Po’ White Trash & Lint Heads: A Memoir

By Rebecca Kennedy

Rebecca Kennedy’s childhood and teenage experiences could have socialized her to become an extreme far-right Christian, a racist, a self-hating homophobe, and a bitter child abuse victim. The trauma her mentally ill father perpetrated upon her, along with her having little support for her eventual career, did not deter her from standing out as the “different one,” who determined to be Christ’s love for marginalized people. Her 1950 through 1964 accounts of a Southern cotton mill culture depict an oppressive and violent Jim Crow era, ultra-fundamentalist Christianity’s complicity in maintaining an Old South social order. Her community’s White people lamented the Civil War’s Lost Cause and longed for the rise of the Old South’s Glorious Confederacy. Her memoir relates her eye-witness stories of Poor White Trash families contrasted with her Lint Head family’s poverty existence. Her parents’ dilemma of her being a smart kid in a poor family highlights Rebecca’s zeal and determination for an education she perceived as her hope to freedom. She not only received education through formal schooling but also through her relationship with Aunt Maddie and encounters with African American individuals, a gay man and two lesbians, and several therapists. Her memoir includes a profound one-day soul-to-soul meeting with Mr. Beau LeMonde, a former slave, during her family’s visit to an Old South themed museum. Rebecca reveals the night her father’s mental illness exploded into physical, spiritual, and psychological destruction. Rebecca’s unique observations of events, that others deemed “that’s the way God intends it to be,” compelled her to look around and ask, “Why? Why is it that way? That’s not Christ’s way.” Rebecca approaches her youth with poignant descriptions infused with her humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728332482

Rebecca Kennedy

Rebecca Kennedy’s accepting “difference” brought her to embrace her identity as progressive Christian, advocate/activist for marginalized people, and lesbian. Rebecca grew up in the the South amid poor White Trash and Cotton Mill cultures. She never should have been a university professor and a dean, since her schooling prepared her for life in cotton mill. Rebecca believed roadblocks to her dreams were hurdles designed to keep the poor, the oppressed, and people of color in “their place.” Rebecca received her doctoral degree from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. She enjoyed her first career as a university professor and dean. Writing is her next career. She and her wife live in Washington, with their seven adopted senior rescue dogs. Their two sons and their wives, along with their children reside in nearby states. Po’ White Trash and Lint Heads: A Memoir is her first non-academic book.

Book preview

Part 1

Aunt Maddie

Chapter 1

Aunt Maddie and the Hiccups

An unplanned sound can interrupt a sacred moment.

Two unplanned sounds can meld a sacred moment with life’s joys.

The last time Aunt Maddie and I hugged each other and tried to talk, she struggled to breathe without her oxygen mask. On June 4, 1987, when Mother phoned to give me the news that my aunt had mere days to live, I drove the six-hour distance from my home directly to the hospital in another state. The moment I walked into her ICU room, she flung off her mask, stretched out her arms, and frantically motioned for me to come to her. I rushed to her and nestled into her arms as she buried her head in my chest. She said, Y’all know I’m dying, don’t cha?

I sobbed and said, Yeah. You know I love ya, don’t ya?

Aunt Maddie’s coughing grabbed onto any words she tried to utter.

I poked her on her upper arm, the way I did to get her attention when I was a kid. Scoot over, would you? I wanna sit down.

Both she and I knew that her time was short, and I had a boatload of stuff to tell her. They were things I had intended to tell her a long time ago but had convinced myself that the time wasn’t right. Or I had something else to do. Or the weather was too hot. Or somebody might hear me. The fact of the matter is that my bashfulness got in my way. Besides, I figured I’d tell her one of these days. Well, that one day was here.

After I said a lot of questions that started with Remember when, I sputtered out, Aunt Maddie, you know you were really my mother, don’t you? You taught me just about everything I needed to know about how to act, to be polite, to love Jesus, to pray, to use good manners, to give to people in need, and the best lesson, how to love. If you hadn’t loved me so much and hadn’t let me talk with you when things got really hard, you know I would have killed myself. Did you know you saved my life? Because of you, I made something good out of my life.

