Cultural differences (or, 'I'm sorry, I don't speak Hillbilly'

There is so much about living in El Paso that I've never really touched on. I have this tendency to compose blogs in my head while I'm driving, but by the time I get home I've either forgotten or been consumed by something more pressing (it usually involves poop.)

Maybe the hardest thing to deal with is being a minority. It's stressful when you don't look like everyone else. There's no racist undertone in that, it's the honest truth. It's kind of complicated in my head-- here's the part I think I can explain: when you're surrounded by white people, you can sort of identify the different kinds of white people. Upper class types, rednecks, homelesses, skeezy men, cheap women, nice grandmas, crazy old ladies, businessmen, laborers, guys that want to sell you stolen stuff out of their trunks. When you're in an area where, for example, everyone is Mexican (and not just racially but culturally Mexican) everyone looks the same and you just can't tell the regular nice people from the scary ass people that lurk around in the mall or are selling giant Pixie Sticks on streetcorners. Do nice people sell Pixie Sticks on streetcorners in El Paso? They wouldn't in MN, but this place is like a different planet. It's hard to know, so I just roll up my windows all the time and avoid eye contact at the mall.

So, when one feels like they don't match the local culture, the inclination might be to seek out people that look like you, right? And it just so happens that here in El Paso the only whities to be found are the ones associated with Fort Bliss. And since it just so happens that I too am associated with Fort Bliss, you might think this is a good solution to my problem.

Let me tell you why this is wrong. The Army is FULL of HILLBILLIES. I can't even begin to describe their lifestyle. Seriously, it would take hours. They all have southern accents of varying jumbly hickness. These are the guys who have a chew in 24/7, even when they are eating and presumably while they're sleeping. They are covered in tattoos, but not the sexy or tasteful kind. No, these would be the ones of flaming skulls and naked ladies, images of middle fingers and anything that spans from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. Their women (since usually they seem to be rather possession-like) also love the tats, especially anything they can fit on their chest, boobs, neck, wrist, or any of those other places that are oh so classy. Also popular with this crowd is tattooing the names of significant others in prominent places. (I don't need to tell you why this is a bad idea. You've seen Cops, and that's usually how these relationships end.) These are the people that don't clean their houses or yards, park on the grass, leave old appliances outside on the porch, and have lawns a foot high. These are the people who run out of money long before payday and don't have money for food, diapers, or bills, yet in spite of that have huge flat screen TVs and new cars with spinny rims. These are the people who maybe, if they're ambitious, have their GED. These are the women who are perpetually seen at the store wearing giant Mickey Mouse T-shirts with faded knit pants and greasy hair flying out of a ponytail, pushing around a baby wearing only a diaper and trailed by three or four other emaciated, inbred looking children who are not listening to the threats their mother is screaming with no regard to the listening general public. And the Hillbillies are always yelling. They are threatening their kids with "whuppins", they are "fixin" to do things, they are complaining about people around them... Imagine the population of Wal-Mart at 8:30 on a Friday night. In Arkansas.

Ok, so where am I going with this besides just being mean (yet honest)? I forgot... ok, so Jacob started soccer a couple of weeks ago. Last year the other moms on the team were totally unfriendly, so this year when I showed up for the first practice and everyone was laughing and introducing themselves and being friendly I was encouraged. Unfortunately, this group of people is, as I should have expected, a group of hillbillies. Clampetts, if you will. I was perfectly friendly and polite, but I think it became apparent by the end of the second practice that I had absolutely nothing in common with these moms. Once again, I find myself sitting on the sidelines alone, wondering how on earth I ended up in this stage of life.

Jacob's coach is a really nice guy named Darrell. He doesn't know anything about soccer, but volunteered presumably to spend some quality time with his son. The assistant coach (I don't know his name, I think of him as "the other brother Darrell") apparently knows something about soccer, but nothing about children. It is amusing, really. The thing about Darrell is that every time I try to talk to him, we both end up confused. It's like I say things that I think are sentences, and he doesn't understand so he just replies with the things that he thinks are sentences. It's like when old deaf people pretend they're not deaf and then answer your questions with things that don't make sense. The first time I talked to him, we got confused over shirt sizes. I kept saying I wanted extra small, and he was talking about small. This sounds straightforward but we both were confused and somehow Jacob ended up with a medium. Our next meeting of the minds was discussing snacks for practices and games. I asked how many kids were on the team.
"Nine, I think."
"Do most of the kids have siblings?"
"Have what?" Not kidding, the man did not know what I meant when I said 'siblings'.
"Brothers and sisters."
"Oh, yeah."
"So you think if I got like twenty of everything we'd be fine?"
"Well, you don't have to get everything." Wait, what does he mean by that?
"I just want to make sure there's enough for everyone."
"I think someone else is bringing drinks."
"I know, but I need to know how much to get. Twenty should be enough."
"I think there's only two or three other kids." Huh? I'm looking at at least five.
"Ok, well, things normally come in packs of a dozen anyway."
"We're going to take turns so you don't always have to do it." He had handed me the list like two minutes earlier.

Ok, so then at the last game his first sergeant was going to take picture of the team. The way Darrell described this was, "get here a little early, he's going to take some pictures and you can buy them for like $5." Ok, not a problem. When we got there there was no first sergeant in sight, but Darrell had these pamphlets to hand out. Apparently this guy was starting his own studio for team photography. Still not a problem, but now instead of a print for $5 I'm looking at packages for like $30. Still not the end of the world, but I wasn't sure what the plan was so I took a deep breath and approached Darrell.
"Are we supposed to buy one of the packages on the pamphlet or on the photocopy attached to it?"
"Yeah, if you don't have the money up front you don't have to pay today."
"Oh, it's not that, I'm just wondering what kind of pictures he's taking-- I thought it was just a team picture but the packages all have individual poses."
"I'm not paying today."
"But it's just a team picture, right?"
"I'm just doing him a favor, he handed me them and told me to pass them out. You can stuff it it your purse and pretend you never got it."
"I don't mind buying the pictures."
"They'll have official ones later in the season anyway."
"I know, but the guy today is doing a team picture, not individual ones, right?"
"Lots of the other parents don't have the money today."
"Are we supposed to buy just a team print from him?"
"You can if you want, I'm just returning a personal favor."
"Ok, how much are the prints going to be?"
"That's between me and him." For a second I thought he was kidding. He was serious.
"So... you don't want me to give him money at all for a picture?"
"I have a scanner and photo paper."
"Is anyone buying these pictures?" Some favor, by the way.
"They come in with a professional photographer and do team ones, I think." I don't remember exactly how the conversation ended, but I did indeed stuff the pamphlet into my purse and hoped maybe the sergeant himself could explain what he wanted. He never actually showed up, saving me the headache.

One last thought about the Hillbillies. I've always wondered why they're so grouchy all the time, always complaining about everything and yelling at their kids. I mean, maybe they don't have a ton to be excited about, but you'd think being involved with their kids would be happy. Sitting on the sidelines, listening to a whole row of rednecks watching a kids' soccer game, I had an epiphany. This IS their good time. Like drinking Jack with Mountain Dew, this is how these people enjoy the finer things in life. As I watched them, instead of just listening to the threats and exasperations of (admittedly naughty) four year olds attempting a sport, I saw beyond the cigarette smoke-wrinkled exteriors glimmers of... humanity. I saw them stop texting for a few seconds to clap for their kids. I heard what could have been interpreted as a word of encouragement among threats of daddy's whuppins. At the very least, at the end of the game for a brief moment we all celebrated kids finishing a boring game of soccer and were friendly. I had no clue what some of them were saying, but friendly nonetheless.