…To Thine Own Self Be True

In denying our White Trash heritage, my mother would often forbid me to play at the trailers of the overtly WT, those who reveled in their true nature and weren’t afraid to show it.

How I loved the forbidden fruit of my childhood! I would sneak over to their houses whenever I could and glory in the trashiness. No matter what girl I played with, they all shared one of three names: Amber, Destiny, or Misty. There was almost always a pregnant older sister, and there was ALWAYS a lazy older brother still asleep at noon in a tiny cramped room with sheets on the window instead of curtains. The fridges were always stocked with canned beer (bottles were for people trying to act ‘better’ than they were) and huge packages of bright-orange Velveeta. You had no right to call yourself White Trash unless you ate Velveeta at least once a day. I believe this is still the rule. And SPAM of course, what would it be without SPAM? Oh, we ate SPAM too–the PBP weren’t so classy after all–but a PBP slices it very thin and fries it until it’s like bacon. A WT eats it the way God intended: just dump the pink mush onto bread, thick white slime and all, add some mustard and some pickle slices, and there’s a gourmet treat..

I could go on forever about WT cuisine…look for that entry soon.

Mmm…SPAM! You look great in that pic, Dad.

Of course it was these homes where I could taste beer, stuff my bra, read dirty books, try on bright red and pink lipstick and velvet-smooth torquoise eyeshadow, and find out what men and women really did when they got naked together. (If you don’t know, it’s pretty gross.)

While my immediate family lamented the WT side of my family, I loved holidays with a passion because we all got together, including my favorite uncle ever, my Uncle Everet, who knew how to make moonshine and would sit on the porch and coax tunes from The Eagles and Lynyrd Skynyrd out of his cracked guitar.

I didn’t really see my WT friends anymore when we went into high school. We split into different groups. They wore the fabulous tight blue jeans and low-cut shirts with sequins on them, and the wonderfully trashy combination of spiked heels and ankle socks. I wore…well, sweater sets and pleated skirts. Let’s not dwell on that. It got to where we just gave each other self-conscious smiles in the bathroom. Look at that, my equally well-scrubbed friends would whisper, they must have yeast infections all the time from wearing their pants so tight.

I’d nod, but would always linger for one last look at Charlie-scented cleavage and teased hair. The glory of trashy hair: permed, bleached, fried and teased until it crunched, full of hairspray and feather barrettes. The crowning glory, was of course, was the bangs, teased into a ball so big it looked like a bird’s nest had been glued to the forehead.

I dated clean-cut college-bound boys from the football team and school newspaper, who knew to keep their hands to themselves. The WT girls had sex with boys in tight jeans and the bleached Skoal-ring on their back pockets.

I may have read Victorian novels and placed my napkin in my lap, but my soul was at the roller rink, where lean Skoal boys squeezed the butts of their round Sally-banged girls during the couple’s skate.

People called them sluts, these WT girls who knew how to have fun and didn’t worry about what people thought, or if they’d be able to fit their bangs through the neckhole of their shirts. In high school, especially a Southern high school, ’slut’ is the Absolute Worst Thing you can be called. So of course this rebellious streak in me, this dark secret place full of glittery eye shadow and cheap bangle bracelets, longed to be called ’slut.’ Just once. But I never was.

I feel like I missed out on so much, forced to deny my true nature. But I loved the WT then, and I love them now. I really do belong, and it does my soul good. So what am I saying? Be true to yourself. Do what makes you happy, be who you want to be. If people don’t like it, they can kiss your White Trash (or preppy or goth or gay or silly or whoever you are and whoever you want to be) butt.

Now THIS is a proud family. They are an inspiration to us all.

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