Our crackers are another story.
This is the third and final in a series
on Appalachian epithets. Up until now we have dealt with labels that
most true Appalachians would accept or at least recognize as fitting
at least some of the hillbilly population. We include cracker
because of its historic connection to Appalachians and to put a finer
point on the differences.
I reckon that most everyone has heard
the term cracker used in a derogatory way
towards European Americans mostly in the south. Most anyone with an
Internet connection probably knows something about the term
originally meaning a loud braggart. My educated guess is that
braggart could probably be more accurately replaced by raconteur
given the context of the root word crack. In the Anglo-Saxon
languages of northern Britain, crack means fun usually in relation to
a pub with music and drink. I would assume that the German word
gemutlikeit is similar in meaning. We have the word in American
English today in the from of a wisecrack or crack a joke.
A few years ago
while in Dublin I noticed provocative signs in the windows of the
local pubs proclaiming, “Our Crack won't kill you.” It would
seem that southern Ireland had also absorbed the Scots-Irish word so
totally that it had even been adopted into Irish Gaelic as “craic”.
Indeed some young Irish are unaware that the word is foreign.
In colonial
American I could certainly see the other colonists turning the
northern Brit's own word on them in a derogatory fashion. These
folks had to have gotten on their neighbors' nerves. They were
obnoxious and dour Covenanters on one hand and loud, whiskey swilling
drunkards on the other. A bunch of damn “crackers” I would
think. It isn't a good time until some Ulsterman breaks some
crockery.
In a way the term
cracker is more fitting of Appalachians today than redneck. Redneck
with its origins in the Presbyterianism is more limiting than
cracker. I really have no problem being called a loud, joyful
drunkard even if I haven't had a drink in 10 years.
But the truth is
that cracker today has a much different meaning and I agree with some
of our readers that I would be uncomfortable accepting the label with
its current connotation. For all of the negatives linked to the
other Appalachian epithets, there is something more sinister about
cracker. There are a number of social clues that leads one to
understand that there is just “something” about the term that
unsettles folks. Anyone who knows David Lowery's sensibilities would
certainly deduce that there is something dark and ironic in the term
for him to select it as the name of his post Camper van Beethoven
band. The fact that a number of Georgians and Floridians proudly
call themselves crackers should not lead one to believe that they do
so without owning its darker connotations. There are many American sub-cultures who enjoy being seen as slightly dangerous and
I tend to see cracker in this category.
I recall an
encounter almost 25 years ago that defined the term for me and opened
my eyes to a darker side of America.
My junior year as
an undergraduate at Ohio State I shared a three story townhouse with
three other young men. I have described Mike in other articles as
the life of the party and the leader of our gang. Mike like me was
from Scioto County, Ohio but unlike me Mike had been raised Catholic
and was not what I would call 100% hillbilly. I seem to remember
that Mike's maternal family may have been from Pittsburgh. Alex was,
I believe a second generation Russian Jew from around the Dayton area
and Chuck was a black guy from Reynoldsburg a mostly white suburb
just outside of Columbus. I was a recent convert to Catholicism but
had been raised nominally Methodist. Truth is I mostly went to
nondenominational churches with my aunt Rosemary whenever I spent the
night with my cousin Mark which seems like every weekend of my
childhood.
Two Catholics, a
Jew and a black guy. We were just a K.K.K weenie roast waiting to
happen. We made great fun of the fact that we were a cliché
every time we walked into a bar together.
To make some extra
money we would sometimes deliver cars for Mike's dad who ran a
leasing agency. The most regular gig was to drive a brand new Chevy
Chevette to rural post offices in the deep south and Mike would drive
us all back in a family truckster of a station wagon. We seldom came
home with much extra money as we often stopped in Myrtle Beach or
Gatlinburg. It was great fun and exactly the type of thing that
young guys are supposed to do so that they may develop a keen
understanding of just what it means to be free. Sometimes we would
bring our former roommate Greg along. Greg was from central Florida
so having a native along was good for translating. Greg was also one
thing that none of the rest of us were. He was a Protestant I think
but so was Chuck. No, Greg was relatively rich compared to the rest
of us. So we had that class thing covered too.
Having all of your
bases covered north of the Mason-Dixon line is something totally
different and the Charlie Daniels-esque reality check that we were
about to receive clued us in pretty damn fast.
