What is White Trash?

When we think of people in need our thoughts quickly go to someone other than ourselves.

When I was nine years old, living well below the poverty level, I don't think I ever considered myself as one of the - needy people. I knew kids who lived over on the north side of town, a place we referred to as down in the bottom lands, who had much less than I ever had. The folks around there called them "poor white trash."

I knew this for a fact because they were always bumming sandwiches during lunch at school, they wore the same clothes practically every day, and they seldom took baths - not that I was one to take baths too often myself.

The little church I attended on the hill near our ramshackle house was my home away from home. Even when services were not going on I often hung around and watched the preacher go about his daily chores and pestered him about trivial and insignificant observations.

I remember one time the church decided to have a drive to collect items for the needy. The preacher told me that these were people that could use just about anything, from food, to clothing, even used books and toys. He had also been doing a lot of preaching on how wonderful it was to give instead of receive.

I didn't particularly have a lot of food, most of it came from the garden or from the government, so donating my meager rations to the needy was out of the question.

I also did not have a large wardrobe of clothes from which to pick and choose and I was certain that the needy would not want my hand-me-downs, because, by the time they could be classified as no longer useful to me, they were usually consigned to the quilting pile. This was a pile of rags that my grandmother sorted through to make patchwork quilts that she sold for extra income.

I did have some old toys; though half of them were hand made, like my corncob darts, my fire baked marbles that we called doogies, and an assortment of handmade bows and arrows.

Then there was my prize collection of items such as my pocket knife, given to me by my Uncle George, several Indian arrow heads, a ring that I had found digging in the yard, some baseball cards and my stash of comic books.

So, when it came down to the nitty-gritty, what I had to give either the needy wouldn't want it, I needed it myself, or I didn't want to give it away. I also remember the preacher asking the congregation to give until it hurt. Well, I knew it sure would hurt to give away my prized possessions but I figured a good Christian would at least meet their obligation half way.

Early one Sunday, I put the ring in a paper bag with my name on it along with half my baseball cards (not the good ones), and half my comic books (not the best ones), and tucked them under my arm and headed for church.

The preacher had previously told everyone to place their things on a table in the basement before each Sunday service and he would see to it that the donations were given to the needy, so I proudly placed my little bag on the table on top of the pile with my name facing out so everyone would know that I had donated. I wanted to make sure that I got proper credit for my sacrifices.

The services that day went well, I guess because I figured everyone in the church was looking at me and silently saying what a good Christian and nice boy I was for being so unselfish and giving.

At the very end of the gospel the preacher busted my bubble. He held up my little bag of offerings and remarked how wonderful it was that even the very needy were giving what they could. He went on to say how I, one of the poorest of the poor, had found it in my heart to share my worldly treasures.

Unfortunately, the way he put it made me feel like one of the "poor white trash" folks and the only thing I could think of at the time was getting out of that church as fast as I could, which I did. It also took a few chicken dinners with the preacher and a month of Sundays before I went back to church.

I guess I considered myself as a well-off Christian and it hurt to learn that others thought of me as - poor white trash.

I also decided that if I ever gave again I would not sound my trumpet, it would be in secret as Jesus suggested, so that only God and I would know about it.