This wasn’t a scene in a tearjerker movie. I talked as fast as I could because I held twenty-four years of thoughts I should have shared with her well before these last moments. Aunt Maddie did not open her eyes and look at me with tears flowing down her cheeks. She did not grip my hand tightly. She just lay motionless in her hospital bed, except for an arm, leg, or foot twitch every now and then, while I slid off the side of her bed and hit the floor. I thought, So much for tender moments. Hope she heard me.

Such was my and Aunt Maddie’s relationship. Moments that began as nice, loving, gooey, nearly profound exchanges ended in sidesplitting laughter because of something stupid happening. More to the point, I was the one who did the stupid thing.

Aunt Maddie had fought Hodgkin’s lymphoma and leukemia for at least two years. Her cancer metastasized to her lungs, brain, and other vital organs. She went into the hospital, thinking she would have another round of chemotherapy and radiation, but her team of doctors said, No more. I stayed with her around the clock for a few days until I had to return to my home for an interview with the doctoral program admissions committee.

On June 23, Dr. Harry Leigh called to congratulate me upon my acceptance into the science education doctoral program. I was ecstatic. In an instant I dialed Aunt Maddie’s number to shout my great news to her. For a moment I forgot that she could not hear me, that she could not speak, and that I would never see or touch her again.

Two days later came the dreaded call. Aunt Maddie died. The most important person up until that point in my life was gone.

No, I didn’t mope around like a little lost sheep though. I went out for celebratory drinks with a close friend. Aunt Maddie never drank alcoholic beverages, she said, but over the years when I was a kid, I noticed bottles of some god-awful wines hidden behind homemade preserves in her pantry. I know the stuff was awful because I tasted it once. Lots of times she drank a small jelly glass of juice. I asked for some, but she said it was her special juice. She told me I could just get a glass of water from the faucet if I were all that thirsty.

I was five when I about scared the daylights out of Aunt Maddie during one unbearable summer day. Since I wanted to earn some candy money, I walked next door to her house and into her closed-in back porch. I stood in the open doorway, and I was about to call out her name when she came out of the pantry holding her glass of grape juice. She walked right past me, and I said in what I thought was my normal inside voice, Hey, Aunt Maddie.

Her glass of juice went straight up to the ceiling as she yelled in her really high-pitched voice, "Whooooaaaahhhh there! She turned around. Lawd a mercy, Becky. You ’bout gave me a heart ’tack. What you doin’ sneakin’ up on me like that fer? What chew doin’ out chere anyway? Her glass smashed to the floor into a zillion pieces, and her juice flew across the floor and up the wall. Maddie sputtered out, Now, looky chere what you done made me do."

I thought you saw me standing there. I was about the say your name so you’d know I’m here. I’ll clean this up for you.

Nah. Don’t cha go and teech them glass shards. Might cut yeself. You come out chere to eat or talk?

I was one of a few people who understood Aunt Maddie’s dialect. No one knew where she picked up the way she talked, but Gramma Powell decided that Maddie’s brain got confused between southern Piedmont and Brooklyn, New York, and mixed the two accents together. Never mind that Maddie lived in Brooklyn just eight months.

I waited until Aunt Maddie swept up the glass and juice and then asked her my question. "If I sweep and mop your floors and dust your furniture, will you pay me ten cents so I can go down to Allen’s Store to get a bag of candy?

Why, shore. Come on in chere. I’s ’bout ta sweep, but you can do it fer me. Gimme time to hang them washed clothings on the line. Don’t go in Charlie’s room though. He’s lying up in bed sleepin’. Had to work all night.

Yeah for Aunt Maddie! I plunged into work—sweeping, mopping, and dusting. This time I only broke one thing—a pretty little ceramic high-heel shoe with a green pin cushion in the foot part. I offered to pay for it, but Maddie said it was an old, cheap, used thing she got at the Trade-a-Lot Flea Market.

