I was raised accustomed middle class
and still am. I have the faith the middle class has in prudence, long
term goals and self-restraint. I also can share in the middle
america's utter disgust with white trash.
Quiet revulsion. It's something you
really cannot hide even when you try. The target of your loathing
can't help but notice it.
Q: “You think you're better than me!”
A: “You can read minds? I'll tell you
what I'm thinking, it's not that I feel so much above you, it's just
that you're revolting.”
They'll also know you're not “one of
them” by the fact you can handle the native English language well.
Irony, metaphor, allusion, all these nifty tricks unmask you as
hoity-toity.
An aside.
I watched the Phil Donahue program a
zillion years ago as he interviewed William F Buckley, a highly
educated conservative author and editor of the National Review
magazine. He was known to drop “big words” and speak in a snotty
Hampton, Long Island accent, just to make sure you knew your place,
which was way below his.
A black woman in the audience had
gotten up to say this to Buckley and I'm paraphrasing.
“You think your so high and mighty
with them long sentences and words you use. Why don't you speak
English so the rest of us can understand it?”
He replies.
“Madame, I am
using English and I find no fault in using it correctly. I wouldn't
be proud of myself at all being able to use just 10% of the one
million known words in the English language.”
Anyway, back to the story....
Growing up in my neck of the woods,
the easiest factor in labeling some family as white trash, to us
anyway, was that if you boldly aired your family arguments for all
the neighborhood to hear. It didn't matter what the content was, just
that you SHOUTED it. A Dad screaming over a burnt roast is not
really disturbing at all, like secreted alcoholism could be, but
shouting makes sure it lets the whole neighborhood knows. Add to
that a clutch of kids where all the boys seem like proto-criminals
and none of your daughters knows how to act like a girl. If the kids
barely managed a C- in school overall, that helps too. A grossly
overweight or an anorexic, harsh looking, pinched faced bitch of a
Mom is needed as well. Preferably she'll be wearing a housecoat with
a constant cigarette dangling on her lips.
It really is fascinating how we harshly
judge those who acted and lived like gypsies around here back then.
Our parents warned us of a life of misery if we adopted the lifestyle
and manners of “them.” Do those things and you won't have a pot
to piss in when you grow up. The fear of the middle class is to end
up on that “street.” Once there, you'll have to adopt the tactics
of those people. Everything is short term because
there isn't enough money to think longer. You have to grab it now,
pay the rent for this month and worrying about the next is waayyy too
far off to contemplate. You slyly eye your friends on how you can
profit off of them and occasionally sink a knife into their backs.
That's the Law of the Street. Middle class life is like living at the
Astoria Hotel in comparison. Calmer middle class life can afford
luxuries like etiquette. When faced with daily pressures that
threaten your next meal or the roof over your head, etiquette is a
waste of time and it gets you nothing anyway as none of your peers
respond to it. In that world, etiquette is a sign of weakness. So
family scream-a-thons where the neighbors can hear is no problem and
the occasional screwing over of your own friends is OK too.
Today I saw an old clip of Robert
Mitchum in “The Friends of Eddie Coyle” and I felt that revulsion
creep up in me. In no way did I want to associate with these people
for more then five minutes. Cree-py. I like how movies, the arts can
evoke those emotions, even if they're ugly ones.
In Pawtucket, there's a place called
John St that's off of Broadway. John St at the time was that Last
Chance Before Skid Row. It was populated with three decker
apartements, older model cars with some rust and parents who worked
unskilled jobs at factories. The kids there were mostly
underachievers whose best prospects were working at one of the then
many mills, renting a three decker apartment and having too many kids
themselves one day.
I wanted fireworks when I was 12 and
had found a contact by the name of Jack, a kid younger than me who
lived on...ugh...John St. The ugliness of having to venture there
was alleviated by my greed for salutes, M80s and Roman Candles. So
Jim and I rode our bikes there with our pockets stuffed with what we
thought was a fortune then, $30. We discussed how we should just buy
the stuff and get the hell out of there or what we should do if we
were ripped off on the spot.
I met Jack, on a dirt patch in front of
a house whose siding was roofing shingles. The builders were too
cheap to put wooden clapboards on the house so the sheathed the
entire thing in tar shingles. The hot sun that day made those
shingles give off an evil tar smell, adding to my derisive judgement.
The yard was a dump with broken bicycles, busted toys and a shed was
full of beer bottle empties and moldy clothing. I had known not to
puke on sight when I looked at it all, lest I give myself away.
I looked at Jack and figured him out
fairly quickly. The best way to make an enemy a friend is to make him
your friend and that's where flattery comes in. Look, I'm not a
better person at all, I use manipulation on people as well to get
what I want. If your target is unaware of what you're doing, all the
better.
I had told Jack he was a guy “to be
trusted” (which,in fact, he wasn't) and his eye lit up, his self
esteem rose and he happily invited Jim and I into his bedroom. On his
bed, floor and tables were piles and piles of fireworks. We picked
out what we want as he tallied the price on a brown paper bag. We
paid him and I told him, as a ruse, I may want to come back and buy
$20 more. This got his greed showing.
As we left the house, which I found
surprisingly neat and clean on the inside, we walked into a throng of
local punks. They surrounded us and a few of them started to descend
on our bags full of goodies. Shit! We're being robbed I thought.
That's when Jack, with his criminal heart softened with flattery by
me, stepped up and threatened to bash the face of any who molested
us. Repeat business is good and having your customers mugged outside
your store ain't good for business.
Jim and I hopped on our bikes and sped
away with our fireworks when I mentioned to him that I was “never
going back.”
Had I grown up on John St, it would all
be normal as the sun, but I hadn't.
By the way, the wealthy of Barrington
would look down upon me as scum. I would evoke that very same feeling
I had about John St.
“What? ”You're from
Pawtucket?” I can hear the Barrignton-nite say, as they
puke a little in their mouths.
Here's a little synopsis of the Eddie
Coyle movie.
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