I grew up in a white-flight suburb community south of Birmingham, Alabama called Vestavia Hills in a middle-class subdivision called Gentilly Forest. Historically, Vestavia Hills was a place to which moms and dads flocked to prepare a nest for their children with hopes of raising them to be happy and well-adjusted in addition to providing them a good education (what is meant by the value judgment “good” in “good education” is a rant for another time).
In my growing up years, most of Vestavia Hill’s mortgage and tax laden denizens had very little expendable income hence referred to as “the velvet ghetto” or sometimes “happy hill”. From the perspective of my childhood, those were indeed happy hills. In retrospect, I now realize that those hills of happiness were driven by the undercurrents of a defense mechanism commonly referred to as Denial. If a tree fell in Gentilly Forest, there was no one around who could (or would) hear it – and I can plainly remember that trees did fall.
I still can’t figure out if this suburban driven denial was intended to shelter the children or the parents themselves. I suspect it is both. Most can only perpetuate a falsehood so long before they start to believe it themselves. Coming-of-age in this environment is much like arriving at the Santa Clause conclusion. To be an introspective adult, I have been forced to re-index my past belief structures based on what I conclude were my parent’s past “white” lies or what was indeed fact. In many cases this is a tough determination. It’s as though I might be a bit shocked, but ultimately understanding, if that when I turn fifty years old my childhood Church will have a meeting and inform me that they too were just perpetuating a through-mid-life myth.
Because of the fact that I have been fully indoctrinated in the Lifestyle of Denial and fluent in its language, I have to monitor and retrain myself on a daily basis. Suburbia thinking has created for me an Orwellian bag that I can’t seem to fight my way out of. I have been taught the tools of the trade; Buzz words such as “it’s going to be okay”, “everything will be alright”, “that’s not something you talk about”, “all’s well that ends well”, “don’t embarrass the family”, “keep your thoughts to yourself”, “tonight we’re having milk toast, just keep that to yourself” and “Mr. Wells didn’t kill himself, he was just working on the car in the garage, will you please stop talking about it.” I still wake up every morning and slip this tool belt on before I even get out of bed.
I guess one could assess these words as cynical, but when you’ve been lied to a lot, it’s difficult to trust anyone and I think it’s fair to say that kid’s who grow up on elm street and Victoria Bridge (starting in the low 300s) just get lied to a lot. No harm. All’s well that ends well. What they don’t know can’t hurt them and besides, Santa Clause is watching.
In my growing up years, most of Vestavia Hill’s mortgage and tax laden denizens had very little expendable income hence referred to as “the velvet ghetto” or sometimes “happy hill”. From the perspective of my childhood, those were indeed happy hills. In retrospect, I now realize that those hills of happiness were driven by the undercurrents of a defense mechanism commonly referred to as Denial. If a tree fell in Gentilly Forest, there was no one around who could (or would) hear it – and I can plainly remember that trees did fall.
I still can’t figure out if this suburban driven denial was intended to shelter the children or the parents themselves. I suspect it is both. Most can only perpetuate a falsehood so long before they start to believe it themselves. Coming-of-age in this environment is much like arriving at the Santa Clause conclusion. To be an introspective adult, I have been forced to re-index my past belief structures based on what I conclude were my parent’s past “white” lies or what was indeed fact. In many cases this is a tough determination. It’s as though I might be a bit shocked, but ultimately understanding, if that when I turn fifty years old my childhood Church will have a meeting and inform me that they too were just perpetuating a through-mid-life myth.
Because of the fact that I have been fully indoctrinated in the Lifestyle of Denial and fluent in its language, I have to monitor and retrain myself on a daily basis. Suburbia thinking has created for me an Orwellian bag that I can’t seem to fight my way out of. I have been taught the tools of the trade; Buzz words such as “it’s going to be okay”, “everything will be alright”, “that’s not something you talk about”, “all’s well that ends well”, “don’t embarrass the family”, “keep your thoughts to yourself”, “tonight we’re having milk toast, just keep that to yourself” and “Mr. Wells didn’t kill himself, he was just working on the car in the garage, will you please stop talking about it.” I still wake up every morning and slip this tool belt on before I even get out of bed.
I guess one could assess these words as cynical, but when you’ve been lied to a lot, it’s difficult to trust anyone and I think it’s fair to say that kid’s who grow up on elm street and Victoria Bridge (starting in the low 300s) just get lied to a lot. No harm. All’s well that ends well. What they don’t know can’t hurt them and besides, Santa Clause is watching.
© Brian Webber 2009
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