I don’t know if my cleaning job did much good, but Aunt Maddie thanked me and gave me the ten cents. Then I skipped down Greenway Street to Allen’s Store, where I took forever to pick out the same ten pieces of candy I always chose. Mrs. Allen put five candies in each of two candy bags as I’d asked her to do—five for me and five for Donna, my younger sister.

I ran back to Aunt Maddie’s house to show her my purchases, get my sweater, and go home. She asked me if Donna and I wanted to go to Sunday school and church with her in the morning, and the word yes popped out of my mouth. I loved going to Sunday school. Mrs. Bailey led us in singing the most fun songs, and Miss Jenkins told great Bible stories while she put figures and scenery on a flannel board. Aunt Maddie told me to be up, dressed, and waiting for her at my gate promptly at nine thirty. She added, We’ll walk the shortcut. If’n Donna wanna go, bring her. Now I love ya. Go on home. I ran out her back door singing a made-up tune of I love you. I love ya. I love cha. I love y’all. Love, love, love. Bye.

On Sunday, Donna and I ran to the gate promptly at nine thirty, and Aunt Maddie was already there waiting for us to walk the half mile to church. This spring day was stunning. Tree buds poked their heads out of branches. Roses of all colors, azaleas, and camellias blossoms danced on their green stems. Tulips, daffodils, and phlox decorated yards, and the air smelled and felt refreshing.

At church Aunt Maddie decided that we would sit in the balcony so Donna could see the service. Downstairs, Maddie preferred to sit in a back-row pew, but Donna was too little to see over people’s heads. We went to the front balcony row in front of the open railing, where we had a wide-open view of the platform, pulpit, piano, organ, and choir. Since the service was broadcast live over the local AM radio station, Preacher Thompson began the service sharply at ten in the morning. As he walked to the pulpit, Mr. Frazier directed the choir and congregation in the opening hymn, Turn Your Eyes upon Jesus. At the ending amen of the hymn, Preacher Thompson announced, We bring you greetings from River Bend Baptist Church in the mighty name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Let us pray.

The service moved along smoothly with a hymn, announcements, another hymn, a testimony, the offering of the collection accompanied by the pianist and organist playing a magnificent hymn arrangement, and the doxology Praise God, from whom all blessings flow. Be seated.

Mr. Frazier brought the choir to a stand and directed the anthem Peace, Be Still, during which Donna got the hiccups. She held her breath, trying to stop the hiccups. But it didn’t work. Aunt Maddie handed her a stick of Juicy Fruit chewing gum. A few chews later, Donna’s hiccupping stopped. As Mr. Frazier seated the choir, Preacher Thompson walked to the pulpit microphone and read the day’s scripture.

Following the scripture reading, Preacher Thompson launched into a prayer before the sermon. The congregation was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop on the carpet—except that Donna’s hiccups had returned with a vengeance in an ever-loudening crescendo. Preacher Thompson ramped up his prayer’s volume and fervor. Aunt Maddie handed Donna another stick of chewing gum.

She worried that Donna’s hiccupping might go out into radio land and be heard by the listeners. Donna buried her face in her sweater, but her hiccups kept on going. Maddie elbowed Donna, leaned into her side, and asked Donna if she still had the chewing gum in her mouth. Donna hiccupped and said yes, but Maddie said to her, Open ya mouth so’s I can see. With that said, Donna leaned back her head, opened her mouth, and let out the loudest, biggest, most earth-shattering, extended hic I had ever heard. Aunt Maddie slapped her hand across Donna’s mouth, held it closed, and gave her another stick of Juicy Fruit. She then pulled Donna into her lap and held her close against her chest, rocking back and forth.

At Donna’s first hic, I started giggling. My giggling changed to uncontrollable laughing, and I couldn’t stop. Aunt Maddie flashed her evil eye at me, but my laughter was totally beyond control. I placed both of my hands across my mouth and jammed my elbows into my sides, but out of control was out of control.

