s work backs up his ego.
He writes: “The aim for the luxury belief class is both to excuse their misconduct and to enhance their status. If the action can be framed as political, it gains a kind of moral sheen. Petty theft is recast as virtue. It isn’t enough to get something for nothing. Many members of the luxury belief class want something for nothing plus applause from their peers. A shoplifter who calls it shoplifting is simply a shoplifter. A shoplifter who calls it ‘microlooting’ is signaling education, upbringing and cultural capital. The clerk restocking the shelf, however, sees it for what it is: theft.”
I’d imagine Henderson might have a second description of these people, the “Mamdani belief class,” but to my knowledge hasn’t committed that to print.
(This line of thought caused a stir when writer Jia Tolentino, in a New York Times podcast with Hasan Piker, admitted to stealing from Whole Foods “on several occasions,” and Piker said that some theft from corporations was “morally defensible.” At Unherd, Santiago Vidal Calvo expressed his displeasure, calling the podcast “the latest symptom of 'elite moral confusion.'”)
I’m not a “microlooter.” Nor a thief. However, as an 11-year-old, when the term (for middle-class kids) for pocketing without paying was called a “five-finger-discount,” I lived the life for three weeks or so. It wasn’t for “moral sheen,” just rude mischief. I collected baseball cards, and at that time, my budget didn’t stretch far, so, at a small general goods store in a semi-sketchy section of Huntington on Long Island, a buddy and I helped ourselves, slipping the Tops packs into a pocket while buying a popsicle or candy bar. The owner, a gruff guy in his 40s, cast an eye on us, but let it go.
The problem was that my accomplice bragged about it to another classmate—a creep—who promptly told his mother and then the phone lines were ablaze. My parents were horrified (“It’ll go on your permanent record, colleges will toss out your applications!"), and though I don’t remember the precise punishment, I won’t forget returning to the store and making restitution with the owner. He grilled me, offered a lesson about sliding into juvenile delinquency (maybe he’d been down that road), and there was no happy ending. “You shall not steal” gave me a shiver when looking at the Ten Commandments framed warning in my classroom.
I was barred from his place of business for a year, which was justifiable. My mom was simply happy the cops weren’t called in (she could get dramatic), and soon enough I was once again her angelic “baby” (the youngest of five sons). Inevitably, the older boys ribbed me, one saying, “Pretty cool, didn’t know I was sharing a bunk bed with Willie Sutton.” After that, when I saw friends practicing the “five-finger-discount,” I didn’t snitch (not in my nature), but was glad to be out of the racket.
The accompanying photo is of my mom, dressed up and playing in the Bronx. She was part of “The Greatest Generation,” and, the daughter of Irish immigrants, the very notion of stealing was anathema to her.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: The first issue of The New Yorker is published; Charles G. Dawes is Vice President; the first National Spelling Bee is held in Washinton, D.C.; New York surpasses London as the largest city in the world; the New York Giants are added to the NFL; Robert Altman is born and Lucille McVey dies; Ford Madox Ford’s No More Parades, William Riley’s Peter Pettinger, James Stevens’ Paul Bunyan, and Walter Lippman’s The Phantom Public are published; Edna Ferber wins a Pulitzer for the Novel; Gene Autin’s “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby” is a chartbuster; and Flying Ebony wins the Kentucky Derby.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023