Hate is US
by Frank Pitz
During one of the economic downturns – euphemistically referred to as a “recession†– of the 70s I picked up employment as a truck driver. I hauled live poultry up and down the highways, not the most glorious of work but it was a job.
The period was from 1975 through about 1978 or so. It was a period I call BE – before electronics; or, at least before cell phones, GPS, the Internet, etcetera. The majority of truckers utilized the then ubiquitous CB Radio. One could get directions, call for assistance or report drunk drivers and chat through the lonely hours on the road. It was the chat aspect of the CB that used to entertain me while driving.
Not unlike many message boards out here in cyberspace today, the CB – because of the anonymity of the mechanism – was a tool not only for finding one’s way on the road but also for bragging and hurling invective. I cannot begin to recount the many, ongoing battles raging over the CB airwaves regarding the Civil War, for instance. At times I felt like the War Between the States never ended; indeed, for many of the southern (or wannabe southern) drivers this fight never seemed to get settled. This simulated combat generally degenerated into name-calling as well as some rather hate filled invective, as the “Rebs†would question the manhood of the “nigger-lovin’ Yankee faggots.†Of course, President Lincoln always came in for some choice epithets as well.
In the roughly three years I drove up and down the road I saw – and heard – what I felt was pretty much a microcosmic example of the undercurrent of hate that makes up – then as well as now - the body of these United States. This was also that period when the anti-war protests were all over the streets and the media so those “fucking hippies†also came in for some well-chosen comments and threats. I recall the first time I walked into a truck stop, long hair in a pony tail, earring, cut off jeans and work boots; gave new meaning to Bob Seger’s “Turn the page.†I could hear the comments, vis-à -vis “they let anybody drive a big truck these days,†but no one ever got in my face. Being six-foot plus and 250 pounds tended to forestall anything other than side of the mouth commentary and behind the hand remarks never did bother me.
During one of the economic downturns – euphemistically referred to as a “recession†– of the 70s I picked up employment as a truck driver. I hauled live poultry up and down the highways, not the most glorious of work but it was a job. The period was from 1975 through about 1978 or so. It was a period I call BE – before electronics; or, at least before cell phones, GPS, the Internet, etcetera. The majority of truckers utilized the then ubiquitous CB Radio. One could get directions, call for assistance or report drunk drivers and chat through the lonely hours on the road. It was the chat aspect of the CB that used to entertain me while driving.
Not unlike many message boards out here in cyberspace today, the CB – because of the anonymity of the mechanism – was a tool not only for finding one’s way on the road but also for bragging and hurling invective. I cannot begin to recount the many, ongoing battles raging over the CB airwaves regarding the Civil War, for instance. At times I felt like the War Between the States never ended; indeed, for many of the southern (or wannabe southern) drivers this fight never seemed to get settled. This simulated combat generally degenerated into name-calling as well as some rather hate filled invective, as the “Rebs†would question the manhood of the “nigger-lovin’ Yankee faggots.†Of course, President Lincoln always came in for some choice epithets as well.
In the roughly three years I drove up and down the road I saw – and heard – what I felt was pretty much a microcosmic example of the undercurrent of hate that makes up – then as well as now - the body of these United States. This was also that period when the anti-war protests were all over the streets and the media so those “fucking hippies†also came in for some well-chosen comments and threats. I recall the first time I walked into a truck stop, long hair in a pony tail, earring, cut off jeans and work boots; gave new meaning to Bob Seger’s “Turn the page.†I could hear the comments, vis-à -vis “they let anybody drive a big truck these days,†but no one ever got in my face. Being six-foot plus and 250 pounds tended to forestall anything other than side of the mouth commentary and behind the hand remarks never did bother me.
