Adventures In Guatemala (and elsewhere): White Trash

“Two or three things I know for sure, and one is that I would rather go naked than wear the coat the world has made for me.” Dorothy Allison, Two or Three Things I know For Sure.

I remember the first time someone called me trash. The first time I really realized, oh hey, yeah, I guess this is white trash. I was in fifth grade; I was working on my fifth school in two years. I was at New Market, which is comical because the year before I lived in Indy. I went to three schools that year on quite literal opposite end of the class spectrum. The first was on the side of town that a kid could get shot standing at the bus stop, and actually did that school year, where I was one of three white kids in my class of 300+. The other end being Garden City, a nice public school where people were genuinely proud to have their children attend. Of course the first time didn’t happen at a place like that, too obvious, no, instead, at my longest elementary school, good Ol’ New Market. It was during gym, this pushy boy tried to tell me what to do, naturally being the stubborn ass I have always been I responded with “make me!” I clearly, have always been clever. The boy’s response still catches me off guard even today when I replay it in my mind. “I don’t make trash, I burn it.” I had never been called trash before. He and his friends pointed and laughed at me, citing my perpetually disheveled look, unkempt hair, and the fact that I lived in a trailer to substantiate his point. He then said I wasn’t just trash, but his momma told him that me and my family were white trash. And he was kinda right. I did look rough, and I did live in a trailer, I got free lunches, wore mostly hand-me-downs never had new gym shoes, but I never thought anything of it. Before that moment it was nothing I had ever really been ashamed of before. To be quite honest the trailer was quite nicer than other places the family had stayed: living out of a rent by the week hotel, a women’s shelter a home where we lived in constant fear of making a singular mistake. In comparison our trailer was basically the Ritz Carlton, and I had never really been happier. I had woods to play in, a horse to run barrels with, and the best climbing tree in Montgomery County (footnote my childhood diary). But everything changed that day. After that incident I remember suddenly being nervous to invite friends over, to tell anyone where I lived or who I lived with. I didn’t want to be white trash, I mean redneck, sure fine, but white trash, that one cut deep, but I didn’t know how to change it. My family simply didn’t have money. We never really had, it was just a fact.

Flash forward fifteen years, past graduating high school, something I was told as kid I wasn’t smart enough to do, being accepted to college, graduating, being accepted to the Peace Corps. Almost eight months into service listening to a conversation between other volunteers. One says to the other: “Yeah my dad didn’t come from much, he sent art of his childhood living in a trailer, he was total white trash.” The connection between the words “white trash” and “trailer” cause me to wince. I am 25 years old, and it still makes me flinch. Knowing that no matter who I become, what I make of myself, stupid, bullshit, classist comments like that will always undermine any success I attain.

In my group of PCVs I am one of the only kids who grew up in a low class background. Since Peace Corps requires Volunteers to have at minimum a BA (though a good number also have their masters), extensive medical testing, and the financial ability to just up and leave for several years it tends to attract a certain demographic. Generally speaking, upper-middle to upper class white kids. There are obvious exceptions to this, however the number of people of color in service is quite low, and the number of people from lower class backgrounds is below even that. Since there is this almost unspoken understanding of homogenous socio-economic status people tend to get sloppy, talking about poorer people as “them” and whenever anyone’s childhood differs from the norm people take notice, generally with comments like “oh, I am so sorry to hear that” or “well, good for you for getting here”. Both comments, obviously well intended, come off as condescending bullshit.

As a result I have just stopped talking about my childhood. I have been the homeschooled Jesus freak kid too much in my life; I certainly don’t need that to follow me here. This however, has resulted in me building these protective walls around where I come from and who I was, and only allowing for this tiny sliver of me, who I am at this exact moment. That gets lonely as shit though. And even I, an expert at the art of keeping people out, get tired of those Jerichoan barriers. So, I’m not going to anymore. I have told people bits of my background, where I came from, why I am here, but have never been forth coming. But, to hell with it, if I could come out as a big ol’ mo, I can come out as someone from a low class family, a former-white trashian.

Ours was almost identical to this, Single wide, baby.

However, I would like to go ahead and warn people that the term “white trash” hurts, and for some people, causes a visceral reaction, it’s an inappropriate, narrow minded slur, and I implore you to find another phrase. I choose to claim it now only as I might identify with it in the past tense, and in an order to reappropriate and say that it doesn’t define me. But for those folks who don’t have a firsthand experience with this, who don’t, nor ever have identified with the term: don’t fucking use it. Because remember, white trash bitches fight dirty, so don’t be a bigoted asshole and make me show you how we do it in the trailer park.

Two photos from my white trash childhood.