by Lincoln Brown, PJ Media:

We were not dirt poor when I was growing up. But we were not exactly rich, either. A few times, we were barely lucky enough to hang on to the designation of “middle class.” Despite that, and my parents’ deep desire to be seen as ’60s radicals, my mother always held out hope that I might somehow make it to membership in the Hyannis Port crowd. She wanted me to be either a high-powered lawyer or an Episcopal bishop. Or maybe the host of “Masterpiece Theater.” I ended up being a writer, so no trips to the Cape with Buffy for me. But if, by some miracle, an acceptance letter from Harvard had arrived in our mailbox, I would have been freeze-dried, zip-locked, and shipped off to Cambridge before the envelope even hit the garbage can. But alas, we did not have the money or the social standing for such aspirations. I was accepted to four colleges (it was much easier in the ’80s, kids), and none were in the Ivy League.