Jerry and I had a truncated conversation at Wine, Women and Cheese. He was discussing the fashions on display at the event. As stated in a previous post, his partner Bill was wearing a suit and tie in some color (silver, maybe?) that complimented his eyes. Jo was wearing black and managed to look both sporty and elegant at the same time. I wore black and looked pedestrian but like I was trying hard. Jerry wore nice slacks, a shirt and a pullover sweater.
He was talking about the other people, however. Those rich people. And how diverse the wardrobe was. He said, “It’s interesting to note the state of fashion among the hoi polloi.”
Because I’m completely tactless, I started to correct him about his use of the term hoi polloi. Then I remembered my umbrella, went to get it, met Leigh and the day went on.
The question about the term hoi polloi, however, still niggled at me. Jerry was using it to mean the upper-crusty class. I always thought it meant the common folk. Over the weekend I looked it up.
It literally means “many people” from “hoi, meaning “many” in Greek and “polis” or “person.” So which of us is right? I think I am. I can imagine the aristos at the Globe or the Rose theater, from their expensive bench seats, looking down on the groundlings standing below them, and seeing them as the “many.” “Hoi polloi,” they’d probably say, with a sniff. The crowd. The masses. The Great Unwashed.
The problem is, though, that because it’s Greek, it sounds exotic, doesn’t it? Those Gilded Age people who lived in the houses showcased on America’s Castles, they should be hoi polloi, shouldn’t they? I mean, doesn’t it sounds that way?