red·neck (rĕd'nĕk') n. Offensive Slang.
Used as a disparaging term for a member of the white rural laboring class, especially in the southern United States.
A white person regarded as having a provincial, conservative, often bigoted attitude.
From ‘Wikipedia’- “Redneck, in modern usage, predominantly refers to a particular stereotype of people who may be found in many regions of the United States or Canada. Originally limited to Appalachia and the American South, and later the Ozarks and Rocky Mountains, this stereotype is now widespread in other states and the Canadian provinces. The word can be used either as a pejorative or as a matter of pride, depending on context.
A Redneck saved my life. Two rednecks may have me living just a little longer than the government would like. But there is a price for everything. Some stereotypes are taken out of their context. Rednecks are not the only class of people that have cars in disrepair on display on their property. They are certainly not the only group of ‘ethinics’ who can make corn liquor. Nor or they the only class of people tagged with a level of extreme ignorance.
My brotha from another mutha is Bear. Bear is a redneck. He grew up a five corners kid, he worked for my father, he worked with persons of many different cultural backgrounds, nationalities and racial make-ups. We still talk all the time, even though he is in the foothills of the Smokey Mountains. Last time I talked to him ‘Star’ fell off the porch (Star is his wife). I don’t know how she’s doing but liquor was involved.
Bear introduced me to N.F. Pluto, a redneck from one of the five towns (the town that could be a colony of Israel). Back in the late 90’s, N.F. jumped my dead battery in my old Chevy. When Bear spent a fortnight (40 days) plus in the hospital, me and N.F. took care of things for his Mom and looked out for his family. I was adopted as a “redneck” because my unique Cosmopolitan yet conservative views are not the shit you see on FOX or CNN.
I started going to N.F.’s wonderland nestled in the hills of upstate New York. I got addicted to the wine tours in the Orange, Dutchess and Ulster County areas. I was viewed with some suspicion when I first made my tours. Now I am accepted for the functional alcoholic I really am. Winter, Spring, Summer and especially the Fall, drinking to relieve pressure, drinking to re-live youth, and drinking, relying on pure guts to handle camp fire and/or gunfire, is the reward we share with each other.
Back to my life getting saved. Back in the late 90’s there was a dive in Valley Stream called the ‘Final Score’. It was frequented by WWII Veterans, Bikers, Lowlifes, Wanna Bees, and Assholes. Some fool was talking shit about how the military failed the United States in Vietnam. The Clown said how poor leadership in the field led to the loss of American pride and a loss of confidence in America around the world. Clown was never in the Armed Forces.
I quickly squared his punk ass away. I questioned whether he was an American or an illegal alien. I then demanded to see his green card. He yelled a racial epithet and said “I’ll kick your ass”. (I then made up my mind I would cake-walk across his face.) He produced a knife. I immediately backed up and got to the back of the bar and got hold of a pool que. It was on.
Clown had a friend. ‘Friend’was on his way. Bear was behind the bar. (Was behind the bar) Before Bear could get there a ‘Charlie Manson’ looking space cadet came out of the head and did this weird sign and started this spazdicated hard rock dance. I thought I was stuck in the Twilight Zone but I had the presence of mind to get to Clowns friend. N.F. (aka Manson) did this magic trick in front of Clown and then something got sprayed in Clowns face.
Before I could touch Clowns friend, Bear strong armed ‘Friend’ and bounced his gourd off the Bar. Bear found ‘Friends’ family jewels with a knee shot and he doubled over like a jail bitch on Soul Train Saturday morning. Clown was holding his face, screaming. N.F. and Bear got them out of the Bar and into the street. I was headed for the street too. Bear pushed me back in the bar and said “Stay there!” They didn’t come back right away.
Bear got back into the bar first. After I sipped a half glass of cold tap beer, N.F. came back in. N.F. dumped cash, hand rolled cigarettes and other pharmaceuticals on the bar. Bear flushed the chemicals. N.F. bought a round for everyone and proceeded to chastise my ass for getting into a conflict with assholes. “Just fuckin leave”, N.F. told me.” Bear piped up, “Its my fault.” “I should have kicked their asses out an hour ago.” I was drivin’ Bear home at close of business.
“R.J., you need to know something about white trash, said N.F.” “They can’t have intelligent conversations and they don’t know what there talkin’ about half the time….their fuckin’ ignorant.” N.F. (a white redneck) said this while re-rolling one of the ‘hand rolled cigarettes’ he ‘acquired’ in the fray. “You ain’t smokin’ that grass in here”, Bear implored.
N.F. rolled his eyes and stuck the joint in his shirt. N.F. then produced 6 rounds and a small revolver. “Clown had this on him”. “If someone starts talkin’ crazy shit in a bar, get the fuck out.” I thanked him and asked how I could pay him back. “Don’t worry about it, buy me a drink.” I told him, I owe him forever. I backed up N.F. with Heineken’s all night. We became fast friends, and friends ever since. He brought me into his real redneck world. I brought him real Carolina ‘Shine’.
These old timers adopted me and treated me like one of their own kids. (46 years old at the time and I was called ‘kid’.) 300 splendid acres of farmland, forests, water falls, ponds, deer, horses, goats, sheep and moose in the high Berkshires, it was awesome. This ‘association’ was made up of all kinds of folks from 15 to 90 years of age. Scottish farm, Scottish games, Scottish dress and huge amounts of food and alcohol.
I made a wager with this old broad I’ll call Hank (short for Henrietta) she is a 40 year veteran of the U.S.M.C (my alma mater). I made this wager back in 2005. I lost. The payout wasn’t cash. It was my ethnocentric mindset. A mindset I thought I had forfeit long ago. I had to appear at the next ‘association’ meeting in a kilt. Full Scottish kilt! I explained that I wasn’t a member of a clan. “Yes you are” snapped Hank. “You are a Marine, aren’t you!” Yes Maam! I growled.
Hank ordered, “Appear before me in the Marine Corps Tartan”. (Hank is a Colonel, U.S.M.C. RETIRED. I didn’t show in 2006 due to a car accident) I showed up this year in full Marine Corp Tartan. Yeah, I was in full kilt. Don’t ask if there are photos. There aren’t any. And if anyone attempts to produce any I will find ways to make them pay. I also had to wear the kilt in the best tradition of the Scotts and the United States Marine Corps. (Nothing under the kilt except my manhood).
N.F. watched as Hank and her Scotts Lady friends did their inspection of my kilt. He said, “Remember that Friday at the Final Score”…“We’re even for everything".. (Part 1) Love.
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