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FoxFields C.S.V.Boyairre, Intervalist 04.27.02-Charlottesville, VA |
….as you were in your jammies trying to watch the remnants of what’s left of TNBC on one Saturday morning in April…there was a field not too far outside of Charlottesville, VA in the good ol’ south where horseyfaced girls gathered to watch the horseyfaced horses that would run around them, to graze on their prescribed manfolk and to absorb one another-all of this with foxes found very few and far between. So exists University of Va-GIN-ya’s springtime mecca->the annual FoxField’s race.
These same people scurry each spring to return to U.V.A. to seek the refreshment that only this purly homogenized affair can provide. It seems in these days of political correctness, this refuge can only protected in time and in space at this location. Outside of Charlottesville, sure Dave Matthew’s can sometimes soothe the itch, and J. Crew does mail order, but then again they all still ask, Why can’t everywhere(and everybody)be like they are at FoxFields?..life would be so much more simpler, better …wouldn’t it?
If you do make it to FoxFields, and you must provide your own transportation cause’ Greyhound ain’t stopin’ there… you will witness two base models-that’s about it. There’s the horseyfaced girls, some with their oddly deformed bodies, all sporting their sundresses. Then there’s their fellows who rock somewhat scruffy haircuts and cover themesleves with oxfords of the Ralph Lauren® line in that wrinkled and frankly I don’t give a damn, but yet you should never forget that I’m money sort of way—There are a few in attendance with good taste and a well grounded sense of history who will adorn the fabled Searsucker Jacket, but that is the exception. The groups of people pack the inner circle of the race track, filling of up the field with their Sport Utility vehicles parked in their pre-arranged plots designed with extreme protection and privacy of your cipher’s integrity at all times. Sure there is some intermingling among the plots, but that’s somewhat preregistered in advance…new comers need somewhere specific to cling-less they be exiled to near where that pee-trough is.
I can’t help but to point out that there is some uncanny relationship between those horseyfaced girls and the horseyfacedhorses that run around them, which is indeed no accident. They are both the product of intensified breeding and specific placement in time far away from the others that may blemish their papers. There can be found one major difference though, if one of the horseyfaced girls happens to break a leg, they are not shot on site, only instead they are tossed off onto somebody else who’s role in life is to take care of it.
And despite our beloved revolutionaries, one of which included the infamous Thomas Jefferson-the author of the Declaration of Indepedance and the founder of this University of Va-GIN-ya, the revolutionaries that fought through 6 seasons of straight snow with no boots, to severe the ties with our expensive maternal monarchy, a legitimate, yet untitled monarchy has actually crept over to the newfoundland-there indeed exists, an elitist culture of thoroughbred people in this country. To this elitist culture the concept of the melting pot in America is prudent so long as those from different backgrounds have some connections to offer the collective and are still closely maintained at an arm’s length distance. An elitist culture in which most in this country will never really get the opportunity experience or observe first-hand as that is the way this culture is specifically constructed and perpetuated….
And while much consideration has been given to those who may be inbreed in areas close to Southern Misso-ra, in fact, these people of the perceived lower-class have a great deal in common with their counter parts on the upper fringe of the societal scale. Yes, the subject of inbreeding of the upper echelons of American society may not be as frequently discussed, but such practice exists in strong force even in this post 1960s period of enlightened science and openness.
The -horseyfaced exist where ever old money can be found, yet they also seem to cluster together regionally, as well. There are circles in New England, The South, The Mid West and the West with lose diplomatic channels routed in between, sometimes constructed through common vacation destinations, children’s summer camps and successfully elaborate muilti-regional business schemes. But, there are also, of course, the smaller localized sub-units of these highest class inner-circles that serve as the backbone of the elusive and illustrious culture. And despite all nature’s attempts to punish such activity through genetic problems such as hemophilia and the more aesthetically reprehensible horsey-faced syndrome, these people seem to continue to be motivated to mix exclusively within their own circles.
Their connections reach far and long, as the protections for these isolated groups help to not only maintain the infrastructure of these rich for generations, but also to keep from outsiders from easily coming in. With the inter-relatedness starting from birth, as a person growing up within this infrastructure, the survival of one within the circle may eventually or originally become based upon it.
With consideration to the glorified concept of the American Dream the extreme rich and the extreme poor have yet something else strikingly in common. Just as they say it is often considered to be incredibly tough to leave the ghetto-I mean just ask Elvis and yo’ mama cries…; also in the circles of FoxField, it is hard for these people on the opposite side of the spectrum to find their exit-or the motivation to strike outside of the circle and create something of which they can call their very own.
One might gain the perception that since being born into one of these groups seems an almost basic requirement…the establishment of these groups can also aid in keeping the little man down—a concept which would appear somewhat Anti-American on the surface. But these terrorists mean the little people no direct harm, so long as the little people leave them well enough alone and stay far enough away.
One of the other components that needs to be addressed at this University of Va-GIN-ya gathering, is that may be more universally understandable throughout our country’s collegiate system is that UVA made a considerable, and quite possibly, the most significant contribution to what is now referred to as the greek system of fraternities and sororities in the U.S.A. Having been intimately a part of one of these secret letter societies that was founded at U.V.A. myself, I can speak from experience that these groups are based heavily upon premises similar to the horseyfaces: exclusion…or instead inclusion of those who conform to the perceived standard of what is perfect breeding.
