At a meeting of friends (some new, some long time) my shell of the educated sophisticated woman was shattered-- reducing me to tears as I responded in a way that likely seemed inappropriate to the group. The friend, whose background is nothing like mine, related to us the following, She and her daughter were driving through West Virginia past small houses and trailers. Discovering they needed gas they were hesitant to stop at any of the gas stations in the 'trailer section..'.
A near empty tank decided the matter. "The proprietor was very nice." Her look and tone laid bare her surprise.
How dare she assume they would be anything but nice? The trailers-- the small houses?
These were, or more truthfully are my people.
I grew up in rural Tennessee, on a dirt road stretching past small houses and shacks. (Trailers were not then generally around. The only non resident people driving on our non-paved road were the itinerant preacher, the rolling store merchant, the county agent, tax assessor, Doc Lawson when a baby was born, and an occasional passer by for 'who knows why?'
We were aware of the difference in status. We knew we did not have as much as the county agent or the tax assessor, Doc Lawson who delivered babies. But a threat to strangers?
The days of shotguns fending off unwanted visitors was long past in 1945. Certainly today it is of no concern. That trailer, that small house, that country store is owned by people as nice as my leary friend. AND LIKELY LESS PREJUDICED.
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