Definition

“White trash,” according to the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, second edition (1987), is, “1: A member of the class of poor whites esp. in the southern U.S.; 2: Poor whites collectively.” I believe white trash is a stereotypical name given to whites that live in poverty, mainly in rural America. We have all seen them on the Jerry Springer show and other similar talk shows. The men are usually wearing tight white, ketchup and beer stained tank tops, while the women wear as little as possible. Neither have many teeth. They are usually discussing incest, “who’s my baby’s daddy,” or how they drank too much, beat up their wives (who, by the way, could be their sisters or cousins) and tossed them out of the double wides. Now, they have come on the show to ask their wives to come back because they can fry food better than any other women the men can find at the local saloons.

I think of white trash as if they were their own race of people, a second-rate race that is stupid, lazy, alcoholic, poor, and has no shame. It is a race that you are not born into; rather, it is a race you choose to join—almost like joining a country club with no annual dues.

There are several things that are crucial to the development of a white trash identity. Starting with men: a stained white tank top, a mullet (a hair style long in the back and short on the sides and top, or, as natives like to say, “all business up front, and a party in the back”), a molester mustache (otherwise known as a small amount of peach fuzz on the upper lip), a primer painted 1980’s Camaro, and no job. For the women to truly convert, it is necessary that they have a blouse that is opened up too wide, showing a lot of cleavage shoved into a bra that is two sizes too small, a skirt that is way too short, showing off holey polka dot panties, no shoes, no job, and [are] riding in a primer painted 1980’s Camaro. A few of the things that both sexes should have are a weekly welfare check, season tickets to “professional” wrestling, a trailer house, five kids or more, and hickeys on their necks and chests. These are just a few of the signs and symptoms of being white trash.

To confess, I have several of the white trash race in my own family. I can always clearly identify them at family functions. Usually, it’s clear by the car they pull up in or the fact that they talk louder than anyone else because they are drunk. I have also noticed that they never tuck in their shirts, or iron them, and that there shirts are never fully buttoned. The men also have the obligatory six inches of butt crack showing above the waist of their pants. It is sad to have the affliction of white trash in your family, but from what I gather, some live amongst almost every family.

I, myself, had a white trash upbringing in rural Castle Rock, Washington, where my paternal grandfather, mother, father, brother, sister, and I all lived down a dirt road, in a singlewide trailer with multiple cars parked in the yard. That’s six people all living in a two bedroom home. The first bedroom belonged to my parents, and the second bedroom for my brother, sister, and I, was only the size of a closet. My grandfather had the front room, where the occasional chicken or goat would walk through the house, greeting all who dared cross their paths with droppings on our carpet.

It was rough growing up in this fashion. Most of the kids at school would make fun of the hand-me-down clothes I was forced to wear, the buzz cut my mom would give me, and the XJ 900 Pro Wing shoes from Volume Shoe Source that adorned my feet.

Not only did we live differently from many of my classmates, we also ate differently. Our normal everyday diet consisted of such things as Hamburger Helper, generic Twinkies, Top Ramen noodles, TV dinners, fried bologna sandwiches, pork rinds, and tater tots. When we had family functions, the food would be much crazier. People would bring “elaborate” dishes, like corn dog muffins, hotdog fried rice, chili mac, beanie weenies, tuna casserole, tater tot casserole, or my favorite, fried mash potatoes. No party was complete without the beverages: Kool-Aid for the kids, Rainer beer for the men, Boones Farm wine for the women, and every now and then the elder white trash would bring homemade wine or moonshine, and on New Year’s Eve, Mad Dog 20/20.

During the summer, we would all load up in the van to pick berries to earn money for school clothes. Then we would come home to do our chores (in a white trash household, that meant everything your parents did not want to do). This would include, but would not be limited to, the dishes, mowing the weeds, and taking the garbage to the Byrum County Landfill (the hole in our back yard).

Eventually, a time comes in everyone’s life where they have to make the choice to either join, and perpetuate, the white trash lifestyle, or break away from the “country club” and become one of the normal citizens of the world. For many, this decision is already made by the time a person is 16 and parenting a toddler. When I was sixteen, I decided to take the road less traveled by us Byrum men.

