The White Race
Martin Higgins
I’m White.
My family—wife Laura and daughters Brenna and Ayla—are also White.
More specifically, we’re Celtic-Americans with subtle traces of Czech, French and German. This means that we don’t tan, we burn; we don’t dance, we convulse, and we can easily get caught up in the mindless diversions that White people have created to burn up our free time while someone else stitches our Nikes or prunes our rhododendrons.
That’s why we wanted to see the Monster Truck Show at the Fairgrounds. It’s almost a genetic predisposition to over-the-top spectacle. Monster Truck racing is a mix of jousting, prizefighting and a Bachman-Turner Overdrive concert combined with vengeful outlaw engineering, and po’ boy macho auto hi-jinx, all presented as a tribute to the power of the common man.
That is to say, the power of the common man with a hundred thousand dollars of skimmed tow truck company profits to sink into a vehicle that has one purpose: to stampede like a bull on the streets of Pompaloma with a helmeted Frat boy on its back.
In fact, Monster Truck competitions supply all the essential elements of White American entertainment in one heaping dose: a race for the winner’s trophy, the reassuring triumph of man over machine, deafeningly loud noises, the stench of alcohol (both as fuel and grandstand refreshment), thousands of screaming, sweating yahoo’s and a multi-megawatt p.a. system manned by a local Country Western radio deejay who’s got more adjectives than brain cells and a denture whistle.
It was my family’s end of summer chance to cheer for the red, white, and blue “Airborne Ranger”, the Tolkienesque “Dragon Slayer”, or the ghoulish specter of “Grave Digger” bouncing their way to ultimate ground pounding glory. Heavy classical archetypes and the Battle Royale are the heart and soul of car-crushing extravaganzas. After all, Monster Trucks show their dominance by flattening rows of wrecked passenger cars. Think of it as Steven Seagal versus Frank Sinatra at a nude tetherball beach party. It’s not a pretty sight, but it’s a strong masculine survival metaphor.
Unlike Stock Car races, where puny names like “Tide”, “Mello Yello,” and “Yorktown Peppermint Patties” are splashed across the flimsy fiberglass hoods of gutted, overpowered race car skeletons, the realm of Monster Trucks demands a powerful name and elaborate thematic paint job. These are nearly as important as 500-horsepower engines and outlandish vehicle designs. No true MT fan would ever cheer for a lime green entry called the “Cocktail Shaker” or a decorator beige competitor driving the “Unbalanced Maytag”. The most popular trucks assume a powerful persona like an enormous hairy “Bigfoot”, or a sinister all-black “Darth Vader”, or a mismatched plaid entry named “The Loud Ex-Girlfriend at a Buddy’s Wedding”.
Well, maybe that one’s just my nightmare.
At seven p.m. sharp, the show began with an earthshaking roar. Clouds of acrid smoke and belching fumes choked our lungs and stung our eyes as the horrific shrieking built to an unbearable level. And that was coming from the other people in the grandstand. Which, by the way, was so White it looked more like an immense schmear of large curd cottage cheese with an occasional third-degree farmer tan and hair-tufted moles.
I saw only one Black man in the crowd of thousands as he got up and left early, probably when he realized that the pre-show music was an endless loop of Queen’s “We Will Rock You”, “We are the Champions,” and for some bizarre reason, “YMCA” by the Village People. For this one offense alone, white folks should reconsider an apology and reparations. I’m sure that if the Village People had shown up to sign autographs, there would have been a lynching or two.
The Monsters roared to life, and the crowd went hog wild. It was a Sears Diehard Inspiration moment.
“They’s started!” the guy next to me yelled to his kids. “Woo-wee, them trucks is runnin’!“
It may sound a little like Ebonics, but it was a genuine Caucasian, good ol’ boy, dirt track, mush-mouth exclamation. In Ebonics, the same phrase would be, “Them trucks be runnin’. “ Incorrect usage of third person singular present indicative versus incorrect usage of present subjunctive is the dividing line between rural redneck motor sports and world racial unity. And we thought it was cultural?
I want a T-shirt that reads, “It’s a Strunk and White thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
After one quick lap around the track, the Monsters screeched to a stop, then lined up in the infield and shut down their engines. Amazingly, these jacked-up muscle cars can only perform for a couple of minutes before overheating and conking out. Once again, the masculine virility metaphor holds true to form. Now the promoters prodded the crowd by adding a dash of perspective.
