100 Yards From the Trailer Park

Let me just say right up front that I waste way too much time on Facebook. My husband and I used to say that we'd love to have videotapes of our old friends' lives, so we could see what they were up to at the present moment--and now we have Facebook, which is pretty close to the same thing. Except you get daily updates, which is even better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it--see my confession about wasted time.

Lately, though, I've been noticing how many of my Facebook friends seem to be comfortable with the phrase "white trash." One of them recently moved to a new city and announced she had "discovered the land of whiny children and their white trash mothers." (Or something like that--I'm paraphrasing, but I know I got the relevant two words right.) Another took one of the millions of silly face book quizzes in order to discover her "white trash name." Those are just two examples, but I've seen or heard those words far too often in the last month or so.

My father grew up in a family that no doubt was referred to as white trash: absent father, numerous children raised in abject poverty. No one was paying attention to what he did, so my father did whatever he wanted to do and, as a result, got himself into lots of trouble. My mother grew up poor, but her family went to church and owned a farm and a home--they were probably a few rungs above what would have been called white trash, but they watched people slip back down the ladder during the Great Depression. My mother knew just exactly how easy it would be to lose everything, including her precarious just-above-the-bottom social status.

As adults, both of my parents lived in terror of being thought "trashy." I know this because I was cautioned against trashy behavior, clothing and talk throughout the years I lived at home. Being trashy meant many different things, but among those things were promiscuity (or even the suggestion of it, in either clothing or speech or behavior), cursing, and leaving the house without "fixing yourself up." That meant presentable clothing, good shoes, and make-up. (But not too much, lest you should veer into trashy territory again.) Not having money wasn't shameful, as far as my parents were concerned. Acting like you didn't care what people thought of you--well, that was beyond shameful. That was "trashy".

My mother used to say "As long I'm at least 100 yards from the trailer park, I know I'm doing all right." I don't think I knew what she meant by that, when I was younger; I'm pretty sure I thought she just didn't like the idea of living in a trailer. Now, though, it's clear my mom and dad were keeping an eye on class markers: As long as we stay on this side of the line, we know we're okay. My dad had pulled himself out of poverty on his own, with a career in the Army, and he was determined not to backslide into "white trash" territory. My mom had seen just exactly how easy that kind of slipping could be. They raised three kids on one very modest income, which couldn't have been easy, even all those years ago.

But I didn't know my family lacked money. I thought my parents were frugal--not incapable of buying me the clothes I wanted, just reluctant to spend that much money on a pair of jeans. They were frugal, of course, but out of necessity. Credit was harder to come by, for one thing, but debt was a one-way ticket straight back into the trailer park--not an option. So I wore my one pair of brand-name jeans to school every single day and scowled at my mother, thinking she was cheap. When I was old enough to get a job, it didn't occur to me that my parents encouraged it to ease the financial strain on our family; I thought they wanted me to learn responsibility. And they did, of course, but I can see now that this desire was probably secondary to the need to loosen up the family budget.

My parents would want me to be very clear about this: I did not grow up poor. We owned a house that was definitely more than 100 yards from the nearest trailer park. That house needed serious repairs when we moved in, but over time my dad made those repairs himself. He remodeled the basement so my brother and I would have a play room. He kept a huge garden in the adjacent lot, purchased with our house, until his back gave out and he had to sell it. My mother spent days canning produce so we'd have fruits and vegetables to eat throughout the winter. My dad went hunting so we'd have meat. Nobody ever went to bed hungry. If I claimed, now, to have grown up poor, my mother would say "You don't know what poor is," and she'd be right. My parents made very sure I didn't know what it meant to live in poverty, because they knew how people who live in poverty are viewed. They're trash. They're useless. They're disposable.

