Community & Society in a Small White Town

March 5, 20o5

The culture of Heartland U.S.A. seeped into my consciousness at a tender age. I grew up in a town once known as “Union Station,” owing to it’s status as a granary on the Lancaster - Reading Pennsylvania line, today largely defunct.

My American home town is grazed by the Pennsylvania Turnpike and sits some west of “Filthadelphia." This was what many of the locals called it. Too many poverty striken black people there for their taste, I guess.

My father was a teacher at our local high school. My mother, a trained medical technician, stayed home to raise my brother and I in my father's parents' house. We drove grampa's car until 1988 - a '66 Dodge Coronet 440.

Like most places, it didn't seem like an easy place to grow up in as a recent immigrant from Germany, even for one who is the same color as those around one. I started Kindergarten 3 months into full-blown Americanization. My English was broken. Immerse the kid, thought my 60's-inspired parents.

Show the boys a new part of the world each summer - Morocco, Egypt, Indonesia, Haiti, to 35 of the 50 states of the union - and they'll figure it out, went most of the reasoning. Well, that only happened later on; in the meantime, it was a tough row to hoe – in part because of the travel.

I had the experience, around the age of 9, that a few Americans have upon returning perhaps from their junior year abroad. Just walking through a department store or a supermarket. Seeing all of the stuff and breaking into tears, overwhelmed by the absurd capitalist abundance - in a world like the one in which we live – too often off the fat of that land.

We were "rich" to some of the kids whose parents had mortgages and a new car every three years. And from an early age, I was detached; and then redetached every time I came back from abroad - back to my family's nice life in a small, white town.

These great folks didn’t actually make many mistakes raising their kids. They stayed married, which is among the greatest gifts parents can give to a child - along with their own television, X-box, I-Pod, laptop and some plastic surgery for self-esteem. They did accuse me of being on "drugs" in 7th grade; my first "illicit" substance was ingested at age 27. All smart people are really stupid every now and again.

Well, the frequent taunts of “Nazi,” interspersed with invitations to play war against the “Germans,” would have come the following year anyway. Seeking acceptance, I would limply offer that we might want to fight the evil Russians instead. They’re the real bad people, along, of course, with the Aye-rabs. Lotsa kids playing kill Saddam these days...

As childhood progressed, shyness only grew within the walls of elementary school. Only outside, whether in the company of the proto-zaftig neighbor girls across the street - or the local younger kids playing hide and go seek tag or skateboarding - did a certain comfort level obtain.

Forts were built, corn stalks smashed (this bit of skullduggery brought the wronged farmer to our door with this dialect / slurred parental admonition: ‘I hert that youns’es [that being the Northern variant of y’all's, the you plural possessive pronoun form] boice ver knocking dahn ma corn.’). Precocious brats we were.

In transit cop cars were randomly pissed upon from trees overhanging the local thoroughfare. That odd bit resulted in a free car wash for the Chief of Police – known commonly as "Chester the Molester" – from this innocent accomplice to the perp (who didn’t show up, but got his comeuppance later, going to jail for cooking up methamphetamine of all things. He liked Sabbath and Dio, if I recall.)

In 5th grade I had my first "girlfriend." I would walk her home each day for probably about a week. My arm could scarcely reach her towering shoulder. Bad things ended up happening to her – Daddy didn't give affection. Bad things happened to a lot of my classmates in our small, white town.

The taunts came mostly from the progeny of the local lumpen proletariat, whose parents toiled in such 3rd-World-bait industries as hat and shoe factories. (Perhaps this sounds harsh? There really were some genuine turds out there, as well as plenty enough nice kids as well.)

The nice ones would make up the Reagan Youth cadres during Middle School debates. Washed up Walter Mondale and The State were one in the Bender homestead back in Orwell’s favorite year. The smaller segment of middle class kids — the cool kids, the “preps” — couldn’t have been bothered with me until Middle School. That was when “integration” began.

This happened in part thanks to my parents. They (one a fallen Catholic, the other an outright iconoclast) made gallant half-strides. They hated sports but coerced me into playing after school volleyball in 8th Grade. I burst into tears leaving home to play sports. Lo and behold, the shy German weirdo had fun.

