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" One of the things I’ve observed about white folks who grew up well-to-do: they have a deep investment in the idea of merit, and there’s a special scorn, I’ve noticed, for the poor of their own kind. They may acknowledge that race plays a role in keeping people down; they may even be sympathetic to the plights and sufferings of certain marginalized groups—but white trash is trash for a reason. They can’t help but feel they deserve their position above the fat janitor or the rapidly aging waitress or the bashful handyman—If you were smart, you would’ve gone to college, they think. If you were ambitious, you would have done something with yourself. We worked harder, they think. Our parents instilled proper values, they think—and … well. We. Just. Have. Better. Genes. I think of Patches, the way his eyes grew softly, twenty-watt condescending when he found that I’d never been to high school, let alone university. “You’re self-taught!” he said, as if I were a talking monkey, and he showed his upper teeth in a way that he didn’t mean to. The sneer he’d inherited from generations of good breeding, not on purpose. I can picture the lips of Cammie, and I know she’ll be trying not to make that expression. But I’m afraid that the more she knows me, the more disappointed she’ll be. So I say nothing. The Guiding Star glides past Newcomerstown silent and aloof, and the ghosts of the Delaware tribes watch from the woods. Soon enough, we’ll be joining them in oblivion, "
― Dan Chaon , Sleepwalk