Over dinner last night, my husband and I were pointing out to our kids that the goal of families is to help each generation do a little better than the last. I have more education than either of my parents would have imagined was possible for one of their children. Together, my husband and I make three times what my father made in salary. We're paying off student loans and other debts we accumulated during graduate school, so a lot of our money isn't available for spending--money is tight, to say the least--but we live in a very nice house, in a very nice neighborhood. There's no trailer park in sight. And I know that's the way my parents wanted it for me. They worked hard to get me here.

So forgive me if I'm a little sensitive to the term "white trash," if I don't find it all that amusing when people play at being queen of the trailer park or make a disparaging comment about the woman at Wal-Mart, the one with the bratty kids. A few generations ago, at a local store somewhere in Iowa, that woman was my grandmother. One of those kids was my father. And if he was misbehaving, that's probably because he was starving. Or frustrated at hearing his mother tell him, again, No, you can't have that. Or very, very tired after a long walk into town.

Sometimes You Blog About Idaho

I've been feeling nostalgic for the Northwest here of late--probably because it's been so blazing hot in Texas this summer. (My mom tells me it's been hot in Boise, too, but I'm betting it doesn't feel as hot as 35 days of temperatures over 100.) My mom, sister and older niece went on a church retreat in an area near the Sawtooths last weekend. One of my nieces now lives in Montana. The pictures they've all been posting on Facebook make me want to just sit down and weep.

Which is interesting, because I was explaining to a friend just a few days ago that the Northwest doesn't really feel like my home anymore. Why, then, do I keep checking the Chronicle's job listings, hoping to see a job opening in Idaho? Or Montana? Or Washington? Or Oregon? Or even Colorado?

I've already written about the weirdly conflicted relationship I have with Boise--I know moving back there probably wouldn't be a good idea. Much as I'd like to be closer to my parents, especially now that my dad's health is failing and my mom needs all the help she can get, it's easier for me to be the person I am now when I keep some space between the me that was and the me that is. Last time I visited my parents, my dad said "I'm still surprised that you're a college English professor--I always thought you'd go into teaching the deaf. You were always reading books about that Helen Keller."

Yes, I was. When I was ten years old.

Another good friend of mine, a theology professor, recently wrote a blog entry about Mark 6:4, the Bible passage in which we're told that even prophets have trouble earning respect when they go home--back to the people who knew them as children tromping through the flowerbeds, terrorizing the cat, procrastinating on completing their chores. I suppose even Jesus's neighbors wondered if he'd ever amount to anything. I know it's hard for my family to see me as something other than a loudmouth teenager with lots of uninformed opinions--that's who I was the last time I lived at home. When I talk about growing up with my dad, sometimes my husband just shakes his head in disbelief. "That doesn't even sound like the same person I know," he says. And of course, it's not.

So I don't feel at home in Boise, in the sense of feeling like that's where I can be my honest self--but the Northwest is definitely a place I'm connected to. There's something about a horizon ridged with mountains that puts a big lump in my throat. Something about the smell of pine trees does the same thing. I often hear people talk about the smells they associate with their grandmothers' houses, but I didn't know my grandparents when I was growing up--it's the smell of the forest that catapults me back into my childhood, back into the camper with my parents and my brother. Sometimes, that kind of emotional response can get confused with the need to take some action, to make a change.

But just this morning my husband and I were talking about whether we'd really want to move farther north, out of the Texas heat, if we had the chance. We both agree that the Midwest is a place we don't feel compelled to return to--we've lived in Kansas, Iowa and Missouri, and none of those places has a hold on either of us. The Northeast might be a possibility; we've never lived there, so it would be a new adventure.

And the Northwest? Maybe.

"At this point,I just think I'm more of a live oak guy than a pine tree guy," my husband said.

I don't know if I'd get choked up over a picture of a live oak tree, but I do know that I'd miss the live oaks and their beautiful bonsai shapes if we left Texas. And the wildflowers growing by the roadsides every spring. And the great big storms with thunder loud enough to rattle the windows--those used to scare me, but now I find myself outside with the neighbors, watching the clouds roll in, welcoming the drama.

