A tale of tribal warfare in the Valley

After about an hour, one old-school neighbor trying to park began voicing her disagreement with such enthusiasm that not even the contented burblings of the partygoers could cover it up. Panic ensued among the valets; voluptuous obscenities floated overhead; I glared outside my barricaded window with my singing silkies and thought: If the Middles could not now descend upon the Uppers like Furies, the approach of the Banshee would do just as well.

This, then, was the skirmish. But it did not end in a gunshot or an exodus. Instead, it was resolved by that treaty, which I have labeled the Uneasy Peace of the Poinsettias. Two days post-party, the offending Upper soothed neighborly feelings by placing one fat poinsettia bush on each of our porches. And this gesture worked. Last winter, the same valet-happy party was held again, and the next day the host placed a table of consolation poinsettias outside his manor, for us to take. No one complained.

It's a nice gesture, though I couldn't bring myself to go over here, because in my misanthropy I imagined the journey as akin to traveling to the Big House to get my Christmas flowers. So I stared out the window and watched my neighbors saunter to the table and take their pick. Looking at the red blooms in their hands, I couldn't even imagine that the rebel Goths once lived here; there's a new elegance here now, and a new anxiety. Perhaps the Middles triumphed over the Renters; the war with the Uppers, though, ended quietly. I think it would be nicest to conclude that it's pretty much a draw.

But even if the Middles lost their footing, that sober, scary pride remains intact. The one thing you can say about the Middle Classers is, if you live among us, we make sure you behave yourself.

Yxta Maya Murray is the author of three novels and the forthcoming "The Queen Jade." She is a professor at Loyola Law School.