My parents raised me to be a respectful, obedient little girl who would acquiesce without question to someone in power. That included anyone who was older, college educated or higher ranking on the socio-economic scale. White folk, Republicans and members of traditional families too were highly favored. Church-going Christians got a free pass almost regardless of any other characteristic. In word and deed my parents made it very clear that people in those categories deserved special treatment.
On the other hand, those who were poor, uneducated, irreligious, not white or involved in non-traditional relationships didn’t. It was never suggested that I actively disrespect them. I think they’d simply have preferred if those types didn’t exist, unless it was to provide fodder for outraged gossip.
It was quite a revelation for me to find out (slowly, one example after the next) that their rankings were not particularly useful. Even now, so many years after having come out from their influence it gives me a slight shock to realize that I still gauge my assessment of people by their scale.
Nearly two years ago my disposal suddenly died. Not only did it die, as I discovered when I crawled beneath the sink to peer up at it, but also the bottom of it had begun to rust away. I ushered my little ones to the hardware store, picked out a new disposal, and had it mostly installed within the hour. Mostly, but not quite; I could not get the ring connecting the machine and the sink drain to lock as tightly as I thought was necessary.
“Did you manage to destroy something again?” asked my favorite plumber when I called him in for assistance. He’s familiar with my history of attempted do-it-yourself jobs that require his help to set things right. For all he knows this happens with every job. He has no knowledge of the few I manage to carry off on my own.
I showed him the current predicament. With only a bit of mucking about beneath the sink and an adept wrench flick he coerced the retaining ring into place. The charge came to nearly nothing and once again I was thankful for his continued presence in my life.
He’s righted a bathroom remodel gone awry, a gas dryer installation which was much more difficult than anticipated and a few other random odds and ends. Each time he lobs gently provoking banter my way; each time I bat it right back, happy that he’s not once remarked on the fact that even while married, I did all the household repairs.
Recently the disposal’s gnawings became increasingly vibratory. Some cycles would shake the entire counter, causing dirty silverware to ting and hop next to the sink. Lack of time made me put off the necessary call to have it fixed.
Until the other day, when in the process of removing a meatloaf from a heavy baking dish I managed to drop the entire thing into the sink. A cloud of meatloaf shrapnel mushroomed above the counter; a sharp crack sang out from below. The meal survived unscathed and safe in its dish, minus a few bits which clung to the wall near the sink. And on the bananas. And the floor.
The disposal, however, was not so lucky, a fact which I didn’t realize until several hours later when the children announced a new company of ants carousing through the kitchen. I looked. There were no ants. What they saw was black-specked filthy water leaking from below the sink, the outpourings of a cracked drain-pipe.
Not even an hour later the plumber arrived. “What did you break this time?” His voice was playfully sarcastic. I summarized the sink situation as he dismantled the broken segment. “Hm,” he said. “Seems like the pipe was wearing down, then your meatloaf delivered the coup de grâce.” I must have looked at him blankly. “The killing blow,” he said.
“Oh, right,” I said, and to my shame the thought running through my head as I wrote out the check was “He’s smart. For a plumber.”
I abhor the snotty, 50s-era throwback part of my brain. I’d cut it out if I could. You’d think that the eighteen years which have passed since leaving their house for good would have been enough time to eradicate that way of thinking.
Apparently it is not.
I always hated how shallow my mother was. She judged people based on appearance and how “christian” they were as well. To my surpries, sometimes when I too-quickly think something that shames me, it’s her voice I still hear as well.
I think the minute we leave the house, there’s this little parasitic voice that jumps into our brains. (:
You know, I’m also influenced by the way my parents conditioned my when I was younger. I find myself more worried when a black person is walking behind me, and other such nonsense. I know it’s wrong and unfounded. And I force myself to cut it out and stop thinking like my parents when I catch myself.
And I think that counts for something. I think that recognizing your problems and trying to fix them (even when it’s just shaking the willies or forcing the thoughts out). It counts because even though we think these thoughts, we don’t pass those thoughts and racist/classist thoughts on to neighbors, classmates, nieces, nephews, children, co-workers, cashiers at the grocery store.
While I’m sure that some of what you think is residual parental bullshit.. you can’t really lay *all* the blame on them. Hollywood, and heck, even society in general, still enforce those stereotypes. Plumbers are fat men in grimy clothes with no manners and huge butt cracks. White Collar > Blue Collar, Rich > Poor, and Light Skin > Dark Skin.
