By nature I am always rooting for the underdog. As a Saggitarius, it is a given that we are all equal, wonderful and friendly! Raised in an upperclass white environment in the fifties, however, I absorbed phrases and registered strong impressions in my being, that have surfaced through the years, just like everyone else!
One wave was having found a black woman to care for my son in 1965. I adored Willie, how she raised her kids, coped with the Civil Rights Movement and graciously educated my husband and I--a task far beyond the call of a "babysitter." When we met, Georgie was about 6 months old. I remember unbundling him, and telling her I didn't know how he'd respond to her color, since he'd never seen a black person before. In her compassion she gently responded, "He doesn't see color, honey, only you do!"
Another wave came when I gained a job working with people with serious mental illness. I have grandiose confidence in my social work skills, but within a week of starting the new job I was having nightmares of being trapped by a "raving maniac" or chased by weapon welding manic depressives. I finally talked with my supervisor, suggesting I might need to quit the job. She shook her head. "We're not letting you go. I think you need to go to the 'back wards' at Warm Springs (our state mental hospital). Just the thought sent fear through my body.
Montana's freeways are generally empty and my mind wandered as I made the two hour drive. I was amazed at the scenes that arrived. I was very young, too young to track conversations in the front seat of my parents' Cadillac as I watched the world go by. Repeatedly we came to a stop light and I stared through a cyclone fence not eight feet from me. The saddest souls gripped the fence and stared back, dressed in baggy clothes, with their identical unkempt hair , obviously cut by sissors chopping chunks close to the scalp. Behind them stood a monolithic brick building with all the doors shut and bars on the windows. Inside I saw bare lightbulbs and drab dirty walls. By the end of the trip I was wet with anxiety.
My childhood memory was based on a world without psychotropic drugs that still sends shivers through me. Most of the patients I encountered at Warm Springs were slowly functioning, had hopes and dreams not too different than my own, and would never be a threat to my world or my body.
Now I'm struggling with yet another label learned from childhood: white trash. This one imprinted when my parents saw trailer parks, or drove through the white ghettos in Rochester. The message to me was we are above all that. We'd never have junk cars in our yards, live in a mobile home or in shabby neighborhoods like they did. Yet my life dictated trailers, and trailer parks, and the first home I purchased (and likely the last) was a double wide. This winter as I drove along our fenceline observing my son's two extra trucks, old wood trailer and motorcycle, and my husband's old Dodge van (a moving storage unit!) I saw my mother shake her head and make her "tsk tsk" sound: white trash!
But life has also led me to love and appreciate folks who live in trailer parks, and those who have lost control over the accumulations on their rented or owned property. One of my dear long time friends was raised on three acres totally jammed with junk (from my perspective) and the only time beauty reined on that spot of earth was in the winter when the deep snow covered all the cars, auto parts, lumber piles and trash. Her heart shines in such purity. I never associate her parents' situation with her generous being.
And I know if my mom and I walked our little acre, she would totally adore the crocus now in blossom, the budding forsythia and lilac; and bless her heart, I know she would tactfully ignore the vehicles and lumber piles. After all, she's the one that instilled in me a love of people from all walks of life, in all circumstances. And I realize too that my life style arises from voluntary simplicity which dictates holding on to useable materials, recycling and keeping a little extra to share with others.
What's the next stereotype to bite the dust? Let's see...I think it's "old woman." I'll let you know how that one fares as life urges me beyond the images that separate and isolate to embrace our precious hearts and obvious oneness. Good luck with your journey through this labyrinth of old and new. Keep me posted!
2 comments:
As a child I watched my parents gradually overcome the stereotypes they learned as children. Each and every step forward came as a result of personal experience. My father working with Jews and people of color at his work. My mother making friends with new "neighbors" that moved in. And my marrying a beautiful and talented Catholic woman who they came to love and depend on. I on the other hand still have trouble with the person who turned a vacant lot across the road into a real junkyard. Thus the world turns...
For me it is all so much more vague ... attitudes, classes noted, rich poor, old sayings like "they don't know any better" or "what could you expect" Yes, I saw somw prejudice and pride in my parents . My older sister adopted a child from Haiti and they fell in love .... unexpected and for real. My son tells me my family is "judgmental" and that I am not that way and did not raise them that way and he can see why I moved away .... I guess that is progress. But don't get me wrong I love my mom very much but I see her differently and I accept her with the flaws taken for granted by her generation ... that are not Ok now .... that I have likely been guilty of at times too .... that I am glad we can move on from . Stereotypes... and yes, I think old woman is a good one to work on next..... Radha
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