By now Preacher Thompson was well into his sermon. Donna continued with her hiccups, and I forced my face to my sweater on my knees, trying to muffle my laughter. Aunt Maddie poked me in my ribs and said, Com-on now. We gittin outta chere. I looked up and saw Preacher Thompson glaring right at us. Somehow, we three made it down the stairs to the vestibule. Donna’s hiccupping continued at the same frequency and loudness, while my laughing held at that uncontrollable level.

As we reached the church’s front porch, Mr. Gordon, an usher and deacon, ran at us with two glasses of water. Donna daintily sipped her water. Ten sips were supposed to stop hiccups. I gulped a mouthful of water as another wave of laughter washed over me. I spewed my mouthful at the church entry door. Part of my spewed water hit Mr. Gordon, and he was not amused. But he did get his car from the parking lot and drove us home.

At the steps to the front door, I heard our kitchen radio tuned in to the River Bend Baptist Church service. As Donna and I walked in the living room, Daddy rose up from the couch and asked, Why y’all home so early?

Through her hiccups Donna blurted out, I got sick. Becky won’t stop laughing.

Then Daddy asked, That y’all I heard at the praying?

I shrugged and mumbled, I don’t know.

Aunt Maddie did not come into the house with Donna and me. Daddy hated her, and Maddie knew it. Daddy told Maddie so many times how and why he hated her, that she would not be near him any time, any place. Donna and I begged her to go inside with us, but she said that she didn’t want to upset ya daddy.

Donna and I ran to our room to change our clothes, and we grabbed an apple we each hid in our pajama drawer. While Daddy was in the bathroom, we ran out the front door. Donna’s hiccups struck pay dirt again. I thought her hics would calm down, but that was misplaced hope. She buried her face into her hands to muffle the rhythmic staccato sounds. During the week Maddie asked a few people if they’d heard Donna on the radio. A few people heard Donna. Apparently, some folks had adjusted their radios, trying to figure out why their radios made the odd sound. Maddie simply let those folks think the radio station had a glitch in the sound.

Part 2

The Child Who Is My Youth

Chapter 2

Bobby Pins and Winn Dixie

A mother’s love for her daughter

is as simple as enjoying Saturday morning together and

as complex as creating space to talk.

During a 1950s Saturday, Donna, my younger sister, and I woke up early, ate our Rice Krispies, and watched cartoons and Howdy Doody. My favorite cartoons were Porky Pig and Bugs Bunny. Porky Pig was just plain funny, while Bugs Bunny had fabulous music. When I grew older, I learned that Bugs’s scores included Tales from the Vienna Woods, Beethoven’s Seventh, and my favorite, The Suite from Tannhauser. On this particular Saturday, Tannhauser was featured in the morning’s cartoons as an opera starring Bugs and Elmer Fudd. The music I liked was out of sync with my classmates. They listened to Elvis, imitated him, and glued his pictures on their notebook binders. In 1956, I watched Elvis’s performance on The Ed Sullivan Show and wasn’t impressed. The next day Elvis was the one and only topic up for conversation. Even the teachers talked about Elvis.

Kids in my class called me weird. As the term square became popular, they referred to me as the weird square. The thing was that I knew I was a little bit weird and square. But I have to hand it to Elvis. His rendition of Love Me Tender could be a tearjerker. What a perfect thrill for me when I found a radio station, which played classical music three hours every Wednesday from seven to ten in the evening. If Daddy had the kitchen radio on, the Grand Ole Opry twanged its way over the airwaves. In my and Donna’s shared room, her radio belted out rock ’n’ roll. Neither of those genres were on my must listen to it list. So I bought my own little transistor radio with an earphone to listen to Wednesday evening’s classical music.

Mother had already been up to start frying bacon and eggs, cooking grits, and toasting buttered Merita white loaf bread under the oven broiler. We didn’t have a toaster. The butter wasn’t really butter. It was Nucoa, an oleomargarine, which by law was a paler color than churned butter. The percolator emitted a delicious Maxwell House coffee aroma. I’ve never figured out how something so wonderfully aromatic tasted so awful. Sanka and Ovaltine tasted even worse.