In one large step, bounded from the Landfill to the rolling green acres in Normalville. I grew up, cut the party (a.k.a. the mullet) off the back of my head, and moved into the big city (for me, Vancouver is the BIG city). But like any good adventurer, I occasionally find myself off the road less traveled and fall back on what I already know: belching, farting, casseroles, and saying whatever pops into my head at all the wrong times. After all, I believe that the members of the white trash race have more fun than the rest of us. There are certainly far fewer rules to abide by.

After a long and strenuous day of shopping, I return home to do nothing less than drop dead on the couch. My feet are aching so much I can feel them pulsate, while at the same time, my back is screaming out for a long hot shower. As I try and sit back to somewhat relax, I find myself pondering my new purchases. The bags are numerous, possibly ten or so. I can’t quite muster up the strength to lift myself off the couch to empty them. From where I sit, they look something like the silhouette of Mount Hood, only all the bags are much more colorful, as if they’re a beaming rainbow after a typical Oregon downpour. I begin to wonder exactly why it was I purchased so many items in the first place. Even worse, I can’t remember exactly what fills each and every bag. I find myself caught up in this predicament occasionally after an impulse day at the local mall. The seriousness of my actions suddenly begins to sink into my disillusioned brain, and I realize I have just added to my endless supply of already overflowing clutter.

According to Merriam-Webster Online, clutter is actually defined as “a: a crowded or confused mass or collection,” and “b: things that clutter a place.” I, however, have a much more meaningful definition of what my clutter is, which certainly does not include anything crowded or confused. I may have an exploding supply of special trinkets bulging out from places, like under my bed, but I would never insult any of them with such words. The thought that I could actually refer to my grand collection in such a matter almost fills me with immense guilt. Every single item is filled with some kind of memory. Many include childhood memories, some include idiotic memories, others hold special family memories, and some are as simple as cute impulse purchases I couldn’t live without.

I have to stop and wonder if my tremendous urge to collect such items has anything to do with having a mother who insisted on keeping every little thing I ever made or did. I’m sure that’s where my true fondness for creating such bonds with “stuff” came from. My mother kept everything from report cards, to handprints in pink porcelain, to every piece of artwork imaginable. She insisted, while breaking out the treasured box she stored each and every one in, that these were all things of high importance. I guess that did it. Somehow burned into my brain was the notion that all things I shall either do or make are worthy of lifetime storage.

During my childhood years, my fondness for creating my own special box began to flourish. Bluebird badges were the start of my special treasure box. I even went as far as to paint it a special shade of gold, so it would become some glorious treasure I’d rediscover each time I found it beneath my bed. Shortly after Bluebirds came Campfire, and the badges kept rolling in. I had badges for everything, including one for making a pinecone bird feeder with peanut butter and seed. Another was for learning to tie special knots. They were my symbol of meaningfulness. Watch out world, I’ve received a box full of patches that says I rule. Summer camp soon became another windfall of collection madness. Some of my fondest childhood memories were of my time spent at Camp Nadaka. We would do great things such as hike, make ice cream, sing, have campfires with the full hot dog and smores roast, and, if you were old enough, you could attend a sleepover. I wanted to stay at camp forever. It was the greatest vacation I’d ever experienced, yet somehow I seemed to have saved the most trivial items. I kept little glass bottles that we filled with water and glitter and then attached string to make the utmost fashionable necklaces. The most interesting item I chose to add to my collection was made out of about two inches of a drinking straw and a hot pink pipe cleaner, which was bent in a circular shape and inserted in the end. It resembled a toilet cleaning brush and was supposed to be my highest badge of honor for cleaning the suzies (the suzies were the rotten outhouses that you only wanted to use the day they had been dowsed with ammonia). Somehow it made its way into my golden treasure box to join the other so-called items of achievement I had collected.

During my early and late teens, the type of items I began to focus on collecting were much more family and friend-oriented. I kept all cards no matter the occasion. Certain gifts made the cut, and even a few I wasn’t sure of went in the great box, just in case. By now, my golden treasure box had graduated to a much larger box and could barely be squeezed under my bed. It began to overflow with photos from various social events, as well as with softball memorabilia. I spent many years playing softball, which can accumulate quite a large supply of trophies and awards. My very first softball hat was light blue and white with “Steffie” printed in great big letters across the front. As ugly as it was, I didn’t dare let it go. Yearbooks, as well as boyfriend junk, were also of great importance during these years. After all, my social presence as a teen was really all I was concerned with.

