Thursday, July 01, 2004
A Diamond in the Trash
When I was home in Rochester a few weeks ago, my dad, relayed the epithet that my brother had recently applied to our family. "You know what we are?" he had apparently said. "We're rich white trash."
For years I have been searching for a simple way to describe where I come from—a 1950s mint green, split-level house with a pink oven built into the wall, worn down brown carpeting camouflaging years of hairballs and canine kidney problems, a huge yard in which the grass doesn't grow, dead rose bushes, giant multi-colored Christmas lights thrown haphazardly over bushes that haven't been trimmed in years, white walls turned yellow by a 3 pack-a-day smoker, a plastic wall clock that dons 12 composers faces and plays a sampling of their oeuvre each hour--Eine Kleine Nachtmusik at 7 that gets slower and lower in pitch as the batteries wear down, a water-damaged, framed poster of Baryshnikov, a mirror inscribed with the "Footprints" poem, a lavender bedroom scarred by masking tape that once held up dozens of New Kids posters, a book shelf made of cinder blocks and papered 2x4s, a computer so ridden with viruses that it fights back, hardwood floors that haven't been varnished in years, white-painted brick on the fireplace used semi-annually to light a DuraFlame log, an out-of-tune upright piano, Hamburger Helper and Chicken Tonight, all-you-can-eat Little Debbie snacks, a crooked basketball hoop only 8 and a half feet off the ground, "beef burgundy" which was stew beef cooked in cream of mushroom soup served over mashed potatoes, a chipmunk infestation egged on by my mother's Snow White complex…
All of this in a beautiful prewar neighborhood, one of Rochester's first suburbs…a far cry from the white, treeless labyrinths that characterize the deep suburbs. My brother and I both went to prestigious private universities, have (or had, in my case) impressive white-collar jobs and are surrounded by people from important families, who have always had the right connections and opportunities. But we also both worked several summers in factories, like cheap beer, and dream of going back to a rented summer house in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where once a year, with thousands of other middle class New Yorkers, we pretended we were really rich.
People at our family Christmas parties really do have mustaches and wear trucker caps, did so before it was a hipster fashion trend and will continue to now that it is "out". They are suicidal alcoholics and abusive wives, single mothers with brilliant kids and irresponsible gamblers, bus drivers and nurses, university deans and teachers, cooks and travelling salespeople. They drive revved up Camaros and Jimmys, Toyotas and Hondas. A strange mix, straddling gentrified yuppie-dom and down-home trashiness.
Every day in France, I have the impression that I am tricking people. The only Americans they ever really see (apart from the tourists, who rarely stray from the center of the city) are well-educated, well-dressed girls that don't have much first-hand experience with Middle America, meaning the true middle class. And the French assume I am that way too. After all, when I am out of context you would have no idea, except for my innate fear of sparsely decorated boutiques and taxis and love of working class neighborhoods and dives. And the way I fly around the planet like it's nothing…in New York one day, London the next, Paris, Istanbul, Chicago. But believe me, I do not travel in style. I am a member of the small white trash jet set: taking the subway to the airport, traveling in coach, sleeping in airport chairs, treating myself occasionally to a magazine, and always having transfers in weird ass places because the direct flights are so pricy. The past couple of weeks were spent traveling to my various "homes" and were marked by a lot of funny events that somehow made me hyperaware of my rich white trash side. I've mined some of the highlights from my memory that will be appearing in the next several posts.
Oh, and by the way, it's Old Milwaukee and Bud not PBR, my white trash wannabe friends.
For years I have been searching for a simple way to describe where I come from—a 1950s mint green, split-level house with a pink oven built into the wall, worn down brown carpeting camouflaging years of hairballs and canine kidney problems, a huge yard in which the grass doesn't grow, dead rose bushes, giant multi-colored Christmas lights thrown haphazardly over bushes that haven't been trimmed in years, white walls turned yellow by a 3 pack-a-day smoker, a plastic wall clock that dons 12 composers faces and plays a sampling of their oeuvre each hour--Eine Kleine Nachtmusik at 7 that gets slower and lower in pitch as the batteries wear down, a water-damaged, framed poster of Baryshnikov, a mirror inscribed with the "Footprints" poem, a lavender bedroom scarred by masking tape that once held up dozens of New Kids posters, a book shelf made of cinder blocks and papered 2x4s, a computer so ridden with viruses that it fights back, hardwood floors that haven't been varnished in years, white-painted brick on the fireplace used semi-annually to light a DuraFlame log, an out-of-tune upright piano, Hamburger Helper and Chicken Tonight, all-you-can-eat Little Debbie snacks, a crooked basketball hoop only 8 and a half feet off the ground, "beef burgundy" which was stew beef cooked in cream of mushroom soup served over mashed potatoes, a chipmunk infestation egged on by my mother's Snow White complex…
All of this in a beautiful prewar neighborhood, one of Rochester's first suburbs…a far cry from the white, treeless labyrinths that characterize the deep suburbs. My brother and I both went to prestigious private universities, have (or had, in my case) impressive white-collar jobs and are surrounded by people from important families, who have always had the right connections and opportunities. But we also both worked several summers in factories, like cheap beer, and dream of going back to a rented summer house in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where once a year, with thousands of other middle class New Yorkers, we pretended we were really rich.
People at our family Christmas parties really do have mustaches and wear trucker caps, did so before it was a hipster fashion trend and will continue to now that it is "out". They are suicidal alcoholics and abusive wives, single mothers with brilliant kids and irresponsible gamblers, bus drivers and nurses, university deans and teachers, cooks and travelling salespeople. They drive revved up Camaros and Jimmys, Toyotas and Hondas. A strange mix, straddling gentrified yuppie-dom and down-home trashiness.
Every day in France, I have the impression that I am tricking people. The only Americans they ever really see (apart from the tourists, who rarely stray from the center of the city) are well-educated, well-dressed girls that don't have much first-hand experience with Middle America, meaning the true middle class. And the French assume I am that way too. After all, when I am out of context you would have no idea, except for my innate fear of sparsely decorated boutiques and taxis and love of working class neighborhoods and dives. And the way I fly around the planet like it's nothing…in New York one day, London the next, Paris, Istanbul, Chicago. But believe me, I do not travel in style. I am a member of the small white trash jet set: taking the subway to the airport, traveling in coach, sleeping in airport chairs, treating myself occasionally to a magazine, and always having transfers in weird ass places because the direct flights are so pricy. The past couple of weeks were spent traveling to my various "homes" and were marked by a lot of funny events that somehow made me hyperaware of my rich white trash side. I've mined some of the highlights from my memory that will be appearing in the next several posts.
Oh, and by the way, it's Old Milwaukee and Bud not PBR, my white trash wannabe friends.
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