I suppose I may never feel about Texas the way I feel about Idaho, but I'm not sure I need to feel that way in order for this to be my home. Maybe what I'm responding to when I see a photo of mountains and pine trees isn't the Idaho landscape at all, but what it helps me understand: the enormity of creation, its ability to remind us of how small and insignificant we are in the greater scheme of things.

What is the story of my Jeopardy audition?

I flew to Kansas City last Thursday to audition for Jeopardy. I was really surprised to receive an email invitation to the audition in May—the online test had been way back in January, and I’d long since given up on hoping that I’d hear from them. Plus, I really didn’t think I did that well on the test. But I did well enough, apparently.

I’ll admit that I felt pretty silly flying all the way to Kansas City. It was an expense my family really couldn’t afford, but my husband had encouraged me to go anyway. I was afraid that everyone at the audition would have driven in from suburban KC, maybe mid-Kansas or Missouri; I was afraid of looking like the ridiculous woman who’s so desperate to prove her intellect that she’ll travel BY PLANE to an audition that provides her with a 10% chance of being on a quiz show.

I needn’t have worried. My audition group comprised several people from Dallas and Austin, as well as a guy from Denver and another from New Mexico. I don’t think I would have won the prize for Longest Trip to the Audition. Several members of the group had already been through the audition process more than once. The woman who sat next to me at my table said she’d been invited to appear on the show in the 70’s, but turned down the offer because she was planning her wedding. “Turning down that invitation was the second biggest mistake of my life,” she said. I waited a moment, wondering if I should ask the obvious question. Then she added, “The biggest mistake was getting married to that guy.”

“I was going to ask,” I said, “but I thought, ‘That would be really rude, if I were wrong.’”

Our group met in a small ballroom in the lobby of a nice hotel on the Country Club Plaza. As soon as each of us entered the room, a contestant coordinator took a Polaroid picture for our files. I was dreading the photo as I watched it develop--Polaroids make everyone look pasty, and I really don’t need help in that department--but as the picture emerged, I was pleased to see that I looked pretty good. Certainly not the worst picture I’ve ever taken, in any case. (That honor is still reserved for what a former boyfriend called the Eyes Without a Face photo, featured on my military dependent ID.)

We filled out some general paperwork—no, I don’t know anyone who works for Jeopardy; no, I’ve never been convicted of a felony—and then we were welcomed by the Jeopardy crew, all of whom were very friendly and upbeat and encouraged us to be the same. They talked us through a sample game, during which we raised our hands to answer sample questions. Then we took a written test, similar to the online test we’d taken back in January, except this time we had only 8 seconds to come up with a response. Clues appeared on a video screen and were read aloud by a member of the Clue Crew. Some I absolutely knew; some I absolutely didn’t. Studying world geography for the last few weeks earned me one correct answer that I never would have known otherwise. We’d been encouraged to guess, since incorrect answers weren’t counted against our scores, so I did that when I could. When I couldn’t, I let it go and moved on.

While the J-Crew went outside to grade our tests, we all compared notes on our answers. Of course, as soon as people provided the answers I couldn’t come up with on my own, they seemed completely obvious and I was annoyed with myself for missing them. I’ve read in other blogs that the written test is mostly used to verify that you are, in fact, the person who took the online test—that you weren’t one of a group of ten people collaborating on the answers, or a super-fast Googler—so I hope that’s true, and I hope I did well enough to confirm my identity.

After the written test, the real fun began: we were called to the front of the room, three at a time, to play a mock round of Jeopardy complete with buzzers. Let me just say, I ruled the buzzer. I was first to ring in several times, got all my questions right, and on two occasions I rang in after the first-place person had given an incorrect response.

After the mock game, we introduced ourselves and did a little Q and A with the J-Crew. I’m assuming this part of the audition is to assess how well you can speak in front of a group—which is where being a professor comes in handy, since I do that for a living. Some of the people in my group had no sense of when a story had gone on far too long. Others thought their stories were much more interesting than they actually were. I tried to keep it short, sweet, and mildly amusing.