Headed towards young adulthood was a tremendous shift in the kind of “clutter” I was indeed accumulating by now. My main collection objects were serious boyfriend items, as well as all party memorabilia. Life seemed to be one big party after another. In fact, my sister and I lived right next door to our two main accomplices, which made for a party almost each and every night. I’m betting that if there were an innovative way to miniaturize beer towers, I’d have done it as a glorious memento to show how much fun I had. School was a thing of the past, for now, and it was all about having fun. Drink, drink, drink. My new additions to the great big box were useless items, such as beer labels, as well as many embarrassing moments caught on camera. I stored stacks of photos from countless nights at bars. I sure must have thought these would come in handy later. Who doesn’t need some Coors Light beer labels under their bed?

Maturity started to kick in around twenty-three, and my great box of memories was seen less and less often. I was still saving things like birthday cards and family photos, but I began to start collecting household treasures -- items that a person living on his or her own needs. Furniture, art, kitchen stuff, bedding, a television, computer, and many other trivial bits and pieces were among the many things I splurged for. They still had special meaning, only now it was a different kind. It wasn’t about my childhood memories or social status anymore; it was now all about my newfound mature, adult independence. The only problem was that my shopping impulses always over-exceeded my living space. Each new apartment I’d seek needed an additional bedroom just for my extra purchases and my trailing childhood boxes. I was becoming what my mother called a pack rat. Hypocritical indeed, since she was the one who instilled the belief that you must not throw anything away.

Today, at age thirty, things are definitely different. I continue to have occasional uncontrollable shopping impulses, but I now seem to buy things mostly for my child. I wonder – am I instilling the same things in her that I was lead to believe? I suppose, in a sense, I am. I may not save every piece of art she makes, but I sure keep her room overflowing with toys. Could this be the start of a repeated pattern? My gut feeling tells me that if she follows in my footsteps and saves her own valued treasures, each one will hold a special meaning to her; a lot like the things I have chosen to keep over the years have for me.

I think people often feel “clutter” crowds up or confuses things in life, very much like the definition in Merriam-Webster. I, however, feel it has much deeper meaning. The so-called “clutter” the world speaks of is the one thing I know I can dig out on any given day for a warm feeling of love and a few good laughs. It gives me a sense of where I came from and how far I have come to become the person I am today. It fills me with memories of my lifetime, and whether they are fond or not, they are still my memories. They will follow me wherever I go, and each new phase of my life will bring new items to my valued treasure box.

“Clutter.” Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary. 2002. 8 July 2003. http://www.m-w.com/cgi-bin/dictionary.

In upstate New York there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of small, freshwater ponds. They vary in size, water clarity, and popularity. Some are ringed with cabins, known as camps, while others show no sign of human habitation. I’ve had the good fortune to visit many of them, but only one has captured my heart. North Pond appears to be just like all of the others, the water sparkling in the sun and the trees mirrored in reflection. But for me, it stands out from the rest because I spent my childhood summers living there, and it has played a part in the history of my family for over 100 years. Some say it’s too far out in the boonies with too many bugs, or that it’s boring because there’s nothing to do. Others say it’s heaven on earth. I fall into the second category.

North Pond is about one half mile long and one-quarter mile wide. It’s approximately twenty feet deep at it’s deepest point. The pond is spring fed, so it’s always chilly, if not downright cold. The water’s been tested for bacteria and it’s still cleaner than most drinking water, though we don’t drink it.

The east and west ends are the wild areas. There’s little water traffic there, so weeds, lily pads, and water lilies grow thick. When a person paddles a canoe over that area, the boat slows down due to the drag of the plants. The thick plants build upon each other until they become bog, and then marshland. If you were to step out of a boat onto what looks like solid ground, you might sink to your armpits or beyond. The trees there are stunted, though there’s lots of brush. The marshland is owned by the state, and a person could probably buy it for a song, but it’s too unstable to build on, so it remains untouched. The north and south shores are where the camps are built because the ground is stable and hard enough for construction. There are only about fifteen camps altogether on both sides, and they are on small lots, so there’s really no more room to build. Tall trees surround the camps on both shores.