I won't mention
the name of the deep southern town nor even the state. And don't
think for a second that I would paint all folks with the same broad
strokes. I hold no one in higher regard than I do President Carter
and he is as southern as they come. But this is about a different
type of southerner.
As was our habit
we usually pilled out of the station wagon and into the air
conditioned post office while Mike went over the paperwork with the
local postmaster. That navy blue wagon could get mighty hot might
fast and besides I think Mike liked to show off his crew of
“professional drivers.” Most times the postal workers were warm
and friendly but sometimes there was that creepy vibe. It was hard
to figure out where it was coming from. You could never be sure if
it was a class thing or a north-south thing. My paternal grandpa was
a local postmaster so I have nothing but respect for the position.
Heck I obviously had enough respect for government work to have done
nothing but all my adult life. But there were times when the folks
at these facilities were subtly hostile for no apparent reason. I
recall that one of the boys hopped off the dock instead of taking the
stairs as a 21 year old guy in a hurry will do. This drew a “boy
you would never work here a-jumpin' off like that.” We of course
demurred and apologized for the reckless
behavior when in our mind we were thinking, “piss off Cletus, I
don't think a guy with a mechanical engineering degree from Ohio
State is in any danger of ending up needing a job on your dock.”
But we only thought it and as respectful as these boys were and given
that there was little likelihood that we would ever be that way
again, there was really no reason to bitch at the boy.
But that was mild.
Alex, Greg and I
were standing in the office of one of these postmasters while Mike
conducted his business with the man in charge. Chuck had a real job
and didn't make these trips often. Thank the Lord. Mike had just
finished up and was gathering his folder when the postmaster took note of
Greg's Ohio State t-shirt. It really would be impossible to parody
this guy. He was straight from central casting. His scalp shown
through his crew cut exposing a slightly moist plate that he mopped
periodically with a gray handkerchief.
The air conditioning was working fine but the 60 extra pounds of
recycled bacon fat he was barely hiding beneath that khaki cloth and
overworked buttons had to be given his capillaries
a hard time. The man was a heart attack on a stick.
“So you boys are
all from up there at Ohio State?” “Yes sir, go Bucks!” “I
understand you all have a problem up there with integration?”
“Not that we know of. Folks are pretty much free to go where they
please, and if anyone is kept out of a business or such the authorities
take care of it and newspapers jump on them with both feet.”
“Yeah, that's
what I meant.”
My blood ran cold
and I felt helpless in a way I have only experience a few times
since. Like when my daughter was born by C-section. I had no
control over the situation and I didn't know quite what to expect. I
saw out of the corner of my eye, Greg's hand come up on Alex's
shoulder in a motion meant to herd him to the door. Not only did
Alex bare a slight resemblance to Garry Shandling he sounds like the
comedian and shares his off beat wit. You also never knew when
Alex's righteous indignation would show up
and this wasn't a High Street bar after an Ohio State game.
Wise-crack or tirade either of the two most likely replies from Alex
would not have been good for our health and Greg knew it. I could
see in Greg's eyes that he was spooked.
At that time while
looking at my feet I noticed my St. Christopher's medal dangling
there from around my neck like a big “shoot me I'm a Papist”
sign. I honestly think it was Mike who glided us out of there with
his business chatter. All I remember is that somehow we got back in
the car and pulled away. Greg let out his nervous fake laugh. He
knew these folks and he knew we were probably never in any real
danger but you couldn't be sure and that is the way THEY wanted us to
feel. As we were headed out of the little town the blood came back
to our heads and we started to gain our bravado and humor. He
laughed with the typical, “yikes, what a piece of work that cracker
was.” But we didn't really start to breathe easy until we crossed
the state line later that night and we drove straight through back to
Columbus, only stopping for gas.
I know it doesn't
sound that bad but you had to be there to feel the malice come off
this man. He wanted us to know how he felt about us and our ideas
and he knew that we knew that there wasn't a damn thing we could do
about it because we were in his world. Only later did my more adult
empathy cause me to imagine what my life might be like if I had been born black and poor in that
man's world. I had $20 in my pocket, no family in that God forsaken
little village and a big ass Chevy to get me the hell out of there.
I was free.
So when I hear the
word “cracker” I have a reference point.
