2020: I’m at a writer’s retreat in South Texas. It's a nomination only situation, and I have a two week stay in the cabin. It’s a mile from the owner’s ranch house—one of the three homes he owns, all in different counties. The ranch runs cattle and elite breeding horses, and I’ve signed paperwork that I’m good mostly being on my own in this remote location. 

 

I arrived yesterday, and my host had met me at the formidable, locked gate and led the way in his diesel truck back to the cabin where I’ll stay and write.

 

This morning, I’m sitting in the screened-in porch of the owner’s home, beautiful hand-painted tiles on the floor, ceiling fans turning slow circles. The bistro set is upscale; the table white marble, the chairs fancy rattan and wire affairs. Mounted deer antlers hang on the stucco walls. Prickly pear and mesquite dot the landscape. I am waiting for the owner to return with tea—we’re having a causal meeting before he returns to his San Antonio home and I return to the writer’s cabin. A dog barks in the distance and the February air is dense and close with desert winter. I’m bundled up in a jacket and scarf but pleased to be outside. 

 

Now, he exits his house holding a tray with a ceramic pot and matching pitcher of cream, a sugar bowl, tiny silver spoons—I think in some circles this is called tea service. He sits and pours, and we chat. I tell him a little about my writing, my own quasi-ranching background: Mutt horses and one-man logging and corrals made structurally sound with a metal bed frame and some baling wire. These details I do not mention. I feel like the help talking to the Queen about their shared love of dogs. 

 

I have been trained to ask questions of others—it’s one of the ways I strive to make people feel more comfortable, by showing interest. Sometimes, it gets the better of me—it can veer off into the inappropriate or it can show how ignorant I am. There are times when it is both. 

 

This conversation feels sufficiently comfortable—a pleasant exchange of information and a search for commonalities in our widely divergent backgrounds. I ask, “How many acres does the ranch have?”

 

He sets his tea cup on the marble table and cocks his head. “Haven’t you ever heard the two things you are never supposed to ask in the South?”

 

I shake my head, a thread of worry needling into my stomach. How have I blundered once again? I am not from Texas, that is clear.

 

He gives a wry smile. “Never ask a woman her age and a man the size of his ranch.”

 

I am stung with embarrassment. It seemed like a good-natured inquiry. My father, even on his death bed, told everyone he’d laid claim to nearly a thousand acres. None of it paid for, but still, the cock will crow.

• ​​

Sometimes, it feels like someone let me out in the wider world as a social experiment: to study how the uncouth and undereducated make—or do not—make their way in life.

 

​

1987: It was in high school when my boyfriend explained that most people put a napkin on their laps while eating. I had no idea. At home, we had torn paper towels—and we set them back on the kitchen table, probably right next to our elbows.

 

Like most folks where I grew up, we had plastic plates and water glasses—a discordant set of flatware. I didn’t really give these details a second thought—my world was old Cool whip bowls for storage, sometimes mason jars for milk, thrift stores for “new” school clothes, and shoes that usually didn’t fit because they had been on someone else’s feet first—a sister or a cousin.

 

When my boyfriend applied to Dartmouth—a school I had never heard of—his family invited me to a celebration dinner on the Mendocino coast. It was the fanciest place I’d ever been: white tablecloths, distinct salad forks and plates, candles, the Pacific roiling outside, and a hushed, distinguished atmosphere. The menu was mostly in French, and even though I was studying it in school, I didn’t recognize anything. Fear crept into my body. At any moment—I was sure—a discrete tap on my shoulder would arrive and I’d be asked in the politest of tones: “Please, let’s not make a scene. If you leave, that would be best for everyone.” I squirmed in my seat, I bit my fingernails to the delicate quick, my breath short and shallow.

 

My boyfriend’s mother poured her wine into my water glass, “to help you calm down.” Perhaps it was this, more than my rough father’s alcoholism, that fused social anxiety and drinking—clearly, many people coped this way with the overwhelm of navigating the unfamiliar.

