I grew up in a house that was basically a Jeff Foxworthy comedy show. Not a setup. Not a single punchline. The whole fucking show. We had more cars that didn’t run than did. Saw my stepdad spike his RC Cola with whiskey before a job interview. Both our dogs and our wallets were on chains. And people definitely stopped by to see if we were having a yard sale. “No, ma’am, this is just our porch couch!”
My stepdad was a tow truck driver with more busted knuckles than teeth, and a collection of NASCAR die-casts that might as well have been a shrine. Dale Earnhardt, Richard Petty, Rusty Wallace all lined up like little gods on a dusty mantel. NO JEFF GORDON ALLOWED. We don’t tolerate an arrogant sumbitch. We had the action figures, the trading cards, and once I brought home a rear tire from the Winternational drag races from my auto shop class field trip to a “Now that’s a souvenir.” Yea, he made me take auto shop before I could take driving lessons, and our field trip in that class was to a drag race.
My stepdad is an iconic redneck. He once pulled out one of his own teeth with a switchblade knife and a bottle of Ancient Age whiskey. That wasn’t a cry for help—that was a Tuesday. Once, he came to help me with a project, but first had to tape the cord back on his circular saw because the last time he used said saw, he cut through the cord. HE. TAPED. THE. CORD. BACK. ON. AND. USED. THE. SAW.
His ’65 Chevy didn’t run, but “At least it ain’t no Ford. You know what that stands for? Found On Roadside: DEAD!” No irony. Our Silverado dually once buried itself in the sand at Glamis like it was trying to dig its own grave. Sixth grade me did my best to dig it out with my shitty little plastic beach shovel.
This was my version of redneck. Not a cosplay. Not a vibe. No expensive boots purchased just to go on to spend $1,000 on a music festival where the artist had tassels and a private fucking plane. No redneck influencer’s brand deal for Realtree camo yoga pants. Real redneck. Calloused hands that Gojo couldn’t help. Deep distrust of authority. Tight-knit with friends and family, and the kind of folks who couldn’t give less of a damn what you looked like or who you loved—if you weren’t a dick about it. Once saw him get dragged across the front yard by his cane corso while he said, “He just likes to play rough!”
My cousin? Gay as the day is long. My stepdad’s stance when he found out: “I don’t care if they’re queer, but they better not be assholes. If they wanna get married, why is that my business?” Not woke, not academic—just decent.
He didn’t trust politicians, period. “They’re all out to screw you.” Rich folks were worse: “Act like they’re better than you ‘cause they’ve never had to crawl under a car.” And cops? Forget it. When I got a gig doing loss prevention at Target, the man looked me dead in the eye and said, “My own son, a fucking narc.” Back the Blue? He’d tell you to go fuck yourself.
I started wondering: where did that redneck go?
Because these days, “redneck” has been hijacked. It’s all jacked-up $90K trucks with Punisher skull decals and 37 American flags. It’s dudes yelling “Let’s go Brandon” between bites of chicken-fried hate speech. It’s “Back the Blue” bumper stickers and thin blue line face masks worn unironically by people who used to flip off the sheriff on their way to the corner store in an unregistered Camaro.
How did we go from distrusting authority to cheering for it? From “leave people alone” to “legislate who can love who”? When did “redneck” stop meaning rough around the edges but good at heart, and start meaning willfully ignorant with a vengeance?
The rednecks I knew were loyal to their friends, kept jumper cables in every vehicle, and would’ve given you the shirt off their back even if it still had oil stains on it from the last transmission job. They didn’t wave flags to prove a damned thing. They lived their values. They weren’t asking the government to enforce their opinions—they didn’t want the government involved in anything to begin with.
I don’t know what to call these new cosplay cowboys and lifted-truck Instagram conservatives. But it ain’t redneck.
Where have all the rednecks gone? I don’t know. Maybe they’re still out there, fixing their neighbors’ cars, cussing out the city council, helping their buddy Steve clean out that weird hidden room with the drumset and the bongs, and helping their gay nieces build chicken coops. Maybe they just turned the volume down while the rest of the world cranked up the stupid.
Wherever they are, I miss them dearly.