Spring is lovely to look at, but most enjoy North Pond from the safety of their car with the windows rolled up. If a person isn’t completely covered from head to foot, the black flies can drive them crazy as they fly into any available orifice.

Autumn is probably the most beautiful season, as the leaves seem to change to different colors daily. The threat of winter is in the air, so warm clothes are a must. Only the hardy venture into the water during the fall.

Winter has it’s own draw, especially to those who like to snowshoe, ice skate, or cross-county ski. The dirt roads aren’t plowed, so the first hurdle to overcome is navigating into camp.

Summer is the preferred season to spend at North Pond. It’s refreshing to swim in the cool water during the heat of an east coast summer. Days are long and lazy and filled with company and fun. The adults catch up on the news and watch over the kids as they swim and play. The bottom of the pond is covered with black mud known as muck. Most people who own camps have cleared the muck out in an area in front of their camp so they have their own "swimming hole." This is considered private, though obviously no one can own the water. In the swimming hole there is a bottom of clay, sand, and lots of rocks to stub unwary toes. If a person spends much time there, they learn to tread lightly. Some people like to fish and others like to paddle a canoe around the pond. Many just prefer to lie in a hammock and watch the leaves flutter on the trees.

Defining the physical aspects of North Pond is relatively easy. It’s the emotional and spiritual definitions that remain hazy, but to me they are the most important. These two are entwined and difficult to tease apart, so I won’t try. I’ll address them as one. Ghosts of my childhood giggle around every corner. It’s the place where I feel most connected to my ancestors. I can feel my spiritual roots extending beyond the thick black muck that covers the bottom of the pond. When I think of the camp, I feel a sense of peace, contentment, and security. It’s the place where I belong, where I’m most at home. Is that because my family has spent so much time there that their spirits still linger? That’s my belief.

My grandparents raised my mother and her siblings in a small town two miles away from North Pond. Grandpa used to hunt and fish for fun and to supplement the dietary needs of his family. The family used to swim in the pond and have picnics on the shore before the land was owned by anyone. About seventy years ago, my grandpa built a small houseboat that floated on North Pond. In the house he had a woodstove, a small bed, and a picture of his parents in a gilt frame that measured about two feet by three feet hung on one wall. They’re not smiling as they pose in their old-fashioned clothes. Grandpa placed an overstuffed chair outside the building where he’d sit and fish. I guess he thought he was in heaven. I never saw Grandpa’s houseboat, but I’ve seen pictures of it and heard many stories.

In 1950, my parents were lucky enough to buy a camp on North Pond. They put five dollars down to hold it. It wasn’t very well built, but it withstood the traffic of many feet for another fifty years. When we were kids, we’d spend the whole summer at North Pond with no TV or telephone. We’d swim, fish, go canoeing, hike, build forts, water ski, and "run around like wild Indians," as my mother used to say. We cooked hotdogs and marshmallows over an open fire and went skinny-dipping in the dark. My mother’s sister and her husband built a camp on the lot next to us, so we had lots of kids and extended family around all the time.

To us, it was the most wonderful spot on earth, and we’d bring our friends to see it and join in the fun. We couldn’t believe it when some folks complained about the long drive to get there. Some would snicker and comment on the one lane gravel road they had to travel over through the deep woods to finally arrive at our beloved camp. Some didn’t like the fact that they had to open an old wooden gate to get onto the last half mile of dirt road. We loved that old gate. We always tried to be the first to jump out of the car yelling, "It’s my turn to open it!" Then we’d walk or run the last half-mile into camp while our parents had a little peace and quiet as they drove on alone.

The old camp was getting so old it was dangerous, so in the summer of 2002, it was torn down and replaced with a new and improved version. It was a sad and difficult process, but it needed to be done. Even though the old camp held many memories, it’s not the building that is the draw to North Pond. We have a shiny new building, but the pond and the surrounding area remain the same as they have for hundreds of years. The spirits of my ancestors continue to linger there, as mine will when I leave this plane.