And then we were done. After so many weeks of studying and looking forward to the audition, I was a little sad to walk out of the room knowing it was over—and a little relieved. The last month has been vaguely reminiscent of the weeks leading up to my doctoral exams, when taking a moment to relax felt like a decision I might regret later. When I mentioned this to a friend, he laughed and said “What’s the big deal? It’s not like your career is riding on this.”

“No,” I said. “But my hardwood floors are.”

The Price of Expertise

A former student sent me an email a few months ago, asking how he might go about getting his work published. (I resisted the urge to write back and say "If you'd paid attention during class, you'd already know the answer to that question.") Last week he sent me the opening 50 pages of a novel he's been working on. To his credit, he said all the right things in his email: No rush to respond. I know you're busy. Maybe just read the first few pages, when you have the time.

As it happens, this student was a decent writer--he wrote one of the best poems I've ever seen a student produce--and a fairly diligent presence in the classroom. Since he was part of a pretty mediocre (on a good day) workshop group, that's saying something. I'd be happy if he wound up publishing his work someday, and I'll probably take a look at his manuscript for that reason alone. But I can't get past the fact that he, like so many former students, presumes that my expertise should be offered up for free.

I'm sure the basis of that presumption rests on the fact that I'm a teacher. It's my job to disseminate information--why wouldn't I continue to do that long after my students have left my classes, or even graduated from the university? Students just don't make that connection between paying tuition and paying my salary. Many of them don't know anyone else who writes fiction or poetry; even fewer know someone who has successfully published creative work. It makes sense that they'd turn to me for advice, since I fit both of those categories.

And I know my students don't realize that manuscript review is a service I perform--for two to three hundred dollars--on a freelance basis, when a university press needs an outside reviewer. I doubt they ever think about the fact that I paid thousands of dollars in my own tuition--money I'm still paying back in student loans--to gain the knowledge I pass along to them in classroom.

Which leaves me wondering: is my advice presumed to be free after graduation because educators are notoriously underpaid? Perhaps the logic works this way: If I'm willing to work for so little money, why would I mind working for no money at all?

When I mentioned this to my husband, he was quick to point out that people are always asking for free advice: "Should I get this checked out?" they might ask the doctor who happens to live next door and gets paid much more than I do. In truth, that's not too far removed from "Can you tell me if I'm on the right track here?" It's a sort of pre-diagnosis they're asking for--not an expert opinion, not exactly. You haven't named the problem precisely, just indicated that it might exist.

Of course, if I wrote back to this student and said "No, you're definitely on the wrong track here," he'd want to know where and how he'd gone wrong. Without that information, my opinion isn't worth much of anything. It's just a reaction. As I tell my students, there's a big different between saying "I think this sucks" and "I got really confused after page three because . . . " One response simply indicates that the story didn't work for you; the other demonstrates that you've given some thought to why it didn't work.

As I said earlier, I'll probably read what my student sent me. I'll probably send him a response that is at least somewhat specific. And I'll probably feel better for having done this. Really, the bottom line is what's more important to me: to get paid, or to help bring good books into the world? As long as my answer is the latter, not the former, free expertise is the price I'll pay.

Like winning the lottery

Late last week I found out that I've been invited to audition for Jeopardy! on June 26th. So much time had passed since I took the online test, I'd assumed I had either missed too many of the questions (entirely possible) or just hadn't been selected from among those who did make the cut. Now, I feel like I've won the lottery.

I'll have to fly to Kansas City for my audition, which won't be cheap, but even my very frugal mother said "Oh, you have to go. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." She's right, of course. No telling whether something like this will actually happen again. Plus, I was freaking out about money just a week or so ago, trying to think of ways to get my hands on a big chunk of cash to pay down some of our bills--and, suddenly, this opportunity falls into my lap. I don't believe that's a coincidence.