We were sent off to Sunday school with the paternal maxim: “I hadda go when I was your age,” followed by a sardonic cackle. Once ensconced inside the sterile walls of the United Church of Christ (the recent national stance that gays be accepted as humans must have cleared at least half the congregation), the ‘teachers’ droned on as yet another future felon repeatedly socked me in the shoulder. "Here's another 2 x 4" he would say.

Even at Christmas, this God’s flock couldn’t manage live music (although they did have a delightful bell ensemble), a satisfying enough fact when the musak tape was eaten during some treacly carol or other. Additional half-hearted feints at conformity came with the dusk of childhood: Cub Scouts and Webelos.

Sure, being out in the woods was cool, but why did we always have to be working towards some lame-o badge or other. Max Weber could have had a field day - had he been interested in Lil Protestant socialization. It was kinda like school: learn in your free time how to be a docile, "loyal" worker. I guess my appreciation for nature was helped along in the process and, of course, the scout masters were good, nice people.

I did manage to avoid Little League (out of shyness more than any non-conformist tendency). I would actually attend little league games, watching my friends play in the company of one mother. I should have played, but... Kajagoogoo covers this.

Some of the Dads. Good Christ. One jackass actually made his son run wind sprints until he puked after a characteristically shoddy performance. Others would project impotent "encouragement" in the form of frustrated bellowing. Fortunately, gruesome competition was almost always eschewed – except when it came to grades – in the Bender household.

And so it was, my oh so well-integrated parents rightfully shielded me from one of the more dastardly rituals of the Susquehanna Valley. When the Jay Cees or the Lion’s Club (or whatever sponsoring civic cabal harkening back to a simpler time when America was strong) advertised a ‘Foul Shoot,’ they brilliantly deduced that a massacre of winged creatures was afoot.

Such doings did occur annually in Hegins, a delightful, mossback-infested crossroads situated in central Pennsylvania’s anthracite coal region. Then, in the late-1990s, namby pamby liberal judges put a stop to it.

Middle School provided a few inspiring teachers, some who demonstrated some concern; the remainder were a collection of mediocrities and authoritarians. Perhaps the most peculiar pair was... She was a kind behemoth; he slight, effete.

In this town it wasn’t enough to stay in the closet; you had to marry. Actually, there was one semi-out teacher in high school. And, to be fair, the local “live and let live” attitude was probably as pronounced as fundamentalist judgment.

(At a parent teacher conference in 5th Grade, my parents witnessed a cool teacher being quizzed by fundamentalists as to whether he was on guard against “creeping secular humanism.” What jerks. It was fifth grade for Chrissakes.)

You know, I did meet several really, really kind and ethical conservative fundamentalist Christians. No surprise, really in retrospect: people are people. Community-oriented and kind people who voted for Pat Robertson in the 1988 primary against H.W. Bush.

Two classmates of religious persuasion were really class acts too: ck and ve. The latter remarked that she like the lyrics to the Dead Kennedy’s song “Macho Insecurity.” Ck donated her frequent flyer miles to me so that this cantankerous agnostic could visit Guatemala in 1999. Cool girls, but not self-consciously elitist “hipster” cool — which is, after all, just another way of saying “uncool.”

In this whitey school, however, slurs regarding minorities were commonplace. Ne’er do wells would say shit like: ‘ohh, that’s fuckin’ Jewish.’ (No one had the foggiest notion what ‘Jewish’ was of course). Thanks for breeding: Bigot Mom & Racist Dad.

Sincerely,

The Human Race

Alas, the cultural level wasn’t raised much with the likes of one king pin, resplendent at the helm of the social studies department. This ultimately likeable bumpkin had the brilliant idea that the children enrich their understanding of the Soviet Union by drawing a picture of Mikhail Gorbachev. In an effort to provide context and depth, this dood drew a hideous monster on the board. This wasn't long after "Red Dawn" came out - shocking coincidence, that.

Huntin’ was a B.F.D. in Middle School. I can remember sitting in my 6th grade Science class in the autumn, with attendance hovering at around 60%. This said something, since budding homemakers don’t generally hunt in these parts. This is not to say that I didn’t shoot a bee bee gun or two in my more impressionable years.