Like a family photo of an Irish Wolfhound, we needed something else in the picture – like a newborn kitten – to show how big the monster dog (or truck) truly is.
So, in came the competition go-karts. Three of them buzzed out onto the track and droned around and around, looking more like shorty beach chairs with wheels with smoky, unmuffled, leaf-blower engines. The crowd went absolutely nuts, and over their screams, the deejay hyperventilated trying to describe the race as though it was a NASCAR event. “They’re drafting behind the lead cart just like Winston Cup World Champion Dale Earnheart to conserve power and fuel!” Yeah, sure, just like my Winston smoking Dad drafts behind the Lawn Boy mower after a couple of Buds.
Shorty beach chairs with wheels, friends, like big noisy bees that leave a smelly blue vapor trail.
The checkered flag ended the annoying buzzing, but the deejay, high on adrenaline, carbon monoxide, and his own megawatt ego, sprinted out onto the track to buttonhole the winner. He was probably looking for a motorsports interview to paste onto his radio DJ demo reel,
“Howdya’ do it? Howdya’ win?”
“Well, I tried to stay out in front as much as I could, and when I got passed, I tried to get out in front again.”
“Brilliant!” the deejay announced to the crowd. Cheers and applause rose like compost stink from the Pale-American crowd. Then he turned to the runner up.
“Howdya’ do it? Howdya’ grab second place?”
“Well, I tried to stay out in front as much as possible, but I guess the best man won today.”
“Dyn-o-mite!” assured the deejay, waving his arm to the crowd to fan up some applause, then chased after the third-place go-carter to keep everything even and fair.
“Howdya’ feel when you saw that checkered flag?” The loser looked at him for an uncomfortable moment before taking the mike and addressing the crowd. As if on cue, the Monsters fired up and rumbled out onto the track, drowning out whatever he said. But given my own experience in broadcasting, listening to hours of superfluous post-game interviews, the last interchange probably went something like this:
“Well, I might have lost this race, but Jesus is on my pit crew, and we’re runnin’ a much longer race, so I’ll be looking for my trophy when the big checkered flag comes down.”
Then the deejay would respond by saying “Praise the Lord” or by making a disparaging reference to Jesus having a better pit crew. This would depend on whether the deejay had either a hot lead on a job in a better market or too many beers and a damn strong demo reel.
Although the MT’s bounced around each other for a few minutes, bringing the grandstand back from their exhaust fume stupor, the promoters once again decided to stop the show so a bunch of amateur drivers could bounce their trucks over a wimpy version of the course. In a nutshell, those who nearly destroyed their vehicles were cheered on and applauded. Any sign of weakness, i.e., the slightest show of safety or driving skill, was met with boos and catcalls unheard since Mike Tyson used Holyfield’s head as a chew toy.
One poor moron took his family’s Jeep Cherokee onto the track and demonstrated how to kill its resale value in fifty-two seconds. Although everyone laughed, I’m sure most of the crowd wished they’d thought of such a bone-brained stunt first—“I coulda’ done it in fifty flat!” Unflinching Pioneer spirit and high-octane blockhead bravado bring out the best in us. Bungee jumping, hot dog skiing, and ritual hazing would be all but unknown without ardent enthusiasts and envelope pushers.
So, rev up the S.U.V., Mama, we’ve got a chance to leave our spoor across the record book monolith!
I nudged my daughters and suggested, “Hey! Why don’t I get our car and try beating the record?” My eyebrows flipped wildly above my bugged-out eyes to let them know this was an attempt at sarcastic hyperbole. My five-year-old cautioned me, “No, Dad, you’ll wreck it.” I gave her my most insane conspiratorial smile and nodded enthusiastically, “Yah! Wreck it, but we might win!” I turned to my eight-year-old and she summed up the whole experience.
“This is boring. It was fun for a minute or two, but now it’s getting old. Let’s see the rest of the Fair. We want to go on the rides.”
Perfect. I understand now. Kids want to go on the carnival rides, not watch grown-ups in Monster Trucks imitate carnival rides. Hey, I don’t want to drive a Monster Truck or go on Carnival rides. I’ve seen enough Carney ride operators with missing fingers and flat Alpha wave race crash victims to know that, as an adult, I like to watch.
Later, watching my daughters scream with delight while the Scrambler spun them and a couple of dozen other kids to a dizzying fare-thee-well, I thought, “Maybe there’s hope. They like to ride rather than watch. Maybe they won’t grow up as White as me after all.”
Either that or they're gonna have way cool Monster Trucks.
