After spending three years faithfully reading the Chronicle of Higher
Education every Friday on the Internet, and applying to at least three jobs a
week, an Ivy League school has hired me as a professor.
As you, dear readers, probably already know, it helps to have insider
information to secure a position, and I had that benefit on my side. A friend
who was attending an academic conference about trailer parks mentioned that
this particular university was hoping to start a White Trash Studies, and
thought this was the perfect job for me.
My friend had also told me about some crazy anthropologist woman who was
leading these conferences wearing cigarette logo tee shirts with the sleeves
ripped out, talking all this bogus trash we'd never say, yet claiming she was
an expert on White Trash dialect. I knew my authenticity would ring true in
the interview, if I could just get one. I had to stop these fruads from
taking advantage of my affirmative action status. Look how many years we've
had to wait to check that little box next to "White Trash."
I used the same resume I had been sending to all the other colleges, but in
my cover letter I mentioned that I had worked in factories and came from a
bonafide White Trash family, not one of those wannabes, and I'd be able to
explain "King of the Hill" to my students every Monday.
That personal letter worked. I was granted an interview. Imagine how freeing
it was for me to greet the dean: "How's it hanging, dickhead?" If this hadn't
been an interview, I would have used better manners, but the pressure was on.
These jobs are competitive. Unfortunately the fruadulent White Trash
anthropolgist was a part of the Screening Committee. Camilla told me she was
the Committee Steer Head, or some pompous hoopla similar to that, and I
assured her there was no finer head for this committee because I noticed the
resemblance immediately. She scribbled that compliment right down on her
yellow notepad.
"What is your theory regarding White Trash Studies?" Camilla asked.
"Pull my finger," I said, and you know what happened next. Had she been one
of us, she would have been hip to my trick. We've been doing that one since
we could crawl.
This was one easy interview. She scribbled more notes and asked the next
question. "What did you think of Bastard Out of Carolina? In your opinion,
is that book hillbilly or White Trash?"
I picked up an artsy-fartsy magazine, and Camilla looked impressed. "Oh, are
you familiar with Suitcase?"
"Yeah, but not this kind," I laughed. Then I used the magazine to clean my
teeth. I paused a good while to let them know I was reflecting and pondering
about that foolish question, then freed a robust burp. "That was a good one,"
I boasted. But I wasn't ready to answer her question yet. Take my advice,
it's best to keep them hanging in suspense. I continued looking academian. I
pulled out my nail clippers and started on my toes. There was dead silence.
She was waiting for my answer, hoping this would be the time she one-upped me.
They're like that at interviews. I looked Camilla squarely in the eyes and
said, "What is it with you people? I won't answer no bullshit questions."
"Great answer," she muttered, almost embarrassed that I was outwitting her.
I was on a roll. "Would you like a Bud?" she offered.
"Is that all you got? No Kahlua?"
"Really?" the dean said. "I didn't know you people drank that. Have you ever
lived in a generic beer can?" he asked, trying to show off his White Trash
jargon.
"Yeah, I lived in a trailer when I was working on my bachelor's degree."
These wannabe folks start squirming when you use the proper words for their
slang. This, dear readers, gives you the cutting edge in the interview.
"Could you teach students how to spit?" Camilla asked.
"Now you're getting that tedious "Titanic" flick confused with White Trash
Studies. That's only in the movies. Don't you know the difference yet? But
if it will get me the job, I'll teach them how to spit with their mouths
closed. Want me to demonstrate?"
"We belive you. That won't be necessary just now," the dean said.
"Where did you do your White Trash fieldwork, Camilla?"
"Mostly through conferences," she answered smuggly.
"I remember you. You're that anthropologist who wrote about how trailer
park people open beer cans."
"Oh, you read my essay," she beamed.
"Up to the first footnote. I hate that crap. The footnotes are usually
better than the essay, but even your footnotes were boring. What was all that
gobbledegoo about bowling alleys, and that inane reference to the Lembrowski
movie?" I gave her a minute to respond, and when she was still looking through
her notepad for answers, I sputtered, "That's what I figured. You don't know
shit about being White Trash. You probably buy your toilet paper."
This made the dean laugh. "You could do a lot for this university. I may
even have Camilla attend a few of your White Trash Writing Courses."
"But I have a full schedule," she moaned.
"Not anymore," he laughed.
"Ain't that a crock," I added.
"This is bullshit," she screamed. Then she raced down the hallway cursing
like a longshoreman.
"She's catching on," I marveled. "She has potential."
"You're a natural teacher," he beamed.
So, dear readers, fear not. The moral of my story is there are no morals,
but there may be a good job for you one day. I have never felt so at home
with a job. And Camilla, well poor Camilla, had some kind of high-falutin
breakdown and has been recovering in a trailer park near a freeway, still
pretending she's White Trash, drinking a lot of beer and reading Grit. That
gal has it all wrong. We eat grit and read about beer. But I found a nice
house in a subdivision. And in case Camilla was one of your instructors, that
is not a math problem. It's my new White-Collar neighborhood. My neighbors
are impressed with my car's barefoot gas pedal. I've also noticed an increase
of CB attennas down the street. Suddenly I have a house full of coffee tables,
now that my neighbors are throwing theirs out by the curb and bringing in
cable spools for the living room. Life is good, dear readers. Life is good. I
guess there was a moral to my story after all; I'm just not sure what it is.
copyright: Diane Payne 1999
