From Park Avenue to Pac Heights.
Summer reads should be engrossing, entertaining, escapist fun. But occasionally, one comes along that also makes you think.
For me this year, it’s “Primates of Park Avenue,” (Simon & Schuster) by Wednesday Martin. Her memoir chronicles her arrival as a married mom on the Upper East Side of New York, a newcomer who tries to fit in with the ultra-wealthy mommies dominating the landscape.
Every animal group, from humans and baboons to Israeli desert birds and even fish, have hierarchies, as beautifully spelled out in Richard Conniff ’s 2002 eye-opening “The Natural History of the Rich.” As the National Geographic and Architectural Digest writer noted, philanthropic giving, to museums or charity, has a parallel in the behavior of an Israeli desert bird, the Arabian babbler, which altruistically pushes morsels of food down the throats of lesser males in the bunch. The reason, he said, was social dominance, and that’s the same reason, he wrote, that the rich seek the biggest yachts, the best clubs or a style of dress.
Martin puts her academic background (anthropology classes and a doctorate in cultural studies) to witty good use in describing this wealthy tribe’s extremes.
Manhattan, with its skyscrapers, becomes an “island” whose inhabitants are “primarily vertical dwellers, making their homes directly on top of one another in structures of finely ground stone.” Real estate agents are “dwelling shamans” who guide residents in their quest for a home, which, she writes, is “also a quest for identity,” a “costly, protracted and painstaking initiation process.”
To fit in, she seeks the right address for her “dwelling hut” (a Park Avenue apartment versus a town house downtown), the right school for her child (private top tier versus public), the right outfit to wear to school drop off and pickup, the right handbag to carry to signal status, taste and authority (an Hermès Birkin, starting at $8,000) and the right place to go for holidays (Thanksgiving in Palm Beach, Fla., Aspen, Colo., for winter break).
Martin has been hit with media backlash for inconsistencies in the book, particularly for alleging that some stay-athome moms receive annual “wife bonuses” from their husbands (allowance for charity functions and shopping), which skeptics and area residents disputed as a fictional practice. MGM bought rights to the book. On TV, Jill Kargman’s “Odd Mom Out” comedy series now in its first season on Bravo is no copycat; her book on Upper East Side life, “Momzillas,” came out in 2014.
To those who don’t run in such extreme circles, it may all seem ridiculous. But, as Martin explains, it’s important because — as in any tribe, whether upper crust, middle class or blue collar — what you do, who you do it with, what you wear and what you drive are indicators of whether you’re an alpha male (or female) or invisible.
It also seems ridiculous to read Martin’s assertion that enormous wealth doesn’t free her mommies from anxiety but, in fact, leads to greater anxiety because if you have more options at your disposal for any situation, you’re in for more regret, heightened expectation and disappointment.
If you don’t believe her, take it from Google investor Kavitark Ram Shriram, quoted in Peter W. Bernstein and Annalyn Swan’s 2007 book on billionaires, “All the Money in the World,” as saying, “Money does not bring happiness. It brings complexity.”
In observing and writing about our own primates of the Pacific for more than a decade, it became clear to me, reading Martin’s book, that our Bay Area tribes aren’t so different from those of New York.
We, too, have addresses that confer a sense of superiority: Pacific Heights, Mill Valley, Piedmont and Atherton. We have coveted top-tier schools: the Hamlin School, Town School and Menlo School, to name a few.
Our wealthy mommy tribes have dress codes, too, even for school drop-off. A Marinite in an Audi Q5 might be spotted in Athleta stretch pants, an Everlane T, fleece vest and Havaianas flip-flops, lugging a Goyard tote and tucking Ray-Ban mirrored aviators onto her head, done in messy ponytail. A Pac Heights mom might drive a Mercedes GLK in her Lululemon pants and a Dries Van Noten sweater, paired with Chanel flats, a Sophie Hulme handbag and Céline sunglasses tucked into her straight hair. In Silicon Valley, a Tesla-driving mommy might outfit herself in skinny white jeans, a Tory Burch tunic, Tods driving shoes and Warby Parker sunglasses, with a 49 Square Miles tote parked in the passenger seat.
In August, mommies flock to Lake Tahoe for the Oscar de la Renta fashion show. Over winter break, the elite gather in places hard for the masses to afford, like the Big Island’s Four Seasons Hualalai (or a private home designed by Sandy Walker), and not resorts on (sniff ) Maui, Kauai or Oahu.
And, like their counterparts in New York, Pacific stay-athome mommies with MBAs are anxious because they’re bored. Being selected as chair of a gala or getting one’s picture in the social pages is an achievement, to be sure, but it is not the same as earning a paycheck, one reason you might excuse them if they might drink a bit more at charity luncheons than they should.
As Martin writes on page 176, “As it turns out, the old adage is true. Once you control for factors like poverty, illness, and hunger, money does not buy you happiness. And it certainly does not buy you a reprieve from anxiety.”
How’s that for a little light reading at the beach? Another margarita, please.