Daddy lay in bed reading the local newspaper. At the appointed time, which only Mother knew, she shooed Donna and me to our room to get dressed for the day. We weren’t allowed to be in our pajamas around Daddy. We dashed to our room, while Daddy got out of bed to make his way to the bathroom with his newspaper. If Donna or I neglected to go to the bathroom to brush our teeth or whatever before Daddy got there, we were out of luck. Daddy usually stayed in the bathroom an hour or so with the door open and putrid odors filling the hallway and the two bedrooms. Donna and I weren’t allowed to close our bedroom door. Maybe it was a diagonal waft of air currents. Maybe there was a temperature difference from the bathroom across the hall to our bedroom. Whatever the reason, I swore that Daddy’s bathroom odors accumulated most in my and Donna’s room compared to the other rooms. Sometimes I gagged as the scent strengthened.

As fast as we could, Donna and I dressed into our day clothes before Daddy finished in the bathroom. We stood just inside the closet, shielded by the closet door, always hoping Daddy didn’t see us in anything other than our day outfits. The thing was that if he spotted either of us in our pajamas or in the act of changing clothes, his rage would escalate to explosion mode. Frankly, I got tired of Daddy’s spitting on me, slapping me in my face, and calling me a slut and devil. I can only guess the reason for Daddy’s rage when he saw Donna or me in nightclothes. His rage was over the top. How wearing certain clothing in front of him made him as mad as he became was a complete mystery. But I think I guessed his trigger point: that is, certain clothing some people wore reminded him of sex, since he ranted about what people wore and their sex lives so much.

Mother kept on cooking breakfast and set the table for two—him and her. Daddy banished Donna from the breakfast table during one of his fits. He yelled at Donna almost every meal because in his words, she was a picky eater and didn’t ’preciate his hard work to put food on the table. When Donna made a bacon sandwich with her toast, he exploded and overturned his and Donna’s chairs, screamed that she was destroying good food, and told her to never eat at the breakfast table again. Such was another never agains in our family. Even though Daddy prohibited Donna’s eating some meals at the table when he ate, Daddy summoned Donna to the table to say the blessing for every meal. Her table blessing was the same for every meal: God is good. God is great. Let us thank him for our food. Amen. That was the case until one Sunday noon dinner when her blessing was Hubba, hubba. Thanks, God, for the grubba. Yeah, God. Donna didn’t eat at all that day. She played hooky from school the next two days because she didn’t want her friends to see the two bruises on her face.

With Donna banished from the table, that left me. I could eat breakfast at the table but just not while Daddy was eating. He said my breath smelled rotten, and anyway, he constantly reminded me that he didn’t like looking at me that early in the morning. Why? I don’t know other than him telling me that I was fat and ugly. Plus every day he told me that I looked like a Powell, which was Mother’s birth family’s name, and nothing like anyone in his family. There was one other thing in his rants. Daddy always accused me of trying to be a boy. And he spouted off a litany of ways I acted like a boy. Mother said nothing at the table. Therefore, there was nothing to report here.

When Daddy finished his breakfast, he went back to the bathroom and talked to himself, usually cussing about something and mostly about somebody. Aunts Maddie and Claire were his usual targets. His impetus to cuss them and demand that God send them straight to hell made perfectly good sense to him because he quoted Bible verses about adulterers and fornicators. I think he made up some verse too. Daddy convinced himself that both had committed sins worse than murder. Aunt Maddie divorced her husband before her sons were born, and Aunt Claire let Rob get her pregnant before they were married. Hence, God should send them both straight to hell, and the sooner, the better, accordingly to Daddy.

After a while, probably when he figured out that God wasn’t in the hell-sending business today, he went to the garage a few steps from the house. He devoted his Saturday mornings to either of two tasks—changing all the