So I'm taking this rather seriously. It feels like I'm being given a chance to do something here, so I'm going to do my best with it.

And it's kind of cool to feel like a student again, instead of a teacher. Right now I'm just letting myself browse among a variety of subjects, feeding my brain. For example: I've learned that the capital city of Zimbabwe is Harare; when Zimbabwe was Rhodesia, the capital city was called Salisbury. Over the weekend I taught myself to label all 53 African countries. (I'm too ashamed to admit how few I could label on my first attempt.) This morning I started going through my son's flashcards on U.S. Presidents and found myself fascinated by a subject that I'd thought would be a bore.

I think I've won the lottery in more than one way: not only do I get a chance to audition for my favorite game show and, perhaps, make some money for my family, I also have an excuse to sharpen my mind and freshen my knowledge of the world. I've always been curious, and I've always loved learning for its own sake, but life often gets in the way of such noble intentions.

Now, though, life itself is the subject. Last night, helping my son build an edible model of a cell for his science class, I realized I was studying as we worked. What might have felt like a waste of time (because, come on, do we need to build an edible model of a cell? Couldn't we just draw it on paper?) suddenly became an opportunity for the two of us to work together toward our own goals, to help each other out.

Maybe seeing connections like this will be the real reward of my Jeopardy! experience. Or, maybe, a chunk of cash. Either way, I'm a winner.

I Am Nobody's Peach

Finally, finally we've reached the end of the spring semester--but not without several weeks' worth of Senior Seminar presentations. We had the usual variety of topics, ranging from media law to Stephen King to Miss America. There were excellent presentations and not-so-excellent presentations and downright awful presentations. Our students run the gamut.

The presentation that's sticking with me today, perhaps because it was one of the last ones we heard, came from a student who had done a psychoanalytic treatment of James and the Giant Peach. His basic argument seemed to be that, after losing his biological mother, James seeks mothering from the peach because he doesn't get it from his aunts--and because he gets what he needs from the peach, he's able to grow and prosper in healthy ways. One of my colleagues challenged this reading by suggesting that James doesn't grow as the result of climbing into the "womb" of the giant peach--that by the end of the story he's still living in the desiccated carcass of his "mother," Norman Bates-style, without having grown up at all. Separating from your mother is, after all, a necessary part of healthy adult life. Our student wanted to argue that, since we don't see James as an adult, all we can know is that he's happy and healthy where we leave him, which seems like the point the story wants to make.

Another colleague, however, pointed out that this dynamic isn't particularly kind to the mother/peach; essentially, she's just expected to give and give until she's sucked dry, at which point she becomes something completely different--a domicile--but still defined by the needs of her "child." Can we really claim that James grows into a well-adjusted person if what he's learned is that it's okay to use others for your own purposes, without thinking about what's best for them? The student's response to this question suggested that the noblest thing a mother can do for her child is to sacrifice herself entirely, and there's nothing unkind about that--it's just what good mothers do, and it's how healthy adults are produced.

This student and I have been butting heads in a relatively benign way all semester in the Senior Seminar course, but it took a good measure of restraint for me not to point out the utter absurdity of that argument. It's not new, of course. There are plenty of people who agree with him. But if they're right, then why are mothers directed to put on their own oxygen masks, in the event of a plane crash, before helping their children do the same? Because the airlines know what everyone else should, by now: a mother can't be helpful to anyone if she's unconscious (or, in the case of the peach, sucked dry of her vital juices.) She has to put herself first, not last, to be of any use.

Becoming a mother was the most liberating thing that has happened to me in my life. By liberating, I certainly don't mean lacking constraints; motherhood is, if nothing else, a long process of learning to be constrained by the demands of others. But those demands are liberating in their own way.

