7/23/2017 2 Comments Rabbit on the TruckI’m back at my writing desk after a week at the county fair--my youngest son’s first year as a 4H participant. After a beautiful time of celebrating youth achievement and animal husbandry, a jarring image brought me to tears last night: rabbit, grasped by the ears and thrown headlong into a truck.
Another 4H mom asked me if I’d seen “the truck,” and her tone told the whole story. She described how the truck came for market rabbits--the ones raised and sold for meat--and how disturbed her daughter was by the rough handling of them. “They even took a Mini Lop, a show rabbit, just ‘cause the owners didn’t want it anymore.” I thanked her for warning me, grateful the truck was long gone and the boy had run ahead. You see, one of those “meat rabbits” had played an important role in his competition. My son started rabbitry with one animal, an adorable black Netherland Dwarf. “Jason” is normally cooperative, but the heat and stress of the fair had gotten to him. He’d nipped at me on the first day, and when my youngest reached into the cage to remove him for the competition, Jason chomped on the cuff of his white Oxford shirt. He wailed. I pulled up his sleeve and hollered, “No blood! You’re OK!” But the boy was still hysterical. Just before this happened, a tall teen from the Junior Fair Board had offered to help my son with showmanship, where 4Hers flip their rabbits over to exhibit their animal’s underside--a sort of vet exam from very young hands. Now, this same teen volunteered to help get Jason out of the cage, and showed my son, again, how to carry the wily beast tucked in, with the eyes hidden. As they walked to the show table, my only hope was that my son would get through the competition. I stood behind the line, and a ball of black fluff bounded down the table’s green turf. Houdini had escaped. The tall teen approached me. “I’m gonna let him use one of my rabbits.” I nodded. A meat rabbit--a completely different breed--but docile. I sweated behind the red line, the line that forces 4H children to perform without parental help. My little boy, so serious, described his own rabbit and identified the breed of the loaner rabbit. I snapped pictures of him talking to the judge, and sitting on the bench after, his face etched with stress. When awards were announced, I kept my phone out for pictures, hopes sub-basement low. Seventh place, sixth, fifth, fourth, third, and second--my son’s name. Second? There has never been a parent so excited for second! And the flash started popping. Later, the judge approached me. “He answered every question correctly.” Which he could not have done without the loaner rabbit. No one “shows” at the fair without a creature in his hands. The next day, my son pushed his fingers through the unmarked cage of the meat rabbits. He wasn’t sure if the rabbit he was petting was the one he’d shown. “Do rabbits go to heaven, Mom? Will this rabbit go to heaven after it gets eaten?” I nodded, touched by my little St. Francis’ heart for animals. The tall teen smiled, bemused. Toward the end of the fair, my youngest briefly mentioned “rescuing” the rabbit he had shown. But he didn’t mention it a second time. Acquiring an animal shouldn’t be done on an impulse. He was sad that the rabbits were being raised for meat, but I explained--again--that the burgers and chicken nuggets that we eat were once creatures too. We respect vegetarians, but we’re not in that camp. Yesterday, I phoned my grandmother, age eighty-eight. She shared her fond memories of eating rabbit-both in her home country of Germany, and after moving to Appalachia with my Pappy. But she refrains from sharing these memories with my son. In my writing, I explore undertold stories. Perhaps one of these undertold stories is that of rural kids and their unique relationship with animals. Creatures great and small play multiple roles in our lives. I explored this concept in my novel CIRCUS. Where is the line between use and misuse of an animal? How can we do it in a way that preserves dignity for all parties? I once read that some Native American hunters thanked an animal before taking its life for materials and meat. I don’t think the rabbit truck crew went to that much trouble. But in my heart, I am thanking the rabbit whose last act was allowing a nervous nine-year-old to poke and prod him. We can’t always prevent the truck from doing what it’s paid to do. But we can celebrate the compassion that our children learn from working with creatures great and small.
2 Comments
7/9/2017 3 Comments "White Trash"I’m not a big fan of the policing of words. Certainly, I eschew slurs of all stripes. Other words inhabit a gray area--they originated with one culture, but have become part of the larger conversation, and there’s much debate over who may use which word. But the phrase in my crosshairs today is one that many white people--and some minority folks--toss around. They do it without thinking about what it really means. They do it without considering how it judges and dehumanizes.
White trash. If anyone’s ever called me this, it’s not been in my earshot. But I meet a few of the checkboxes. I’m from Kentucky, and I slip in and out of a Southern accent. My legal address was once in a trailer park. My family’s been party to substance abuse. Both my parents and I divorced and remarried, and the last name of my sons differs from mine. But even if other qualifiers make me exempt from the “white trash” label, this isn’t about me. It’s about the judgment inherent in the phrase--both words of it. A human being is not “trash” because their quantity of tattoos or partners is unacceptable to you. Nor is “trash” made with housekeeping habits, grammar, or profanity use. If you disagree with their choices, fine--but know their choices are usually a product of their environment, and they’re probably already aware of the consequences. Calling someone trash does not improve their situation. It lessens yours because they cease to be human to you. Let’s look at the qualifier “white.” If you label certain white people as “white trash,” the inference is that nonwhites are always trash. “But that’s not what I meant.” Read between the lines. Inherent in the idea of “white trash” is the concept of people on a ranking ladder, and the implication that those with brown skin are always on a lower rung. Or, that they should be. I can’t stomach that. “But if I say white trash, people know what I’m talking about.” Why does everyone need a label? And who put you in charge of the label machine? Many of the students I teach in Cincinnati’s Price Hill neighborhood are urban Appalachians--children and grandchildren of mountain people who crossed the river, looking for work. Their culture differs from that of mainstream America. I’m a cultural hybrid. There are times I identify with my students, and there are times I struggle to understand them. But it’s pretty hard to reach and teach people that you see as “trash,” or the product of “trash.” During my first year of teaching, a veteran teacher stopped by my room after dismissal and fumed, “I got a s---- bunch of kids.” I blinked, trying to contain my shock--but it was a valuable lesson for me. My 22-year-old self noted that her class’ behavior failed to improve during the year. As we thinketh in our hearts, so are they….in our eyes. If your goal in life is putting a foot on the head of others to lift yourself up--by all means, keep using the phrase “white trash.” But if you hope to make a contribution, treat people as people and keep the trash in the can. |
Elena Vale WahlI blogged much more when my kids were small. Hoping my quality supplants quantity. Archives
June 2022
Categories |