Some Dreams are Unreachable

My family's tragedy is that, for the past 150 years, we have been bred for the upper class while stuck in the working class (and sometimes lower). We work in production but are educated for upper management.
My immediate family's financial situation suggests NASCAR and Cheese Whiz, but our tastes run towards museums and Brie. Actually, I've never tried Cheese Whiz or seen a NASCAR race, but my life would be so much simpler if they were all I wanted from it. Instead I am stuck envying my university friends' summers in Europe while knowing I could never fit into a crowd of American Idol fans either. This is my destiny—to continue the curse by passing my passion for foreign films and nineteenth-century utopias onto the future generation along with a bus pass and a fear of cops.
Since I have decided that I do want a future generation, I have only to ask myself who my oh-so-lucky other half will be: an ambitionless son of privilege whose parents will hate me for being poor (which is actually average) and think I dragged him down, or a working-class man who is happy with his position in life whose parents will hate me because I have educated tastes and think I secretly despise them?
I cannot stand the type of people who do the things that I want to do. I hate how the green-eyed monster cackles on my shoulder when I'm around them. I hate how bored I am with most people who live in small houses where the children share bedrooms, because I am from a small house where I shared my bedroom.
The one silver lining to my situation is that it has kept me out of inter-race/inter-class disputes all my life. I'm not rich and white, but I'm not trash either, so that's something, right?