For example: when my daughter was only a few months old, I took her for a walk in her carriage one afternoon. Within the first few moments of our walk, a huge dog was bounding across the park toward us, off leash. I didn't know what to do. Running, I thought, would only encourage a chase--so I just stood still, hoping he'd lose interest in us if I didn't encourage his attention.

Instead, almost immediately, the dog stuck his head down into the carriage. I didn't wait to see whether he was going to harm my baby; I didn't worry that he was going to whip around and bite my hand off. I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him off his front feet. By then his owner was running across the park toward us, yelling "It's okay! He won't hurt anybody! He's very friendly!" Still, I held on to the yelping dog until his owner arrived with his leash.

Even now, almost fifteen years later, I have no idea how I lifted that huge dog off his feet with one hand. But I know why I did it: becoming a mother had freed me of the fears that would have plagued me otherwise--fear of injury, fear of looking like a silly woman who's afraid of a friendly dog. I was the only person available to take charge of the situation, so I did.

In other words, I put myself first. I trusted my judgement and went into action on the basis of that judgement, without a second thought. If sacrifice is the act of being whatever our children determine they need, mothering is the act of deciding what's best for them, putting our judgement before theirs.

Children need whole, vibrant, thinking people in their lives. They need people to take charge when they're too young and small to do so themselves, but they also need people to offer guidance and sustenance when they're old enough to be more autonomous. The only way we'll have something to offer them at every point in their lives is to hold a part of ourselves in reserve at all times--to refuse to give our whole selves, ever.

I am nobody's peach. And I'm proud to say it.

Making Time to Forgive

You'll note that it's been over a month since my last blog entry. Between spring break, Women's Week on campus (immediately following spring break), and the usual mad dash toward the end of the semester, it's been a hectic month.

Today, however, with Easter on the immediate horizon, I'm making time to think about the nature of forgiveness. Several months ago I met a woman who'd lost a child as the result of a violent crime, and she told me how much she'd learned from that experience. For instance: you're going to have to forgive a lot of people, she said--not only the ones who hurt your child, but the ones who hurt you. They do this by directing conversation away from your grief (in order to avoid creating uncomfortable moments for themselves), or by ignoring you completely because they don't know what to say. Dealing with the death of her child was horrific, of course, but dealing with the requirements of her new life--that was downright exhausting, she said.

Forgiveness takes more time (and much more energy) than writing someone off; you have to forgive all over again whenever you think about the wrongs people have done to you. Perhaps that's why human beings tend to be quick to anger and slow to mercy. Whenever he's faced with someone's anger, my dad likes to say "They'll get over it. If they don't, they're going to be mad for a long, long time." And we do get over it, most of the time. We cool off. Anger is short-lived and very efficient in relieving the pressure of a moment. But that's about all it can accomplish. Held in place, it turns into a grudge--anger that accomplishes absolutely nothing. Forgiveness, on the other hand, is the choice to clear away the anger and put good will in its place, even when that's not what you feel like doing. Especially when that's not what you feel like doing. And it accomplishes much more than anger ever will.

Earlier this week, one of my students was telling the story of how her family had reached out to help a homeless man--who had then gone on to steal from her family, rather than showing gratitude for their help. "That's why we don't help homeless people anymore," she said. "You just can't trust them." It's a logical conclusion (albeit overgeneralized), but it's based in anger. Imagine how many others might be helped by that family's choice to forgive one person's selfishness.

This morning I was thinking about someone I find it very hard to forgive, but I stopped myself from running (yet again) through the catalog of his wrongdoings. I told myself to let it go and hope he'd find a way to be at peace with himself. I decided to listen to what I'd told my student: "You did the right thing. How someone responds to that has nothing to do with you--that's his choice. But if you use his behavior as an excuse to stop doing the right thing, then his choice becomes your choice."

My job in this world is to try to do the right thing more often than not--and to take the time to forgive the people who might keep me from doing that. It's hard to remember but absolutely true that forgiveness isn't something you do for the person who's done you wrong. You do it to empower yourself. You do it to change the world.