•

1993: In my early twenties, I dated and then lived with a man eight years older. I met him at a bar where he was playing bass, a friend of a friend. He brought me beers even though I was underage; we had a shared interest in hiking and reading. For Christmas, his parents gave me a dictionary and a collection of Bach sonatas. Maybe I asked for these things. If I did, I feel for that younger me who was most likely participating in the judgments that she needed refining.

 

I wasn’t my best self in this relationship, but who is when they are twenty? When I moved from Santa Rosa, California to Santa Cruz, transitioning from community college to university, this man and I said we’d stay together. However, one afternoon when he was supposed to visit, he instead left a letter at the front door of the apartment where I now lived. He must’ve driven five hours round-trip to leave that missive.

 

The letter outlined the reasons why he didn’t want to be with me. What sticks is this:

 

“To be perfectly honest, I want to be with someone more classy, more sophisticated, more cultured, more beautiful, more educated than you will ever be.

 

But, let’s be friends.”

 

I felt seared by his words, by their commitment to paper, a living record of my crude existence. 

 

It was chicken shit to not hand it to me directly. And, who needs friends like that?

•

1996: When I went to graduate school, I was pretty clueless about what it was and why I was there. I had applied because the director had asked me to, but I really didn’t understand how to be a graduate student. Through friends of friends, I shared a house with two other women, Ph.D. seekers in other disciplines. 

 

One night I had people over for dinner from my writing program. I made lasagna and a salad, and we had a good time. The next morning, Kate told me that E, the third roommate, was horrified that dirty dishes were in the sink and on the counters when guests arrived. 

 

Anger spread through my body, masking as it usual does, the deeper emotions. It was shame I was feeling. I must’ve said something rough as Kate said, “Remember, that E grew up in a home where she had to measure with three fingers above the dinner plate for the correct placement of the dessert spoon and cake fork." All of that utensil business seemed unnecessary and exclusionary to me—and I loathed it. There are so many ways to gatekeep and judge.

 

•

1999: When I was a fledging writer, I applied to a prestigious east coast writing residency. I learned later that my handwritten application was an incredible anomaly. I’d carefully completed the form in black pen, and with an admirable clueless—or audacity—I mailed off my hopes.

 

I was working at a members only fly fishing ranch in Southern Colorado when I received a slim envelope from the residency—I was accepted. A surge of insecurity filled me but I was thrilled that maybe someone like me, with a background like mine, could be welcomed in such a space.

 

But I couldn’t afford to get to there. My parents couldn’t help, and while I had a credit card, the airfare was more than what was available. My supervisor at the ranch shared in my delight at the acceptance. I talked with her about my dilemma. We sat on the porch, Bellows Creek working its gentle way to the Rio Grande, where it was still a baby river. The ranch was 2,500 acres of mostly wild land, where elk and bighorn sheep were regular visitors.

 

“I’ll make a deal with you,” B said, “I’ll buy the ticket, and you can pay me fifty dollars a month when you get back.”

 

A hummingbird juttered close, checked us out, found us not plant-like at all, and moved on.

 

This offer was unexpected and wonderful—but should I do it? People in my family sometimes didn’t talk to each other over similar loans.

 

She saw my hesitation. “It’s okay. Others have done the same for me. It allows me to make good on their support.”

 

I thought about it for a day, while serving dinner to the members, making sure to present the plate from the left and to clear from the right. It was B who explained that when a guest crossed their knife and fork on their plate, they were signaling a pause, and if the silverware was lined up side-by-side, this meant they were finished. In this way, the servers could silently support the diners; they would certainly not interrupt.

 

The next morning, I said yes.

•

How many moments in my life have I had this; someone’s generosity supporting my ability to step through a door of possibility? Where their cushions—shared with me— gave access to privileged and vital opportunities?

