All my life, people have said to me, "You don't sound like you're from Texas!" They said it on the phone. They said it to my face. (Remember "One of the Voices In My Head Eats Buttermilk Fritos"?) I've never been exactly sure how to respond to such a comment.
It's sort of like telling a woman she's "so skinny!"
Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing?
Of course, in my head, it doesn't matter. One of the best things about the way I think (and there's plenty not so good about my mind, so I like to harp on the good stuff when I can) is that I've learned to let praise and blame wash over me. Well. Mostly. Sometimes, I trick myself into thinking it matters again. But I usually pull up eventually.
Anyway -- another thing I get a lot: "You are NOT white trash!" This comes on the heels of my self-reference, and they say it like they're trying to make me feel better about myself.
It's sort of like telling a woman "you are NOT too skinny!"
The thing is, all of us are merely what we tell ourselves and others. There's no way to encapsulate anyone. Sure, you can haul out the DSM-IV (or V if you're really hip, or III if you're really fixated) and jam yourself and everyone else into a neat hole. And it is easier to point fingers at specific, physically occurring situations, like "you're a diabetic" or "that’s a bunion" and yes, eventually we'll probably be able to look into each others' gray matter and say, "Yep, what we got here is a little bipolar stuff..." But for now, nope.
And that goes double for observations that are purely (almost purely?) filter-based, like what you think about how my dialect sounds or whether or not your concept of white trash and mine are the same.
But some things are provable. Some conditions are documented or at least documentable.
Take my having lived in a trailer park.
Now, I don't have documents verifying that I lived there, but I know a few folks who can testify. If you really need verification, just ask me and I'll refer you on to them. Or you could be really clever and look them up yourself and surprise them with your questions about me. Some of them read this blog, so I hereby grant permission to anyone who knew me back in the day to verify to anyone who asks whether or not I lived in a trailer park.
And here's the only representation of said park I could find on a quick Web search. Check out those reviews, would ya...
CitySearch's place profile page (there's damned fine commentary at this one)
(oh, and a few interesting review reads here, too)
MerchantCircle's attempt
That right there is where my little kitten who used to climb up my entire naked body [Editor’s note: yeouch!] as I washed dishes was attacked and killed by two rogue Irish setters who jumped their chicken wire fence.
And besides my own Time Well-Spent in Atascosita, I'm "trailerpark" by way of blood, too: My old man's mama, my Swedish, born-in-Louise-Texas grandma, lived out a whole lotta her life in what we like to call a "mobile home". Spent many a weekend there myself, and it was only a handful of miles from where I live now. I remember sneakin’ a smoke right outside the back of her trailer. I was at that age when kids also have no idea that just because they only have eyes for their current flame doesn't mean that the rest of the world can't see ‘em making out in public. What was I thinking?
So -- yes, I've lived in trailer parks. (And that doesn't count the in-laws' RV that we drove around to state parks back then, either.)
And I'd do it again.
{and here's yet another family photo sans moi, with Ma & Annie Pearl sharing a private joke, taken in front of my grandmother's beautiful aqua & white trailer. and her mama crocheted that bedspread in the background. and don't Martha's kids look just about as perfect as 3 stairsteps can be in this shot? my Mamaw's behind Martha, that's the Stairsteps' Daddy to far left next to the Old Man, and there's uber-boyish H2 grinnin & bearin in the back.}
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