Trailer Trash

I deplore the word "trailer trash," but I respect that it exists because I do not fear words, neither the good nor the ugly. I fear the people from whose mouths the ugly words come.

I grew up in a trailer. Actually, it was worse than a trailer. It was hybrid trailer, the result of a liasion between a shack and a trailer. A ridged metal monstrosity sided in black. With garbage bags over the windows in the winter time to keep the warm air in. With well water that ran out after the second person showered. With windows that rolled out instead of rose up.

What I would have given for windows that rose up.

I didn't harbor intense shame over this in my early years, probably because the countryside where I lived was dotted in trailers, hybrid trailers, double wides, modular homes, and rambling farmhouses. None were any better than the others. As country kids, we weren't expected to spend much time in the house, anyway. We were encouraged to crunch through the woods, climb trees, and wade in creeks. The house was for homework, baths, meals and bed.

I always noticed houses but never coveted anyone else's, until I hit middle school. It seemed that everything that I possessed, from my hair to mind to my home, was inferior. Amy lived in a split level. I wanted to live in a split level. Laurie lived in a rancher. I wanted to live in a rancher.

Homes became important. Foyers were interesting. Basement rec rooms were amazing. Half baths were practical. "I like your plantation shutters," I would say to a girlfriend; in the spirit of the "haves" taking things for granted, she would answer: "What are plantation shutters?" My childhood best friend's mother even sent me "before" and "after" pictures of her home when she remodeled it, knowing how much I appreciated a good house.

In French class in tenth grade, we had to describe our houses. People who rode my bus were also in my french class, so I couldn't take liberties with the outside (though just how does one say, "It is a small trailer sided with black, recycled cardboard" with a smile on the face, in French) but I could sure as hell create a designer's dream inside--jacuzzi bath, cream colored carpet, double fridge, laundry chute. You think I was going to be honest about the wood paneling? (in retrospect, though--did anyone even pay attention?).

People throw out "trailer trash" like it is the ultimate insult . But I have learned that "trailer trash" has nothing to do with the house where you live. It is a mentality. And I've known far more people who live in lovely, sided homes with double garages and windows that slide up and paved driveways and half baths that fit the criteria for "trailer trash" more than I (or the people who live in the countryside near my parents) ever will.

It is, to me, a mindset of genuine laziness, of working the system, of disinterest and neglect in their children. It is a a "me, me, me" attitude. It is a deficit of conscience or morality. It transcends houses and geographic location and income levels and background.

I've met a lot of people whom I could describe as "trailer trash," and more often than not, they live in lovely homes. They are often racist, do not value education, falsely claim to have a disability that precludes them from working, and allow their children to raise themselves. They are first to extoll the virtures of family and friendship, yet, in reality, the only people that they care about are themselves. They are inappropriate, yet feel entitled to be that way because this is their world, goddamnit it, and "if you don't like it, you can go back to whatever country you came from."

Someone I love used the word "trailer trash" the other day to describe a person with whom she was angry. I paused and said, "Do you realize that I grew up in a trailer?" and she said, "I don't mean you. You're not like that." Then, she corrected herself: "You're not like most people who grew up in a trailer."

Is that so? I thought. And then I thought, yes, yes, I am. We were poor, hardworking, loving, fair, honest, and respectful,just like most of the families who lived nearby. If that makes us "trailer trash," then I'm glad to be part of the club.

Say it to me again. Call me Trailer Trash. I'm starting to like it.

(Though I still think it's ridiculous to attach the word "trailer" to it. Why not just be "trash" and call it a day?)

P.S. The picture above is of my parent's house, a few years ago. This was after the new roof, the wood siding, and my mother's own "from the heart" landscaping. It is a lovely house. I could say that it is now warm, cozy, and lovely, but it was always that way, even prior to the "renovations." It was a wonderful place to have grown up.