•

1999: I arrived to the residency in the dark. I got tucked into my room; all white walls, a mantle and fireplace, a four poster bed, a bathroom down the hall. There were things like wainscoting and tray ceilings and an ironstone water pitcher and basin. The last one I assumed was decorative—thank goodness I didn’t try to use it.

 

The next morning I was shown my studio—a half mile away, a whole other building! Solely, for my creative work. There was also a bed, a bathroom, a piano—and another fireplace. Outside, 450 acres of open land, other studios strategically nestled so that I couldn’t see any of them.

 

I napped often and ate the delivered lunches that came in supportive silence to the porch each noon. At the group dinners I got to know my fellow residents; poets and playwrights, composers and visual artists. It was a rich mix of people, probably my deepest encounter with a group of artists, with culture and intelligentsia, other than waiting on them at the fly fishing ranch.

 

While it was used frequently, I didn’t understand the term visual artists—it just didn’t click. One night, I suggested a moonlit walk, and off we went: Scott, the pianist and composer; Tim XX, the poet of force and insight; John the surrealist; Chris, the painter of large landscapes and who was so quiet compared to all the other men; Naoe who worked with rice paper and striking colors.

 

We walked through the December cold to the amphitheater, and Tim and Scott offered soliloquies, their voices commanding even the shadows. We then sat in the crisp air, the moon two days shy of fullness, and I worked up my nerve. Into the quiet, I said, “What is visual art?” 

 

It was a question that had been building for the four days I’d been there. I grew up in a house with a print of Geronimo, and on a good year, a calendar from the feed store. My father played piano and my mother read Reader’s Digests novels and the Bible; my connection with visual art was quite limited, as evidenced by the question.

 

Scott was the first to respond. “Exactly,” he responded my left. 

 

There were murmurs of affirmation from the others. They thought I was being rhetorical. It’s funny now, but in the moment, I was frustrated. I said, “No, what does it really mean?”

 

John or Tim said, “Brilliant.”

 

The silence returned. I worked up the nerve to clarify, “I actually don’t know what it means.”

 

Then they explained. It made so much sense; I simply wasn’t familiar with it as an umbrella term. It was a stupid and a brilliant question, and I sit with the discomfort of both being true.

 

• ​

Later, Scott told me that I was like Dorothy Parker but with a sailor’s mouth. 

 

One, I didn’t think I cussed that much, and two, I thought she cussed quite a bit. 

 

Being compared her to was one highlight of my time there: she didn’t put up with people’s patronizing attitudes, with my favorite story of her being the one that supposedly occurred at a party. Some pedant asks Dorothy if she could use “horticulture” in a sentence, and her quip, “You can lead a whore to culture but you can’t make her think.”

•

After I paid back 300 of the 600 that B had fronted me, she told me not worry about the rest. 

 

I wonder about B and her faith in me; as a hard worker but also has an artist. I wonder about my parents who’d never have the opportunity of an artist residency or a fellowship, or the fun of playing ping pong with people who go onto have powerful, vibrant careers. Knowing someone believes in you enough to give you food, shelter, and time—neither of them have ever known that. 

•

2000: John, one of the fly fishing ranch members, took an interest in my writing the second year I worked there. Most likely, B indicated that I might benefit from mentorship. I didn’t know he was the Getty Museum curator; he was simply kind and not patronizing when he spoke at the meals where I served food. I had my masters degree in Creative Writing but I had barely graduated; my stories or my skill did not match well with the program I had attended.

 

He offered to read an early draft of my novel, and he connected me to an agent who kindly rejected my work, telling me it likely needed more time and development—which it did. After he left the ranch that summer, he sent me a copy of his book on the Dutch painter Jan Steen. When I read John’s work I understood what caliber of artist and art appreciator he was. 

 

I kept in touch with him and his spouse, Jay, occasionally sending a postcard or thank you note. When my new boyfriend and I went on a six-week road trip in 2001, I called John and asked if he really meant the offer to stay anytime I was in the Los Angeles area. 

