When I was 5 years old we lived in the projects. A place called Hocker Heights on the outskirts of Kansas City. I was sitting on the stairs talking to my Mrs. Beasley doll when one of the kids came stomping down from above. He carried a whole stack of pie tins, the kind that come from the grocery store with frozen pies inside, only these were empty. That didn't diminish his enthusiasm. He stomped out into one of the many mud puddles that substituted for a yard. He plopped himself down and announced, "I'm making mud pies!"
Soon there was a small crowd of kids: some were making pies, some were selling pies, still others were buying the pies to take home to their make believe children. All of them were covered from head to toe with mud. I was fascinated and repulsed as I watched from me seat on the stairs. I had no intention of soiling myself. Looking down at my pristine red dress, my brilliantly white ankle socks and my polished Mary Janes, I felt superior.
For me, cleanliness wasn't just an empty virtue. It was the thing that set me apart from my poor neighbors. It was the difference between poor and poor white trash.
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