I've been told by all who love me and many who don't that I do have a chip on my shoulder, if a mighty fucking oak can be counted as a chip. My parents told us to upwardly mobile, to educate ourselves toward finer streets--they wanted us to aspire to a class they clearly despised and feared. They understood that for us to succeed we'd have to hate them a little bit in order to say goodbye. Not all of us cared to do that. There's a very fine book called The Hidden Injuries of Class that ought to be read, mostly by those who will know the details from the inside and will recognize the hidden influences they operate behind.
My interview with Daniel Woodrell is up at Ransom Notes.