After a long, hard day full of classes and errands, I slowly walk to my dorm to rest. The cold, brisk wind lashes against my face, and I imagine the warmth that will surround me as soon as I enter my dorm room. When I finally open the door to my room, I am comforted to know that my busy day is over. I drop my backpack on the ground and sit down at my computer. I know that I should begin to do work for my classes, but something inside me tells me to take a break from school and do something fun instead. I can chat with my friends, look up something interesting on the Internet, play a computer game, or write some emails to my friends back home. I can also turn on the radio or the television. It is a tough decision, but I know that it would be impossible for me to try working when I have so many other interesting alternatives right at my fingertips. Many people, including myself, feel these forces of procrastination that prevent them from finishing work in a timely manner.

Ever since I was young, I have always tended to wait until the last minute to complete projects or any other type of homework assignment. Procrastination has always been my enemy. I am a good student, and always get my work done, but why should I do it ahead of time when there are so many other things to do? Completing school assignments is important to me, and I never hand anything in late. However, homework is not the most exciting thing in the world to do. One would think that if I completed all my work, I would have all the time in the world to do anything I wanted later. That is not my way of thinking. I would much rather have fun first, and then spend just enough needed time to finish my assignments. I can never change that procedure because that is what I am accustomed to doing.

I feel that procrastination is caused by my mind playing games with itself. I know that I should do homework and study before I do anything else, but I cannot get my mind to tell itself to get moving. There are many times when I feel bored and say that I have nothing to do, and those are the times that I should use to do my work early. When I wait until the last minute, I feel somewhat stressed out, but it is something that I can get over fairly quickly. One would think that I would learn my lesson after spending time, late at night, writing a paper or some other assignment. I find myself lucky in that I have never had an emergency problem with my computer or printer late in the night before a project is due. Maybe then I would learn my lesson the hard way.

While many people find that procrastination is a part of their daily lives, there are some who do not feel the same way. I knew a girl in high school who could not understand why procrastination was such a big problem for some people. She would complete her assignments almost as soon as they were assigned, and would then have a lot of time to revise or maybe just relax and not worry about it. I was oftentimes jealous of her, but there was no way anyone could get me to do my work until a few days before it was due. My Mom shook her head at me all the time because she knew how much work I had to do in such little time. However, that was my routine, and it is hard to break out of such a habit. I always told myself that I would be like the other girl, but it never really happened. In addition, now that I have made new friends that are also procrastinators, I find it even more difficult to break out of this awful habit. Procrastination will continue to be a part of my daily life here at Colby, no matter how much I wish it was not.

When I entered Colby a few months ago, I expected to have a lot of work in all my classes. People constantly told me how difficult it was to study and work in the dorms because there are so many distractions. They told me that the best thing to do is buy a laptop and work in the library. Did I listen to them? No. No matter where I work, I will always find some sort of distraction, and I will continue to wait until the last minute to get anything accomplished. I ended up buying a desktop computer, and it has become not only a tool I use for school, but also my biggest enemy. Now that I have my own computer, I can procrastinate all the time, even though it may not be in my best interest. The computer is not just for typing papers, but also for entertainment. I can chat with friends or play various games that I downloaded off the Internet, all while listening to a playlist of mp3 files. I was never able to do this at home unless I was lucky and nobody in my family was using the computer. My computer has become such a strong source of distraction that my procrastination has risen to a much higher level.

I may sit down to type a paper, but I will often stop to do something else before I get started. Doing another activity is not a good idea for me, because once I start something fun, it is hard for me to stop myself just to start working on a school assignment. After playing games and listening to songs, I wonder whether I should start on my work or continue putting things off until later. Now that I am relaxed and warm in my room, the earlier part of the day seems like it was a long time ago. I know I should start working, but I finally decide that I will do it later. This type of scene occurs on a weekly basis in my room. I know that there are many people who procrastinate, but there are times when I feel like I am the only one. However, when I see the large number of quotes that deal with procrastination on the Internet, I am reassured that I am not the only one. It is sad that the reason I know there are that many quotes is because of procrastination itself. As one anonymous author writes, "If it wasn't for the last minute, nothing would get done." That is what I say as well.

To most people, mowing the lawn is considered a chore. It is a burden and something that one wishes not to think about. The thought of mowing the lawn may even make some people angry or annoyed. It's just another nuisance to put on the "to do" list. Webster's Dictionary defines the word "mow" as "to cut down, as with a machine." That may in fact be what mowing is to Webster, but to me, it is something much more.