I know this makes me sound like a curmudgeon, and an old one at that, but I doubt you’d find too many people below a certain age in any demographic who would know the meaning of ‘coup de grace’.
Oh I knew what it meant. I was just too flustered to respond. :)
Make that two demographics who would know that word, those above a certain age and D&D players.
Missy is right, culture plays a big part in reinforcing our stereotypes, not just upbringing. Mass media in general all promote certain perspectives on life, even counter-culture media – the very liberal or alternate stuff promotes perspectives.
I know how you feel. My parents, despite being extremely progressive in some respects, taught me the same. Respect your elders. Respect those that are “generationally older” than you are (so, my aunt who is younger than me, I need to respectfully defer to her… while at the same time, she needs to respectfully defer to me being actually older – this means that we have a very distant relationship). Respect people who are paler, make more money, are more visibly successful, etc. And that those that fall outside of these requirements don’t need my respect unless they earn it.
I fight these learned prejudices and I hate having them in me too. I think it’s been easier with my lover, who was raised in a very liberal, progressive household. It’s easier to see how to properly think and feel when I have such a good example constantly in my life now.
After the recent sewer backup flood and the washing machine flood (yes, I’m sort of expecting a third) my favourite people are the people that think I’m the nicest woman on the block and they rush over to help. Why? Because I treat them like people. People like me. Maybe sometimes I use bigger words, often they have bigger wit… Sometimes I’m cool sometimes they are cooler… I don’t give a crap (sewer joke) that I have a university education and they don’t… None of that matters when it comes to simply giving a shit that those people who are “supposed” to be smaller than you somehow are actually much greater than you. (Excuse the scatological talk.)
Ew! Sewer backups are the worst!
You have to be smart to gain a qualification as a plumber in my country. It takes four years, around two of which are spent at college and the rest training on the job. I know for a fact that I’d fall at the maths hurdle, possibly before I fell at the actual fixing-things hurdle.
Sitting on your arse reading French classics in order to be able to chuck around the odd French phrase or two is nothing in comparison.
Amen sister. Every time I have a house catastrophe I wish I’d learned a trade.
Regardless of where they come from, I think every person has their own personal snap-judgment biases. It is human nature. I think we can only try to overcome the biases, and at very least take a beat before speaking to assess our responses logically rather than emotionally.
You are so damn honest.
You might want to go to http://lafalafu.com/krc/privilege.html for a variety of checklists on privilege, bias, assumptions, and so on.
Oh, brilliant. Thank you.
No one is as smart as everyone.
I dated a PhD for a while (longer than was emotionally necessary but the sex was really good) and she was constantly amazed and constantly dismissive (to the point of looking things up to try an prove me wrong) about my general knowledge.
Hello AAG
It’s taken me decades to figure out, but I finally realised that there are a number of tribes such as “rich & greedy”, “drunk soccer louts” and so on and so forth. I belong to the “artist” tribe. I won’t even go near the pretentious hotels that cater to the “rich and greedy,” I find their vibe so offensive. The ancestor with whom I feel most in common is my maternal grandfather, who was a master carpenter, which in the UK means a carpenter who can produce the finest woodwork, including cabinet making when required.
I always like it when the Doctors waited around for the plumbers, electricians, etc. in California. :)
Shit, I’ve been on the receiving end of that kind of BS for years and it hurts. We were the poor kids at the private school and the occasional-attenders at the church and I’m still dealing with the trauma of being thought ‘not good enough’ for so many years.
I’m a college (cooking school) drop-out and at 30 haven’t really felt the need for higher education, since it comes with a huge bill. But I damn well wish I had learned a trade.
I should point out that my mum is quick to point out ‘faults’ in others. She remarked the other day that a family friend’s wife is “much” older than he. Which, to my mum, means 6 years. Which, I pointed out, wouldn’t phase her in the least if he was the older one.
My mom saw men as stepping stones with conveniently placed penises, and admonished me frequently as I was growing up that it was “just as easy to love a rich man as a poor man.” I still have blinks of moments at times where I find myself sizing up men in a “what can he do for me” sort of light. I get sick to my stomach when I catch myself at it.
After I was engaged and her mantra continued with no regard as to my love and respect for my spouse-to-be, it became one of the many reasons I stopped talking to her.
Well written and well said. It’s a pity that it may take another 70-100 years to properly purge these prejudicies from our society. Just one more reason people should never live forever.