But keep in mind, as U.V.A. is actually the penultimate state school in the country…not everyone was able to make FoxFields this year. No…it appeared that only the people who wanted to sport the prescribed uniform were those who attended and you know what, there’s nothing wrong with a bunch of the same people enjoying the same thing at the same time if you ask me. These days, and I don’t mean to burst any horsey-faced egos, but the concept of exclusion and elitism is not exclusive to these elite. No matter where you go, whether it beya bar in the big city or the county fair or the sparsely planned Monster Truch Rallies across this great land, people travel in specially tailored groups and find extreme comfort there. Whether you are poor or middle class or from another country or from another state, people are just not mixing very much at all anymore. I pick on the horseyfaced people here, but that’s just because I feel like I have grown up with them and studied them all along. If you have traveled the country as much as I have, people have a certain common look, sound, and feel to them in every territory in this great land.
Yes, there is quite a lot of safety in numbers…and whether or not you’re poor or rich, one thing Americans apparently enjoy about America is the ability of its citizenry to form strong unions…we are after all of this horsey shit…the Union.
C.S.V. Boyairee was born in French Canadian Block of Detroit City in 1925. His father worked as a middle-manager at Ford’s industrious and over powering River Rouge plant…he never knew his mother really well, although he visited her several times where she lived in Grosse Pointe Woods-all he knew about her profession is that she provided ’services’ there and she apparently did quite well.
Boyairre has made his living on the basis of his perceptions since he left home for the ‘Dayton Mall’ in 1939 and he never looked back. Now he has been on the roads by our math for over 63 years and in that time he has added to his perspective while also developing a ’slur’ in his speech.
Responce received Tue, 07 May 2002 15:53:26 from Brooke Brower:
A Case for Foxfield
Every spring, an extraordinarily indescribable event takes place in the rolling hills outside of Charlottesville, Virginia. It is called the Foxfield Races-Foxfield to the veterans, Foxfields to the aspiring.
The sun usually shines there, and even when it does rain, differently good times can be had. Horses get all the attention from a small portion of the crowd. But for most of the crowd, the crowd gets all of the attention. There really isn’t enough time or paper to go into the inherent ties to notions of tradition at the University of Virginia, so we’ll just let that speak on its own. Make no mistake about it; Foxfield is unabashedly a big cocktail party on a horse farm. Those expecting something more sophisticated, more meaningful, and even more pretentious should look elsewhere. Those of you looking for the opposite should watch NASCAR.
For some, the talk about the next Foxfield begins immediately after the most recent Foxfield ends. It’s important to note here that there is a Foxfield event in the autumn as well. Having never gone to that, I can’t be sure it actually takes place, and, to be honest, I really don’t care. The concept of a fall Foxfield is inconsequential, as my appreciation for Foxfield is inherently tied into the elements of spring: sunshine, fresh cut grass, blossoming valleys, and transcendental rebirth. (There may or may not be double entendres in that last sentence, depending on what you want.)
Again, Foxfield discussion is a year round activity for many. Were you at Foxfield? I didn’t see you at Foxfield. I haven’t gotten a new dress for Foxfield yet. Do you remember that girl/guy from Foxfield? What do you mean you’re not going to Foxfield next year? How about we get three plots next year instead of just one? What kind of moron schedules a wedding on Foxfield weekend? I love Foxfield. And so on and so forth.
People show up at nine on a Saturday morning to end up not paying any attention at all to horses that start running hours later. The horses are peripheral to the enthrallment those in attendance have for one another. It is evident in the attire: sun dresses, bow ties, hats you wouldn’t wear anywhere else, and sear sucker suits you would get beat up for wearing anywhere else. All of these things are fashionably fashionable for Foxfield.
The nice thing about Foxfield is, unlike a lot of schmooze festivals that infect corporate, yuppie, social-climbing, terrified-of-middle-management America, every person who is there actually wants to be there. The only exception of course might be those of us with brief moments of fear about running into old flames and other bad ideas. But, for the most part, the very essence of Foxfield is not enthusiasm for what will happen there, but simply enthusiasm for being there.
And, before we get too deep into this sermon, we have to address another element of Foxfield-alcohol. Actually, that is the part of Foxfield that concerns most people these days, and I probably should have started with a condemnation of the integral role booze plays in this well-dressed thunderdome. Yes, there is a lot of alcohol. Yes, there is a lot of consumption of alcohol. Yes, some people should use better judgment in the course of their Foxfield experience. Yes, absolutely. Agreed.
It’s dubious to think most would accept dealing with the issue of alcohol at Foxfield in three sentences and a couple of clauses. But, at the risk of sounding trite, what more is there to say? It seems at times that those of us in our twenties are treated with the same respect that tele-marketers have learned to appreciate. Of course, some of this has to do with what the Baby Boomers did when they were in their twenties, and thus now feel compelled to preach about. Debt, rehab and therapy are often much more motivational than simple regret. So, let them be humored.
Generational warfare is not the focus here. In fact, there are plenty of older people at Foxfield. In fact, there are a lot of well-off, old people who sit in an area of the hills barricaded from the rest of the masses by the actual racecourse. One must wonder if they watch us with the same fascination with which they watch the horses, or even with the same intrigue with which we watch ourselves.
When will going back to Foxfield not be fulfilling? Who knows, and frankly who cares? We’ll all deal with that when it comes for each of us. In the meantime, we’ll dress up, drink up, smoke up, hook up, and, eventually, grow up.
Alcohol and aging are taking away from the nostalgia and euphoria with which we began talking about Foxfield. But, ironically and sadly, those are usually the predominant thoughts in many of our minds by sunset on that glorious Saturday-drinking too much or too little, and getting older.
The kids who haven’t graduated yet realize how many Foxfield Saturdays they have left. Those who have graduated count how many races they’ve been to since graduating. These are the moments when alcohol really becomes an active player. That’s probably not good, but that takes us back to the moderation understanding.
And even Foxfield, in moderation, is a good thing.