My Life as White Trash - Part Two: Assimilation

I first became aware of my mis-education when I began to notice nicer, upscale houses during drives from here to there with my mother or father. I started to fantasize about living in one of these large, expansive beauties. What room would be mine, how large our living room would be, a backyard with a pool. Playful scenes would erupt in my mind, only to be completely shattered when we turned into the muddy quagmire that is the road that snakes through our trailer park. The first time I caught myself doing this, I was worried. I knew that I was unraveling something that would hurt me, yet it continued to happen. It started to spread into other areas of my life; clothes, toys, even school supplies. I did my best to fight it off when I caught myself, but more and more I saw a social ladder developing in my peer group. I witnessed the children who were worse off than myself being publicly cast out, bullied, even beat up for who they were. It became more than an economic and social fear; it became a learned physical and mental state of panic and shame.

At the beginning of my third grade year, my teacher assigned an essay in which we were required to define our home and those who lived inside, as well as draw an accompanying picture of our houses. Most of the classroom immediately began to write or doodle, but I sat at my desk, quivering as I looked down at my paper. I began to sweat, and after about ten minutes, I started to cry. What should I do? If I told the truth, I would suffer fierce social consequences. I looked at my friend, who sat down the row and bit my lip, trying to keep in a sniffle. Would she stop talking to me? Would she look down her nose at me like the other well off kids? Looking back down at my paper, now wet in spots from tears, I realized that this childish fear that had grown from example had taken complete control over me. I knew I shouldn't feel the way I did. I hated it. I hated myself more for believing it.

I fought with my mind for five more minutes before I vomited on my desk. I never turned in the assignment, grades be damned.

I had learned to become ashamed of myself. Ashamed of my home. An emotion that contradicted everything my parents had tried to instill in me as a small child. Even to my closest friend, and at the time my only friend, I couldn't confess the details of my pre-manufactured living. She was the upper crust, living in a nice home in a nice suburb with a nice watered and manicured lawn. Even though to this day, she accepts me for who I am and what I do with no questions asked, I was afraid to ask her to come over to my home as she had asked me. Any sleepover we had occurred in her suburban comfort. She questioned me once about why I never had a birthday party like everyone else. I didn't even have the courage to answer with an excuse, instead choosing to look at my shoes and shrugging my shoulders. No parties. No sleepovers. No visits. No one could see my home or where I lived. I always already outcasted by my body size; I didn't want to make things worse on myself.

Over the years, the words of my classmates drowned out the voice of my parents. As anyone who has endured an education with their peers can tell you, according to popular opinion, God did not create us all equal. Those with the right house, the right close, the right money, ascend. Anything else isn't worth a lick of interest.

I believed this lie for a total of eight years.