Anyways, graphic discussions over the dinner table at extended family gatherings near Potter County (aka God’s Country — for reals), delving into the minutia of ‘skinning,’ ‘gutting’ and ‘quartering’ deer, nixed whatever latent NRA leanings I may have had. (This would come at the behest of my inquisitive Mother with her medical background.) It’s funny, now after 9/11, I want the populace armed — and not against the furrin terrorists either.

High School was often hard to endure, although I had my share of fun too. Stuff like: hooking up with but not nailing girls, and getting drunk every now and again. My grades continued their mediocre trajectory, resting at a slack 2.6 when all was said and done.

This disinterest was partly a function of the following reality. Football ‘Gods’ and Cheerleader ‘Clones,’ as the few dissenters dubbed them, dominated the social scene. Happily, some among them were occasionally razzed by mötley Vo-Techers.

My favorite such instance came during one of many mini-Riefenstahlian pep rallies. It was “buy a butler” day. The "good-looking" jocks would be bought by a kid or teacher - so that the jocks could get new uniforms. Of course, my circle would rather have been in class than sit through this stuff.

As one religious sport-o marched to the center of the gym, a wild-eyed redhead named tm — who would go on to smash into an Amish horse and buggy with his car — bellowed the following. And with such pathos: 'Jesus Freak!' The assembled throng stopped for an instant, then carried on non-plussed.

So, The Gods would stand on ‘Stud Row’ between classes while The Clones seemed to metastasize amidst the locker alcoves with each passing week. This was how we amused ourselves. Wasting our time playing a game in which we scrutinized the underclasswomen, trying to determine which type of Clone they were. I forget the categories we came up with — I think they related to what sports they played. Not that we wanted to have sex with them or anything.

There were no easily identifiable punks, Goths or even vaguely alternative kids - on the surface, when it came to stupid fashion anyway. Some of the metal kids dabbled in punk, but all in all, the late-80's triumvirate of Paula Abdul, Tiffany and Debbie Gibson reigned.

Not one person even had a Mohawk. Boo hoo. In spite of all that, or rather because of it, I discovered the Dead Kennedys and kindred teenage subversive bands in 10th grade. It really, really helped to make the duration tolerable.

In retrospect, I’m delighted that I never became part of a “scene.” Too many of my urban and suburban friends actually think such social markers are meaningful. They think it "helps you relate to people like you." Maybe. In fact, it's a weird mirror image of what they claim to dislike.

As one might imagine, the storied head coach of the football team (they ran the primitive “Veer” offense) saw fit to display a poster of Oliver North - in Rambo drag - toting a shredded paper-spewing machine gun. Fawn Hall was hottt. Aside from (so it was said) bringing his considerable pedagogical heft to bear on field hockey nymphets, he also distinguished himself by showing us documentaries like ‘Top Gun.’ All in the spirit of youth enlightenment.

Invariably, he dressed up as a cop for Halloween (that, while my Dad would dress up in a kaftan like some Bowlesian Sahara mystic). My senior year I dressed up as a televangelist, Bible in one hand, money coming out of my breast pocket, an SI “Swimsuit” issue on the other. The snooty Christians were gritting their teeth and how I loved it.

(After high school, I came back to talk to my father’s German class about life in that land. While waiting in the teacher’s lounge, the girl’s PE teacher commented thus to your then nicely trimmed and snappily dressed author. “Stephen, hi! You look like a person now!” Oh no, thank you.)

The most widely despised misfit of the faculty, however, was the chief mathematics sucko. He would selectively curve exams, on one occasion for a fellow parishioner: a sinister (“upper class” by our standards) cheerleader who shall remain nameless (dl). His jackal-glance could split the ordinary teen skull, oft followed by a sneering put down. Sweet revenge was had, however, by parties unknown, when, word has it, [hijinks deleted, lawsuits pending].

Annually, the Denver Fair came to town - thus providing a sad / happy entrée to the splendid changing of the leaves. Events included jello eating contests, stinky sneaker contests and pig chases. That’s right; children would win prizes for subduing a greased porker. In more recent years, skunk races (aka ‘Drag Racing Stinkers’) and ‘cow chip poker’ together have only enhanced the festivities.

