An Addiction to No Substance

Donnie and Marie may be a little bit country, and a little bit rock and roll, but I'm a little bit white trash. Hey, throw me a parade and give me a holiday, because I am ready to celebrate my heritage. My daddy may have one of them fancy doctor degrees now, but honey- he grew up sans indoor plumbing and aunts with teeth. When his neighbors took down one of them jacked up cars … well, there goes the neighborhood. (I should mention he married well …)


When I was six, for those of you who haven't been bored with this story, I moved into an RV. Not out of desperation, but out of restoration, my parents decided to sell all of their possessions and follow a calling. I guess that's the thing about growing up without fancy social-norms; it's sorta' exhilarating. I can still remember one of our first cross-country stops: a lady at a church we were visiting asked me where I lived and I pointed at our house on four wheels sitting in the parking lot.


From there, it was an eight-year excursion to Trinidad, Colorado (or as my family fondly remembers it: "the inner-city with no outer-city"). Ah yes, the sex-change capitol of the world, subsidized lunches for all (the poverty rate was too high to make it worth the time to remove middle class students from the equation), and unusually high gang activity, according to a number of Colorado Bureau of Investigation statistics. As the not-so-famous Trinidad theme-song states, "It's a great place to plant your family tree …"


Next stop: Walsenburg. Did I say white trash? Because I am also a ghetto bitch. Thaaaaaaaat's right; tip this one for your hommies, folks; I got kicked out of school for fighting. The thing about gang-bangers is that you can either fight them or join them, and I did both. Good thing my dad was the chief of police where at least he could cut back on the number of police officers allowed to carry their gun to work while intoxicated and then get behind the wheel of a patrol car. Oh wait, he lost his job for trying to correct that problem (do NOT, and I repeat DO NOT mess with a cousin of a cousin's fiancé's cousin …).


After my mother's brief state of insanity, due to her newly appointed title (out of desperation to get her children out of the gang"ish" public schools): Homeschool Teacher, we were off to Hannibal, MO. Yee. Hah. Now, keep in mind, Hannibal was sort of a big deal. I mean a Wal-Mart AND a McDonald's. Living the high life … I was so incredibly impressed to have triple digits in my graduating class, and know classmates who were (get this!) ALSO planning on going to college! But, at the end of the day, I must confess that I dated more than one fellow who wore camo more often than not, and even our nice private-lane included one home with a few jacked-up cars in the lawn.


Make no mistake: my brief stints in Columbia, St. Louis, and Kansas City, Missouri could take the girl out of the white trash, but could never take the white trash out of the girl. No, no – that was saved for my ultimate move "up": I married a suburbanite. Score! CLASSY: I'm talking SUVs, mortgage debt, designer sunglasses, sundresses to the supermarket, and bleached teeth on gals that ain't even preparing for the country-fair pageant! DDDAAAAANNNNNGGG!


And now, before God and facebook, I make a confession: I will not, and cannot, ever fit in with my own newfound constituency: the suburban housewife. Just the other day, at Madelynn's dance class, I made an attempt. As the mothers sat in their Juicy velour, I realized my men's Adidas shorts, baggy husband's shirt, and greasy ponytail were, perhaps, making some people "uncomfortable". In my best effort to "act cool" I said, "Yea … didn't shower today".


Ouch. Okay, no problem Jen, when at first you don't succeed: try, try again. "I mean, because I was looking for a wagon today and the Wal-Mart by my house is kinda' ghetto, because like – our apartment is in between a good and bad neighborhood – so I had to drive all the way down to this Target, and … " Sigh. Maybe I can't blame them for turning their backs and getting right back to their discussion about cruise lines.


As it turns out, living with the cruise-line population has taught me something about white trash. White trash people have substance addictions. They are whole-heartedly committed to the fixes they get from honesty, and from family, and from an honest day's work. When they go to college (which they pay for themselves … because they are not raised with the expectation that it will be covered by their Mommies and Daddies), they have that sort of pride that doesn't come with knowing people expected something out of you, but the sort of pride that comes from people not expecting anything of you. They hug their mamas and their grand-pappies and their cousins not because it's important that everything look "alright", but because they know nothing's always "alright", and that's okay. They get substance. Even if they have no fluff to impress you with … they get substance. They're addicted to it, because in a world where money and image is foreign, substance matters.


Being addicted to no substance, I suppose, must give an incredible high. Man, a person must get an awful boost of adrenaline when they can look straight into the eyes of a friend, a co-worker, and sadly, their own family, and say, "Everything is GREAT. I am FINE. I look good, I sound good, I AM good … better than you, in fact". But damn, when I run out of substance, I know where to find more. But you - you house-broke, empty-inside, Botoxed, sad soul … when you're out, you're out. And I'm not sure what you'll have to show for your induced happiness.


Some reading this will nod their head and know they need to get off the computer. They've got children waiting to roll in dirt, uncles waiting to play poker, and a dog to walk; their addiction calls. Others will feel offended because they are suburbanites who live above the illusions. They are justified, because they are wonderful, wonderful, deep people, who don't deserve to be lumped into a stereotype. Still others will be offended for a whole other reason, a reason that cuts deep and fears the exposure of an addiction to no substance. And to you, I say, "Who cares what I think?" After all, I'm just poor white-trash.