The Thing About Hoosiers

I've taught my son a bad word, and I'm not proud of it. It worked it's way in when I wasn't looking. It never even occurred to me, because it's such a common term in St. Louis.
The word is "Hoosier", and it doesn't mean "A graduate from the Universtity of Indiana". At least not in St. Louis, it doesn't. All my life, I've heard this word used daily. I never thought twice about it. Hell, I never thought once about it; until I met someone who was born and raised in Indiana. I was chatting with this person, when a car full of young adults came down the street. The radio was blaring Black Sabbath or some such, every person in the car was smoking, and the vehicle was more rust than steel. I muttered the phrase I'd heard my entire life, "Goddam hoosiers."
My friend from Indiana lifted his eyebrows and said, "...Um... I'm a Hoosier."
I said, "No you're not! You have a college degree. You have a good job. You own your own home, for god's sake. You are not a hoosier."
This led to an edifying conversation. I learned that, outside of St. Louis, "Hoosier" is something to be proud of. My friend learned that, within St. Louis, "hoosier" meant "lowlife caucasion scum with no ambition". Yes, St. Louisans have a different phrase for non-caucasions living below the poverty level. I won't go into them here. They are all derogatory. And that's entirely my point. My mother taught me to judge a person by their actions, not their income or skin color. But when she was teaching me that, she meant that I should not judge anyone but hoosiers. Anyone with a clear ethnic background was potentially a human being, but when you see someone with pale skin and an indeterminate ethnicity -the judgement is on.
It's what I was taught. It's ingrained in me, and I'm not proud of it. I resist it. And every time I think I've got it conquered, every time I cease my vigilance; my bigotry sneaks in the back door.
Over the years, it's snuck in often enough, that my son has a clear definition of the word "hoosier", and it's not pretty. To be fair, the only time I've heard him say "hoosier" is when talking to grown-ups. So I hope his definition is not as restrictive as mine. But it galls me that I've been oblivious to my bias for so long.
Even my friend from Indiana uses "hoosier" now. I asked him why, once; and he responded, "When you don't say hoosier, people see you as an outsider. It's clear you're not from St. Louis. When I say it, I'm accepted."
He now says it as casually as the rest of us do.

Goddam hoosiers.

Congrats to Josh and Nats

Their baby girl was born Sunday, she's a whopping 10 lbs 7 oz. So pop over and offer them congratulations!

Trying my hand at poetry. Visit St. Louis Bloggers to read some others' poetry
St. Louis Sunset
The setting sun
Touches the facade
Of my 19th century apartment
Painting the limestone
With red and gold hues

Works of man
Reflecting nature

Fixing Up Cars

There were 3 classes of teenagers in my neighborhood; kids with no car, kids with a car that went nowhere, and kids with freedom -aka a car that runs. Thus a favored pastime was fixing up cars. I participated in it myself. The idea was to spend an entire paycheck on a car that didn't run, then have your friends push it to your house. Sometimes they pushed that car for miles. It didn't matter to them. All that did matter was having a status symbol. Boys with cars were a step up from boys who walked. Even if the car didn't have an engine, it might have an engine someday.

It showed that here was a guy who was going somewhere.
So, every once in a while, the whole neighborhood was entertained with the arrival of a new car. They'd come down California Avenue; one proud driver and 4 sweaty friends, pushing like mad. They always came down California, because that took them past the Game Room. It served a dual purpose in that, not only did you get to show off, you got more help to push your car home. Boys would pour out of the Game Room to ooh and aah over the rust bucket before them. They would spend an hour or so discussing the finer points of car restoration, eyes glazing over with dreams of what their own car might look like someday; living vicariously through others.

They always believed that this car would run again; they helped push it so they could share in the glory. Once home, the wheels would be taken off and the car would be put on blocks in the yard. For the next month, everyone would take turns sitting in the drivers seat and dreaming. This was called fixing up the car. As in, "We're going over to so-and-so's house, we're gonna help fix up his car." Sometimes they would get high, sometimes they wouldn't; but they always sat and dreamed.

Most of those old cars were eventually sold or traded when the owners' parents said they'd had enough, and to get that @&#^$ car outta the backyard. A rare few actually became drivable. That was pretty entertaining, too. We'd see our friends pull up in a car that was mostly body putty, blue smoke pouring out the back end, and usually running on less cylinders than should be possible. We'd all climb in the car and go for a ride. Then we would help push the car home. (snicker)

When I finally bought a car, I bought one that ran. Sure I had to replace a few things over time. Like the water pump, alternator, starter and one of the push rods. But I never needed my friends to help me push my car home.
I still grieve over that car. My much-beloved 1973 Satellite Sebring Plus was murdered by a drunk driver on the 4th of July, 1990. Two months later, the city towed it away and crushed it into a cube. We had moved to a better neighborhood, you see; and the neighbors complained about the ugly old wreck that was messing up their street.

On California Avenue, no one would have done that. They would have helped me bang out the dents and fix my baby's shattered frame. And they would have sat in the driver's seat and dreamed.