 

“Yes, indeed, I meant it,” he said. “When shall we expect you?” He offered the kind of instant warmth that can unfurl even the most tightly wound social anxiety. No wine necessary.

 

We arrived at his Santa Monica home, and Dreux and I were warmly greeted. That first night, we ate dinner at their delightful dining table, both regal and earthy, sitting below work similar to Miró and Chagall. I now knew that they fell into the category of visual artists.

 

John talked about David Hockney who had been at this same table the week before. I had no idea who this was; afterwards, Dreux, who studied art and has more a refined relationship to the world than I ever will have whispered in the bedroom, “David Hockney!!” 

 

The next day, we went to the museum where John was now curator emeritus—he’d told us which exhibits were his favorites, which paintings were the most popular so arrive early. I pulled my road-trip truck into the basement parking garage and then we took the elevator upwards to the praised and prized work above. There weren’t any other vehicles like mine in the garage. 

 

The Getty Center itself is grand in scope, white and layered, landscaped and large; there are columns, fountains, hedges, courtyards. All that land committed to the preservation and sharing of art, 110 acres of cultivated space. We wandered past illuminated choir books, gritty and gripping photographs by Dorothea Lange, and the vivid irises of Van Gogh.

 

Later, we returned to John and Jay’s house with its wooden accents and stucco tiles. Jay greeted us affectionately—a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and we’d only met her the night before.

 

“How was it,” she asked. I answered honestly—the art was great but my body was tired; walking and gawking was more arduous than I realized. I said, “It was good but I’m all wore out.”

 

Behind me, Dreux whispered, “Worn. You’re all worn out.”

 

It was when we were in the guest bedroom that he explained that the proper word usage would be “worn.” Even though Dreux does not lord his knowledge like others have in my life, when he told me this that long day after the Getty, I was all the more wore out.

 

•

Now: I work at a private liberal arts college in the northeast, and the imposter syndrome daily raises its nasty, judgy little head. Many of the old insecurities, silent but deep, flame through me regularly, even though I am more than qualified for my current position. I haven’t committed too many blunders yet. Does that mean I’ve polished myself so I’m more presentable—have I simply become more socially palatable? Or does it mean I care less about when I do mis-speak or when I am the only one with my elbows on the table at a team lunch?

 

To be clear, the people around me were often kind, gently offering course correction, but the larger society mocks those not in the know, those stumbling their way into new environments, into norms that are usually not spoken or taught. Then there are the those who double down on the exclusion, on demarcating class difference.

 

When I think back to my younger self, the one who hasn’t been corralled by social expectations because of her upbringing in poverty, in a remarkably rural place, and in a fringe religion, I no longer feel shame or judgment about who she was. Or to be more honest—those feelings don’t last as long or sting as much. Culture shock isn’t the right word; maybe class shock is more accurate.

 

There are times I feel almost defiant when I consider younger me. She was doing the best she could in a world that values being in the know, that doesn’t offer much grace when someone is not in that knowing. Humor has been a steady friend in these mistakes and not knowings.

 

There are large and small ways we are asked to turn away or toward ourselves. In the navigation of class—for me—it has felt like I have been asked to turn away from myself and join others in the judgement of my lack of understanding. 

 

When it comes to the older boyfriend and his letter, I am only now realizing that I turned away from myself, or turned on myself. Of course, the letter hurt when I received it because of the standards by which I was being judged and it was also the end of a relationship. I also finally see that the letter says more about him and the burden of his judgements that he carries. In fact, in my own bumbling way, I have come to realize that not being raised in the confines of class expectations has given me a certain latitude, a certain self-acceptance that I can now turn the volume up on.

 

To that self in the dark at the artist’s colony, I lean into her curiosity and wonder, her tinge of outsiderness. That’s part of me I’ll appreciate all these years later. That self is one I choose to partner with as move forward in my class navigation. With laughter and joy and unbridled curiosity.