The White Trash Girl Who Eats Tabbouleh

A little announcement before we head off to dysfunctional family bliss for Thanksgiving.

It's now official. I am can confirm with complete certainty my white trash heritage.

It's not just the three different fathers (and three different mothers on my father's side). Or growing up on food stamps and government cheese and Section 8. Or that one of my brothers is a truck driving registered sex offender who got his 15 year old girlfriend pregnant and is now twice divorced (frankly, if Jerry Springer ever got a hold of him, he'd be set for a year worth of shows). Or that said brother and my mom have actually appeared on one of the lesser rated court TV shows (I believe it was called "Morality Court" but I never watched it as the whole thing was completely mortifying). Or that I've watched my mother, who has bleached blond hair and who has been known, shall we say, to be comfortable in clothing that shows off her figure, proposed to by a guy named Rocky who had three teeth and smoked the most foul smelling cigarettes (she changed her mind later, THANK GOD). Or have sat through a Christmas with songs such as "Please Daddy Don't Get Drunk On Christmas, I Don't Wanna See My Mamma Cry."

I also discovered yesterday that I have indeed lived in a trailer park.

When I was a baby, my mother informed me yesterday when I mistakenly assumed that I couldn't truly consider myself white trash because I've never lived in a trailer, we lived in a single wide in South Dakota before my legal father (the man my mom was married to when she gave birth to me and thus is on the birth certificate, but not my biological father) left for an Air Force tour in Okinawa where I can comfortably assume he spent his R&R time at the local whorehouse.

Ah, well, now that that is settled.

I shared this with my Arab-American godfather yesterday (who is only a year older than I am, but was my sponsor when I became Catholic and in the Byzantine rite he is considered my godfather), and he pointed out that he's from Bedouin heritage, which is sorta like the white trash of the Arab World. Yes, I said, but they at least are somewhat romanticized in poetry while we just have country music. "Country music is my dad's favorite," he said. Well, okay, then. Point taken.

Several years ago a Palestinian friend of mine helped me move. My mom and her husband (now ex-husband) showed up in his pick-up truck with him wearing a t-shirt with an Arab in a kuffiyah hitting the testicles of a camel with a mallet and a caption that read: "Scud Missile Launcher." Now my friend worked in a gas station in North Portland, so I knew he had pretty much seen and heard everything. But, you know, still kinda embarrassing. After loading my stuff into the truck, we rode across town to where I was storing my stuff. On the way, country music blared and my mom talked about which relative or friend was marrying, divorcing, or pregnant. After unloading my stuff, my friend pulled me aside. "Okay Michelle, I just have to ask it. How did someone who comes from such a redneck family as yours -- no offence -- EVER get interested in the Middle East."

I ask myself that question almost every day of my life.

Part of my interest in other cultures comes from growing up poor and living in public housing where my two best friends where the daughter of Mexican migrant workers and a Laotian refugee. The family of Pa, the Laotian, went to my church and one Sunday they sang "Come Thy Fount of Every Blessing" in Laotian while dressed in native costumes.

All I could think was, man, white people are so boring.

But Arab culture? Well, that's a bit more complicated.

That started when I read the Black Stallion Returns, which was set in Arabia. The Bedouins (which are apparently my white trash counterparts) and the desert seemed so very romantic.

And they were so family-oriented. And generous. And had all these traditions.

Of course, once you spend time around actual Arabs, the romanticism ends pretty quickly. They are loud. Brutally blunt. Argue a lot. Try to guilt you all the time. The men can be so damn stubborn and controlling. The women can be so damn melodramatic and manipulative. (Obviously I'm generalizing wildly here, but you Arabs know what I'm talking about.)

But, I have to say, I'll trade Arab food for the meal I'll have at my mom's tomorrow. And I'd rather listen to Fairuz than Tim McGraw (or whoever he is). And well, Arabs do have a hell of a lot more interesting history going back a lot further than say, my Scottish ancestors (and ditto on the food thing in that respect as well -- deep friend eggs, pizza, Mars bars...?? what the hell is that all about?). And as much as there are moments when I really, really hate Arabic, it does have a beauty far richer than the ever practical English.

So, tomorrow at my mom's I'll be passing over the green bean casserole, wishing it was tabbouleh instead.