While growing up, my father taught me the meaning of the term 'white trash.' It had little to do with economics. While a lot of poor people fit that category, it fell on people who had money too, and many poor people would never be referred to as white trash. They were simply 'poor but proud'.

Maybe the distinction meant something to my father because he said we were the 'poor but proud', and maybe it helped sugarcoat his inability to provide better for his family. I don't know. I just know we were taught manners, respect for others, and acceptable forms of social behaviour. We were taught proper etiquette. Replying with a "Yes, sir" and "No Ma'm" were absolute requirements, and on this, my father was the best example. He addressed all strangers as Sir or Ma'm even when they were younger than him.

We could never "sass" or talk back to an adult even if they were wrong. We could never argue or raise our voice to an adult, and we certainly were never permitted to curse. My parents would roll over in their graves if they heard me talk today!

While my father liked that I dressed like a boy when I went out to play(he had no living sons), we had to be clean and neat about our person. Only white trash were dirty and unkempt. Only white trash were vulgar and uncouth. My parents would be revolted by the likes of guests on the Jerry Springer or Maury Povich TV shows. I cannot flip through the channels on my TV set, catch a minute of the screaming floozies who don't know who fathered their children and not think "white trash".

We were always poor, but it was important to my parents that I knew the difference between white trash and just being poor. I even remember how I responded the first time I read Emily Post. (My mother had a copy even though she struggled with English. I don't think it was published in German.) I thought proper table settings were pretentious. My mother only replied that some day I would be glad that I knew how to set a proper table. They were insistent on us getting a good education too. I might mention here that my father married "up." My mother came from a wealthy German family, but during the German reconstruction, Germans thought all Americans were wealthy.

Under the surface of all of this were my family's dark secrets. My father was a child molestor and my mother an alcoholic. After my father went to prison and my mother started drinking, my sisters forgot about getting an education and about the manners we were taught as children.

I think I finally understand why my sisters always accused me of trying to be better than everyone else. My parent's voices echo within their own minds as surely as they echo within mine. They were not living up to what we were taught. I remembered the little good that our faulty and broken parents introduced into our lives. They chose to blame a lousy childhood rather than to put any effort into their own lives.