Somewhere here, we’ve got the trophy, proof we’re not “one of them.” You know who we mean. The guy twirling the sale sign out front by the furniture store, red arrow pointing the wrong way. But what does he care? It’s less than minimum wage. Or the day laborer waiting for work, fingers black from soil and cigarettes, jeans barely held up by a cracked belt. Certainly we’ve bested that, yes? Moved beyond our fathers’ humble lip smacking and smiling, mouth open like people with bad teeth aren’t supposed to do? We hide our own mouths behind our hands, in case the floss missed a speck of spinach, in case the whitening didn’t work, in case a drop of spittle hurtles like a meteor into the space between us as we mispronounce our ordinals: Third Place and Fourth, unacceptable. Fifth doesn’t exist, and unless you’re first, don’t bother mentioning in polite company. This is the shame of inheritance, of being born in a no-name hospital, raised in a working-poor town, reminded in writing, “You can do better.” You better do better. And we have done better. Right? There’s a trophy somewhere that says so, a plaque engraved with our worth, thin line of cursive (names misspelled, but so what?) declaring we’re “better off.” We’re living in strata where diplomas, degrees, certificates and seals still mean the difference between earning a decent living and plummeting. “We did what we could for you,” say our elders. “We gave you all we had. It’s up to you to fly.” No wonder we can’t tolerate failure. No wonder we cling to perfectionism. No wonder we hold on so tightly, like life depends on our fragile ability to hide the “we-might-be-a-fraud,” terrified of our own thin skin. The world demands we win. -Katherine Gotthardt
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