# # #
©1997 Martin Higgins
My family—wife Laura and daughters Brenna and Ayla—are also White.
More specifically, we’re Celtic-Americans with subtle traces of Czech, French and German. This means that we don’t tan, we burn; we don’t dance, we convulse, and we can easily get caught up in the mindless diversions that White people have created to burn up our free time while someone else stitches our Nikes or prunes our rhododendrons.
That’s why we wanted to see the Monster Truck Show at the Fairgrounds. It’s almost a genetic predisposition to over-the-top spectacle. Monster Truck racing is a mix of jousting, prizefighting and a Bachman-Turner Overdrive concert combined with vengeful outlaw engineering, and po’ boy macho auto hi-jinx, all presented as a tribute to the power of the common man.
That is to say, the power of the common man with a hundred thousand dollars of skimmed tow truck company profits to sink into a vehicle that has one purpose: to stampede like a bull on the streets of Pompaloma with a helmeted Frat boy on its back.
In fact, Monster Truck competitions supply all the essential elements of White American entertainment in one heaping dose: a race for the winner’s trophy, the reassuring triumph of man over machine, deafeningly loud noises, the stench of alcohol (both as fuel and grandstand refreshment), thousands of screaming, sweating yahoo’s and a multi-megawatt p.a. system manned by a local Country Western radio deejay who’s got more adjectives than brain cells and a denture whistle.
It was my family’s end of summer chance to cheer for the red, white, and blue “Airborne Ranger”, the Tolkienesque “Dragon Slayer”, or the ghoulish specter of “Grave Digger” bouncing their way to ultimate ground pounding glory. Heavy classical archetypes and the Battle Royale are the heart and soul of car-crushing extravaganzas. After all, Monster Trucks show their dominance by flattening rows of wrecked passenger cars. Think of it as Steven Seagal versus Frank Sinatra at a nude tetherball beach party. It’s not a pretty sight, but it’s a strong masculine survival metaphor.
Unlike Stock Car races, where puny names like “Tide”, “Mello Yello,” and “Yorktown Peppermint Patties” are splashed across the flimsy fiberglass hoods of gutted, overpowered race car skeletons, the realm of Monster Trucks demands a powerful name and elaborate thematic paint job. These are nearly as important as 500-horsepower engines and outlandish vehicle designs. No true MT fan would ever cheer for a lime green entry called the “Cocktail Shaker” or a decorator beige competitor driving the “Unbalanced Maytag”. The most popular trucks assume a powerful persona like an enormous hairy “Bigfoot”, or a sinister all-black “Darth Vader”, or a mismatched plaid entry named “The Loud Ex-Girlfriend at a Buddy’s Wedding”.
Well, maybe that one’s just my nightmare.
At seven p.m. sharp, the show began with an earthshaking roar. Clouds of acrid smoke and belching fumes choked our lungs and stung our eyes as the horrific shrieking built to an unbearable level. And that was coming from the other people in the grandstand. Which, by the way, was so White it looked more like an immense schmear of large curd cottage cheese with an occasional third-degree farmer tan and hair-tufted moles.
I saw only one Black man in the crowd of thousands as he got up and left early, probably when he realized that the pre-show music was an endless loop of Queen’s “We Will Rock You”, “We are the Champions,” and for some bizarre reason, “YMCA” by the Village People. For this one offense alone, white folks should reconsider an apology and reparations. I’m sure that if the Village People had shown up to sign autographs, there would have been a lynching or two.
The Monsters roared to life, and the crowd went hog wild. It was a Sears Diehard Inspiration moment.
“They’s started!” the guy next to me yelled to his kids. “Woo-wee, them trucks is runnin’!“
It may sound a little like Ebonics, but it was a genuine Caucasian, good ol’ boy, dirt track, mush-mouth exclamation. In Ebonics, the same phrase would be, “Them trucks be runnin’. “ Incorrect usage of third person singular present indicative versus incorrect usage of present subjunctive is the dividing line between rural redneck motor sports and world racial unity. And we thought it was cultural?
I want a T-shirt that reads, “It’s a Strunk and White thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
After one quick lap around the track, the Monsters screeched to a stop, then lined up in the infield and shut down their engines. Amazingly, these jacked-up muscle cars can only perform for a couple of minutes before overheating and conking out. Once again, the masculine virility metaphor holds true to form. Now the promoters prodded the crowd by adding a dash of perspective.
Like a family photo of an Irish Wolfhound, we needed something else in the picture – like a newborn kitten – to show how big the monster dog (or truck) truly is.