The rite of passage that is High School came to its often inevitable culmination: dreary work. After all, the time was overripe for some ‘real world’ work experience. So, I worked at a Mennonite-run supermarket.

While I encountered plenty of good folks — the sons of the now late owner are really friendly people — I was also accosted by maternalistic busy bodies (this being no reference to exercise) even more frequently than at school. It’s where I learned to respond, at age 16, “I didn’t know he was lost” to the query “have you found Christ?”

Thankfully, I was justly rewarded for bagging groceries and abiding occasionally oafish customers. I learned the fine art of cramming their scrabble and chow chow (slurried animal parts and sweet pickled veggies, respectively) with aplomb — at a heady $3.35/hr. A full day of work netted $21 and change after taxes. I’m making at least three times that now!

Several years after High School, Oliver North came to speak at said supposedly pacifist-run supermarket for a book signing. So, I strolled up to Obersturmbahnfuehrer Ollie and mouthed off: “Mr. North, you’re a criminal!”

The shoe fly pie-toting masses in line were taken aback. The Ayatollah-coddler retorted: “Thanks for coming out and expressing your First Amendment rights.” “Happy to hear you support the First Amendment,” I riposted with a bit of a wobble.

Got written up in the Lancaster paper, where that coke-running scourge of the Nicaraguan peasantry sniffed: “A lot of good people came out today. I just hope the media doesn’t focus on one bad apple.”

Don’t roll up on tha PADC (Pennsylvania Dutch Country) thinkin’ it’s gonna go all smoove, stone-face killah.

As an aside, local activism was pretty much nil, but some deviationist amigos and I did plaster homemade ‘Jail Neil Bush’ posters at local banks and ATM’s one Friday night after the Savings & Loan Scandal broke. That would have been our crowning contribution to propaganda of the deed.

The last two years of High School mostly consisted of running out the clock on an experience succinctly summed up by a fellow cynic as: “getting fed and socializing.” In some respects, the experience prepared me pretty well for later endeavors. I learned that authority figures aren’t necessarily intelligent (more than a few teachers commanded English grammar less well than a middling British schoolboy) or particularly worthy of respect.

I also learned that in order to deal with some of the ugliness in life, the shield of absurdity comes in pretty handy sometimes. Finally, I’ve concluded that rural insularity, gullibility, (and hence vulnerability) and hoi polloi jackassishness is sometimes as endearing as it is infuriating.

You know, kids here didn’t do coke and heroin, while I was still in school, anyway. That came a couple years later. By pure coincidence, this happened right about the time that my home town started turning into a bedroom community for super-commuting white flight professionals.

We didn’t have “blow job” parties at age 14, which the media presents as all the rage now — which, I’m sure it isn’t, but still. How gross. It was just the usual high school hijinks: drinkin’ and goofing around. Pretty harmless and healthy, actually, for us “middle class” whites anyway.

For the working class kids, there was sometimes a harrowing existence in store for them not all that far removed from that of non-white poor people. In one psychological respect, it’s worse for white poor people. They’re supposed to be “winners,” but the winners look down on them, call ‘em “trash.” People who say such things - and actually mean them fundamentally - are just typical clueless bourgie dupes. Of. All. Races.

There were a few kids who grew up in tar paper shacks out by the headwaters of the Cocalico Creek. Out of 202 kids who started 9th grade in the Class of ‘90, only 147 graduated. That’s akin to some inner city school drop out rates, as were the re-tension rates for the ROTC and army — I’d estimate that it was above 10%. All of which left an indelible mark on me: lots of white people suffer in America too.

The left and pwogwessives not only used to know that, but they used to fundamentally care about it too. It’s one of the reasons I’m drifting away from the left-libs. Too many of them really do love humanity, while holding humans in contempt.

For all its flaws, I can’t say, with the retrospective glance of 15 years now, that I’d have been better off anywhere else. As a kid I was outside in the sunshine all the time. I grew up before Atari was everywhere, before ADD, before children were executed for crimes they probably couldn’t understand. Before it all started going wrong at the 80's dawn.