My Extended Family
Here’s the story of my extended family:
They are working class people with working class values. That means they don’t think much of formal education and thrill to the “bad boy” image a la Dale Earnhart. My cousin Billy is two years younger than I am. He was a very problematic child. The uncles and grandparents would tell stories about Billy and his misdeeds for hours on end. Always with a gleam in their eyes and a chuckle in their voices. He was the favored grandchild because of his mischief in ways that I would never dare be. It was Billy who joined the Marines (but never went overseas) and later became a mailman, it was Billy who had two boys, one a Marine himself and a college flunk out on a wrestling scholarship, the other a convicted felon who married a black woman. Being a convicted felon has a lot of bling with these people (marrying a black woman does not). The kids in the mountains wear their pants without belts so that they bag down below their underwear - this is called the jailhouse look, and is considered cool. Being a college graduate is close to being gay.
By objective standards my maternal grandfather was a drunk who had a couple of deranged and alcoholic/drug addicted brothers, one of whom was mean enough and stupid/drunk enough to get murdered in an argument where he attacked an armed man barehanded. Another died in his 80s in a car he’d just stolen - the body wasn’t found for a couple of days with the car sitting in the heat with the windows rolled up; “There’s some good news and some bad news. The good news is we found your stolen car. The bad news...”
My maternal grandfather once told Billy and me that he would buy us each a rifle when we reached the age of 16. One summer I was pestering him to buy me one even though I was only 14 at the time. He declined. My grandmother said “Why don’t you buy him a gun? You already gave one to Billy.” Pappy looked like he wanted to kill her. How do you think that made me feel? I’ve always been the outsider even in my own family.
Of course, my mother grew up in this dysfunctional mess, and my dad’s family was only marginally better. Both of them became seriously flawed adults who should have been in prison or in managed mental care rather than become parents. At my father’s funeral his nephew Jack was eulogizing my father and admitted “He was not a perfect man.” My father made fun of my education, my life choices, even my Porsches and Mercedes. He could never accept that I was better than he was in any way or that I made a lot better choices in my life.
One of the last conversations I had with my mother was when she told me “You shouldn’t have married the woman you did. She was a bad choice for you.” I remarked that we had two wonderful children, and she replied “That didn’t have anything to do with you, it’s because of your mother-in-law.” Right.
Several people who came to know me well before they ever met my parents have said word-for-word the same thing, “I don’t know how you turned out as well as you did.”
They are working class people with working class values. That means they don’t think much of formal education and thrill to the “bad boy” image a la Dale Earnhart. My cousin Billy is two years younger than I am. He was a very problematic child. The uncles and grandparents would tell stories about Billy and his misdeeds for hours on end. Always with a gleam in their eyes and a chuckle in their voices. He was the favored grandchild because of his mischief in ways that I would never dare be. It was Billy who joined the Marines (but never went overseas) and later became a mailman, it was Billy who had two boys, one a Marine himself and a college flunk out on a wrestling scholarship, the other a convicted felon who married a black woman. Being a convicted felon has a lot of bling with these people (marrying a black woman does not). The kids in the mountains wear their pants without belts so that they bag down below their underwear - this is called the jailhouse look, and is considered cool. Being a college graduate is close to being gay.
By objective standards my maternal grandfather was a drunk who had a couple of deranged and alcoholic/drug addicted brothers, one of whom was mean enough and stupid/drunk enough to get murdered in an argument where he attacked an armed man barehanded. Another died in his 80s in a car he’d just stolen - the body wasn’t found for a couple of days with the car sitting in the heat with the windows rolled up; “There’s some good news and some bad news. The good news is we found your stolen car. The bad news...”
My maternal grandfather once told Billy and me that he would buy us each a rifle when we reached the age of 16. One summer I was pestering him to buy me one even though I was only 14 at the time. He declined. My grandmother said “Why don’t you buy him a gun? You already gave one to Billy.” Pappy looked like he wanted to kill her. How do you think that made me feel? I’ve always been the outsider even in my own family.
Of course, my mother grew up in this dysfunctional mess, and my dad’s family was only marginally better. Both of them became seriously flawed adults who should have been in prison or in managed mental care rather than become parents. At my father’s funeral his nephew Jack was eulogizing my father and admitted “He was not a perfect man.” My father made fun of my education, my life choices, even my Porsches and Mercedes. He could never accept that I was better than he was in any way or that I made a lot better choices in my life.
One of the last conversations I had with my mother was when she told me “You shouldn’t have married the woman you did. She was a bad choice for you.” I remarked that we had two wonderful children, and she replied “That didn’t have anything to do with you, it’s because of your mother-in-law.” Right.
Several people who came to know me well before they ever met my parents have said word-for-word the same thing, “I don’t know how you turned out as well as you did.”
posted by Satterwhite | 10:53 AM
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