I absolutely love mowing the lawn, and I look forward to the days where the grass is a little bit too long. The whole experience of cutting grass, to me, is much more than a chore. It is more of a reward. There's nothing that I enjoy more on a warm summer afternoon than hopping up on the bright yellow seat of our green John Deere mower to spend a solid two and a half hours mowing. Even thinking about it now makes me wish that I were home where I have access to the machine. In the summertime, the lawn mower becomes my best friend. My least favorite weeks are those where it rains so much that I'm not able to mow. My favorite weeks are those where the weather is perfect and the grass grows so fast that I have to mow on Monday and on Thursday. The nice thing for me is that both my parents and my brother hate to mow the lawn, so I never have to fight with them about who gets to do it.

The first time I mowed the lawn I was about thirteen years old and had no idea how much I would love this activity that everyone else dreaded. I complained when my parents announced to me that it was going to be my "job" to take care of the grass that summer. The only reason I was unhappy and bitter about it was because that was the reaction that everyone I knew had." I figured, like them, that I, too, would dislike the task. How wrong I was.

I live in Vermont, in what some people refer to as "the boonies." Our house is on a plot of land that has about seven acres of grass and fifteen acres of overgrown fields and woods. It takes me a couple of hours to mow all the grass, but I don't always keep track of time. It's fun to mow because each time I do it a different way. I try new techniques, new patterns, and new styles. I love it when I look out from my back porch to see the beautifully cut grass, after I've put the mower away. Not only do I see it, but I smell it, as well. I feel like an artist who has just finished a piece of artwork; it's that type of satisfaction.

That first day on the mower when I was thirteen was one that I'll never forget. My father told me exactly how he wanted the lawn mowed. He showed me how to start the mower, warned me never to mow with bare feet (even though it was a riding mower), and sent me on my way. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes into the job before he came running out of the house dragging his finger across his throat indicating for me to "kill it." I shut off the engine, terrified of what I could have done wrong. All he told me was to blow the grass away from the house, not toward it as I had been doing. I agreed to his request and restarted the mower. About ten minutes later, he came running out of the house again, doing the same motion with his finger. Again I shut the engine off and listened as he told me not to turn so hard around the pond because it was making ruts in the ground. Again I started to mow. Throughout the course of the two and a half hour job, my father stopped me no less than twelve times to tell me what to do differently. This type of scenario would usually annoy me very much, but for some reason it didn't. I understood that all my dad wanted was for our lawn to look nice.

It became almost a game that I played with myself to see if I could make it through the entire job without being interrupted. While I spent this time thinking and listening to my music, I also concentrated really hard on what I was doing, making sure that I did the job well. Occasionally, I would find myself focusing so much on driving in perfect lines, dodging branches, and minimizing ruts, that I would realize an hour into the job that I hadn't yet turned on my walkman. My ultimate goal each time I mowed was to make it through the job without talking to my dad. If that happened, it was always a given that I would receive compliments and a pat on the back from my dad afterwards, which was always satisfying. I love all the aspects of the job, from the smell of the gasoline I spill trying to fill up the tank to the sound of the blades grinding as I mow over a tree stump that I should've avoided. It seems sort of strange that, to me, mowing the lawn is such a treat. I think that part of the reason I love it so much is because I get all that time alone to listen to my walkman, think, and just enjoy being.

The "chore" of mowing the lawn was declared mine about five years ago, and no one has ever really tried to take it over, although occasionally, my dad gets urges. He thinks that I won't notice if he just quickly mows around the outside of his gardens, but I have grown accustomed to rushing outside at the sound of the mower to yell at whoever is invading my territory on the John Deere. I could be miles away and still be able to hear the mower running. While that sound is music to my ears, it can be the one sound I hate to hear, this solely depends on whether I'm the one mowing or not.

I'm not, by any means, the type of person who loves machinery, nor am I the type of person who loves to do chores, but somehow I've developed a deep love and appreciation for the art of mowing the lawn. And, yes, I do believe that it's an art. I've learned over the last four or five years that if one puts his or her heart into a job that others might dread, it can become his or her favorite thing. To me, mowing the lawn is much more than just physically trimming the grass to a desirable length, it is a utopia.