Is It a White Thing?: Complaining About Vacations

Introducing the “Is it a white thing?” series.

These “Is it a white thing?” essays posit questions about behavioral and cultural quirks observed in the abstract and offensively generalized “white community.” You know, the kind of stuff nonwhite people puzzle over amongst ourselves before going to stuffwhitepeoplelike.com to cross-reference our conclusions.

[True or false: stuffwhitepeoplelike.com is to white people what Urbandictionary.com is to black people. Disregarding the fact that both sites were founded by white men who ended up with book deals.]

I like to think of this series as the colored equivalent to white people wondering, in hushed asides, if jazzy names with unexpected apostrophes—à la Mo’Nique—are a . . . black thing? Though I’m not in a position to answer that question, I can provide you with two exceptions that perhaps prove the rule: 1.) I know a white woman who named her daughter Ja’nayla and, 2.) The Wife’s Oklahoman, quilting, cattle-ranching, maternal grandmother was named Janice [pronounced Ja-NIECE]. Granted the name contains no apostrophes, however, that is one of the most randomly colored names I’ve ever heard for a white Grandma. It’s little wonder I don’t normally think of The Wife as a white person; homegirl’s got soul deep in her bones.

In this first volume of the series, which promises to heedlessly conflate issues of race, socioeconomic status, and other subtle sociological factors, I raise the question you didn’t realize you’d been thinking about: Complaining about vacations, is it a white thing?

The family-clan and I spent our 4th of July holiday at, what some might call, a “mountain resort,” and what others would call “that hotel from The Shining.”

When we arrived, there were about four other cars on the property and one of our two rooms had been stripped of all its light bulbs. Classy. Yet for all the bootleg shit that went down—there was absolutely a near riot involving angry patrons armed with steak knives rising up against that management that maybe, sort of, ran out of food for the Saturday night BBQ—it never crossed my mind to come back and complain.

Why? Because . . . isn’t complaining about the vacation you were just on, sort of a white thing?

What piqued my curiosity on the issue was the fact that about an hour into our stay, as one of us was cracking yet another “this place must be the setting for Hostel: Part III” joke, my mother gingerly sat down on a bed and started to cry. This of course only made me laugh more, mostly out of discomfort because emotions make me itchy, but also out of confusion. What was there to cry about? We were on vacation.

Although the rest of us were struck by the sobering dose of melancholy that accompanies any brush with decrepitude, the inevitability of obsoleteness, and the ever-impending mortality of all things, it was nothing that couldn’t be remedied with some back-to-basics gas-passing pranks. Not so for Mama.

In my mother’s mind the creepy, sad, derelict state of things was perceived as a personal affront. She looked into the coming days and saw the doom of her family’s vacation and this, to her, translated into a personal failing. [See “Catholic Guilt” below]

Makeup of My Mother’s White Brain during the Vacation Crisis-Crying Moment:

1 part Catholic Guilt (preferably Roman)

1 part Expectation of Perfection (combine equal parts optimism and sense of entitlement)

1 part Chronic Nostalgia that links every present moment with a past moment that is (re)remembered as having been better*

* I don’t think most nonwhite people experience this type of chronic nostalgia because the recent past we collectively recall is not particularly glorious [cue: late 1960’s Civil Rights montage] and/or the lost golden past we do hear about is always set back in the mythical motherland that doesn’t actually exist the way our parents and grandparents remember it [source citation: every short story Jhumpa Lahiri has ever written]. In the historical sweep of things, our todays tend to be better than our yesterdays.

I remember certain white childhood friends, and their white parents, who would get back from luxurious vacations every December, February, and August—freckled cheeks and sun-streaked hair—and do nothing but complain. A steady stream of mewing-whines that protested every ill and injustice inflicted upon them: The boat rocked. The ocean was boring. The excursions were too hurried. There was a dirty glass. They tried to serve you fruit!

“Fruit?!”

Fruit.

“Appalling.”

The word “terrible” was thrown around a whole lot. Food: terrible. People: terrible. Culture: terrible. Poverty: terrible.

When I was ten I was under the impression that these things called “Cruises” were elaborate carnivals of torture and if I could manage it, I ought to stay as far away from the Caribbean place as possible. How lucky was I that my saintly parents packed all six of us in a car and drove seven hours to a beach in Delaware? So lucky.

As I got older I came to realize that in fact all this post-vacation complaining wasn’t actually for the purpose of communication—otherwise, wouldn’t word have gotten around?, why would they go back to these terrible places?—but rather was a part of some elaborate, cultural ritual that involved making really nice things, like vacations, sound like monumental inconveniences.

Could your vacation really be that bad? I’m baffled.

Is it possible that nonwhite people start out a bit skeptical about vacations because we are used to “trips” and “visits” going very wrong? Slave trade, coolie trade, manifest destiny/colonialism (a.k.a. “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner Forever”), and every last latex gloved airport security search. Could it be that any travel event that does not involve a police officer asking to see a third piece of identification—and me actually having to produce my passport just to travel on a commuter rail line—feels like a dream vacation? Does this type of cynicism nurture the impulse to excuse non-life-threatening, freedom-impinging holiday hiccups? So the drinks were watered down, some bitch tried to cut you for your beach lounge, and your Nana died while you were gone just to spite you—not exactly a scorched-earth-campaign travesty. Barring a situation where someone tries to buy, imprison, or kill me, I’m giving the experience two thumbs up!

Do nonwhite people have more realistic vacation expectations because we grew up being tricked into going on “vacations” that were actually just excruciatingly long car trips down South to visit Grandma who doesn’t believe in using the AC, ever, or mind- and waist-down numbing plane treks back to the homeland to visit relatives you suspect laugh at you, though you can’t be quite sure? In a word, Yes. Fewer expectations mean fewer disappointments and fewer disappointments mean that when you can get back home, at the very least, you can be pleasant to all the poor suckers who weren’t away on holiday.

[The Cheap Indian Loophole: You are allowed, encouraged, and required to complain, vehemently—to anyone and everyone for an indefinite period of time—if it means it means you’ll get a discount.]

Why does it seem so unappealing to complain about a vacation? Because ultimately, no matter how unexpected or disastrous the experience, it was still a fucking vacation. It’s a privilege, and hopefully a pleasure, that you’ve already spent your money on. So if you can’t just enjoy your vacation—do everyone a big favor, stop trying to convince us you’re a “survivor” of your vacation, and just shut the hell up.

What vacation woe can’t be solved with a little liquor and a comically timed rancid fart?
If you’re with people who can’t appreciate that, then you’re vacationing with the wrong people—no matter what their color.

Punto. Check it out.

I welcome my readers, of all races, to continue this discussion in the Comment Section.