Since returning from my trip to the British Isles, I have been
thinking a lot about tradition.
Since returning from my trip to the British Isles, I have been thinking a lot about tradition.
The everyday vocabulary of England, the part of Britain that I know best, is layered with references to traditions which go back hundreds of years. On our way into London from Portsmouth, we passed the place where the Magna Carta was signed in the 13th century, we saw Windsor Castle, which dates to one of the Charleses, and we visited Eton College, started as a religious school for orphan boys in the 14th century.
The shutters, desks and wood paneling of Eton are carved with the names of boys going back almost as long.
San Benito County has its own traditions, including the upcoming Saddle Horse Show and Rodeo, one of the most visible. Hollister’s downtown is part of our heritage, as is the whole of San Juan Bautista and the rolling hills of South County. They aren’t as old as Eton College, of course, but I suggest they are no less precious.
On my first visit to England, in the sixties, I was charmed by a somewhat superficial view of English tradition: the teas, the old buildings, the ceremonies, the legacy of wonderful literature.
Over the years, I became more skeptical. Where once I had seen ceremony, I began to see militarism. I noticed that most of the tombs in St. Paul’s Cathedral were of soldiers in campaigns of colonialisim. Where once I had seen stability, I began to see a rigid, if not cruel, class system, tinged with racism. It appeared that the class system was the logical outgrowth of an obsolete and expensive monarchy. Where once I had swooned over dapper men with clipped accents, or laughed at English humor, I began to see a vein of unrepentant misogyny.
So I was surprised, on my most recent visit, at how comfortable I felt. I knew England experienced its own share of racial strife, political discord and scandal and economic upheaval, and I guess I expected that these things would have degraded the whole country beyond recognition.
Instead, I found a place that, at least on a superficial visit, seemed to wear its traditions like a comfortable cardigan. Although that’s not entirely apt, because what made it surprising was the relative sparkle – maybe like a cardigan with brass buttons and a feather or two. Green, leafy parks and boulevards, no grafitti, no dog debris and for that matter no road kill.
On my last evening in London, I walked back to my hotel from the Victoria and Albert Museum. I passed a couple of private clubs that our guide had previously pointed out from the bus. The doormen, or porters I think they’re called, wore natty uniforms from another era. The clubs don’t have name plates; they’re too private for that. But the brass numbers were shiny and the lights inside looked very comfortable.
So even though my critical, political brain believes that private clubs perpetuate the establishment and give excess power to privilege, I felt secure knowing that they were still there.
Will we be able to pull off the same balancing act? Will we be able to maintain what’s good about the status quo while being flexible enough to embrace the future? Will our choices and decisions – such as the DMB-El Rancho San Benito project, economic development efforts, infrastructure and governance concerns – bring us into the future while maintaining what’s precious about the past?
Elizabeth Gage is a Hollister resident. Her column runs Tuesdays. Reach her at ga***********@gm***.com.
