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.
