Trailer Park Trash Quotes

She looked at me like I was suddenly her whole world. I felt that look sear right into my heart. Ain’t no one ever looked up on me with such grace, with such trust before, and I felt humbled that she chose to gift it to me … All anyone ever saw when they looked at me was the white trash ex-gang member from the Heighter-famed trailer park across town. But not her. Fuck knows why, but Pix only ever saw more.

They came with nothing, and for a complicated set of reasons, many of them still have nothing. The slurs stick to me, standing on these graves. Rednecks . Trailer-park trash. Racists. Cannon fodder. My ancestors. My people. Me.

Starbucks’s truly beautiful idea was the simple realization that Americans wanted to spend more money for a cup of coffee, that they’d feel much better about themselves if they spent five dollars for a cup of joe rather than buy that cheap drip stuff that shows such as Friends suggested only fat white trash in housecoats (or people who actually worked for a living) drank anymore—in their trailer parks or meth labs or wherever such people huddled for comfort.

I always wondered, though, what the fathers felt as they drove up the street they used to drive down every night, and whether they really saw their former houses, whether they noticed how things got frayed and flaky around the edges now that they were gone. I wondered it again as I pulled up to the house I’d grown up in. It was, I noticed, looking even more Joad-like than usual. Neither my mother nor the dread life partner, Tanya, was much into yard work, and so the lawn was littered with drifts of dead brown leaves. The gravel on the driveway was as thin as an old man’s hair combed across an age-spotted scalp, and as I parked I could make out the faint glitter of old metal from behind the little toolshed. We used to park our bikes in there. Tanya had “cleaned” it by dragging all the old bikes, from tricycles to discarded ten-speeds, out behind the shed, and leaving them there to rust. “Think of it as found art,” my mother had urged us when Josh complained that the bike pile made us look like trailer trash. I wonder if my father ever drove by, if he knew about my mother and her new situation, if he thought about us at all, or whether he was content to have his three children out there in the world, all grown up, and strangers.

You remember the time Joseph Pinter called Kris ‘white trash’ when he found out her and her mom live in a trailer park? And Mr. Yacoubian was standing right there and didn’t say anything? He’s a teacher and he just let it happen because Joseph Pinter has a white picket fence and Kris doesn’t.

Yet, there is a paradox in the fine line between the Wal-Mart white trash who so often come from trailer parks, but give that trailer an engine, granite worktops, a smaller dog and a tree-lined parking spot, and suddenly the inhabitants are propelled from the status of lazy and unemployable to permanent vacationers. I

The whole country looks more like a trailer park every day. As our lived economy gets worse, more jobs are becoming temporary, homes less permanent or more crowded, neighborhoods unstable. We’re transients just passing through this place, wherever and whatever it is, on our way somewhere else, mostly down. “I get really scared sometimes,” my mom tells me, “that the old days are coming back.” She means the Great Depression days she knew in her childhood, and the trailer park days I knew in mine.

I’m going to see a friend.” “The mean one, or the white trash one?” “Helen.” She replied, “Sorry. I meant Captain Frigid or Trailer-Park Boy.

America is a third world country. Trailer parks are America's favelas.

Sometimes these non-wealthy non-Northeasterners (“white trash”) manage to stumble out of their shantytowns and trailer parks and Napa Valleys in order to vote, but most of the time they occupy themselves with basic cable, pornography, and the occasional trip to the demolition