So, in came the competition go-karts. Three of them buzzed out onto the track and droned around and around, looking more like shorty beach chairs with wheels with smoky, unmuffled, leaf-blower engines. The crowd went absolutely nuts, and over their screams, the deejay hyperventilated trying to describe the race as though it was a NASCAR event. “They’re drafting behind the lead cart just like Winston Cup World Champion Dale Earnheart to conserve power and fuel!” Yeah, sure, just like my Winston smoking Dad drafts behind the Lawn Boy mower after a couple of Buds.
Shorty beach chairs with wheels, friends, like big noisy bees that leave a smelly blue vapor trail.
The checkered flag ended the annoying buzzing, but the deejay, high on adrenaline, carbon monoxide, and his own megawatt ego, sprinted out onto the track to buttonhole the winner. He was probably looking for a motorsports interview to paste onto his radio DJ demo reel,
“Howdya’ do it? Howdya’ win?”
“Well, I tried to stay out in front as much as I could, and when I got passed, I tried to get out in front again.”
“Brilliant!” the deejay announced to the crowd. Cheers and applause rose like compost stink from the Pale-American crowd. Then he turned to the runner up.
“Howdya’ do it? Howdya’ grab second place?”
“Well, I tried to stay out in front as much as possible, but I guess the best man won today.”
“Dyn-o-mite!” assured the deejay, waving his arm to the crowd to fan up some applause, then chased after the third-place go-carter to keep everything even and fair.
“Howdya’ feel when you saw that checkered flag?” The loser looked at him for an uncomfortable moment before taking the mike and addressing the crowd. As if on cue, the Monsters fired up and rumbled out onto the track, drowning out whatever he said. But given my own experience in broadcasting, listening to hours of superfluous post-game interviews, the last interchange probably went something like this:
“Well, I might have lost this race, but Jesus is on my pit crew, and we’re runnin’ a much longer race, so I’ll be looking for my trophy when the big checkered flag comes down.”
Then the deejay would respond by saying “Praise the Lord” or by making a disparaging reference to Jesus having a better pit crew. This would depend on whether the deejay had either a hot lead on a job in a better market or too many beers and a damn strong demo reel.
Although the MT’s bounced around each other for a few minutes, bringing the grandstand back from their exhaust fume stupor, the promoters once again decided to stop the show so a bunch of amateur drivers could bounce their trucks over a wimpy version of the course. In a nutshell, those who nearly destroyed their vehicles were cheered on and applauded. Any sign of weakness, i.e., the slightest show of safety or driving skill, was met with boos and catcalls unheard since Mike Tyson used Holyfield’s head as a chew toy.
One poor moron took his family’s Jeep Cherokee onto the track and demonstrated how to kill its resale value in fifty-two seconds. Although everyone laughed, I’m sure most of the crowd wished they’d thought of such a bone-brained stunt first—“I coulda’ done it in fifty flat!” Unflinching Pioneer spirit and high-octane blockhead bravado bring out the best in us. Bungee jumping, hot dog skiing, and ritual hazing would be all but unknown without ardent enthusiasts and envelope pushers.
So, rev up the S.U.V., Mama, we’ve got a chance to leave our spoor across the record book monolith!
I nudged my daughters and suggested, “Hey! Why don’t I get our car and try beating the record?” My eyebrows flipped wildly above my bugged-out eyes to let them know this was an attempt at sarcastic hyperbole. My five-year-old cautioned me, “No, Dad, you’ll wreck it.” I gave her my most insane conspiratorial smile and nodded enthusiastically, “Yah! Wreck it, but we might win!” I turned to my eight-year-old and she summed up the whole experience.
“This is boring. It was fun for a minute or two, but now it’s getting old. Let’s see the rest of the Fair. We want to go on the rides.”
Perfect. I understand now. Kids want to go on the carnival rides, not watch grown-ups in Monster Trucks imitate carnival rides. Hey, I don’t want to drive a Monster Truck or go on Carnival rides. I’ve seen enough Carney ride operators with missing fingers and flat Alpha wave race crash victims to know that, as an adult, I like to watch.
Later, watching my daughters scream with delight while the Scrambler spun them and a couple of dozen other kids to a dizzying fare-thee-well, I thought, “Maybe there’s hope. They like to ride rather than watch. Maybe they won’t grow up as White as me after all.”
Either that or they're gonna have way cool Monster Trucks.
# # #
©1997 Martin Higgins