Phenomenological Flying with the Clampetts

There is a theory in qualitative research called phenomenology. While studying phenomenology (what I’m studying this semester and wish to use as my theoretical perspective when doing some research in the near future), one is hoping to learn about people’s lived experiences in the world. We choose a phenomenon of interest, saaaay, what does it mean to fly on an airplane…with the Clampetts, and then we can do several things to try and catch mere glimpses of this experience saaaaay through people’s descriptions, for instance. When writing descriptions of experiences, phenomenologists ask people to describe the experience—that one moment in time—just as it was for them. They sometimes might ask the participant to try and avoid explicit judgment or feeling when describing that moment and just describe it as this happened moment by moment.

I will NOT be avoiding judgment for the description below. There is judgment, ohhhhh, there is judgment.

I will describe this phenomenon—what it means to fly with the Clampetts—with as much judgment as will leave my fingers to meet these keys on which I type. My major professor—Dr. Mark Vagle, whom I admire immensely—has been working with me on this theory of phenomenology, so for the following deviation from a judgment-free description, I…well…I don’t apologize…I just say….um….I’ll get back to being “open” to other people’s experiences tomorrow.

If anyone remembers that amazingly deep television show “The Beverly Hillbillies,” then you may recall the family—the Clampetts. I was reminded of them tonight when I was traveling back by air from Panama City to Atlanta. Let me just say that the beginning of my trip started out with a bang, in that there was enough lightning and thunder as I awaited my delayed flight to encourage me to believe that there actually is a devil and he/she might actually fight with God. If I would have been sitting in that airport with no other patrons, I would have been….under the chair. I forgot how scary southern thunderstorms can be, people.

Anyway, as we boarded the flight that was supposed to leave at 4:15pm at 5:30pm, I noticed that a family of about six or seven was boarding before me. No big deal. Seen large families before, right? Oh no, no, people. This was no ordinary family of six or seven. No. This was a family who had never flown before and well, I actually would be INSULTING the Clampetts if I compared this family to them. At least Daisy May was hot and at least the Clampetts were rich, kind hearted, country folk. This family o’camo was nothing of the sort.

As I wiggled into 6D right next to the propellers (What? Fly on a plane with propellers, you ask? That’s right. Small town girl.) I instantly heard Jr. across the aisle from me screeching, “Hey, momma, this ain’t as big as you said itus (it was) gonna be. You lied, momma. You always lie, momma.” …No response from momma. When Jr. had no response from momma, he continued on abusing his cousin sitting next to him—who clearly did NOT fit in with this family—calling him “stupid” and slapping him on his apparently horribly sunburned back. Meanwhile, momma was in the seat in front of Jr. (well, actually, she was in a seat and a half in front of Jr. weighing in just over three hundred and fifty pounds) with her most recent child of one in her lap tightly strapped WITH HER in the seat belt. Momma wore a nice pair of camo cropped pants (that is the style now, isn’t it? Cropped pants?) a bright orange t-shirt that fit very well and tight, some camo socks and pink Crock sandals to top it all off. As she continued to shift her one-year-old around on her lap to make the seat belt fit them both better, the flight attendant strolled down the aisle to make sure we were all buckled in and ready for take-off…in our propeller plane…

The flight attendant was a beautiful southern young lady who had poise and elegance as she glided around asking people to make sure their bags were properly stowed under their seats in her beautifully crafted southern way. As she passed our section, momma asked, “Y’all still givin out them wings like ye did backinthe day?”
“No ma’am.” The flight attendant smiled as she replied to mamma. “But may I ask you to please remove your son from your lap belt as he is not able to be strapped in with you.”
“WHAT?!” barked momma like someone had just taken her shot gun away from her. “What-er y’all makin’ me do that fer?”
“Well,” the flight attendant said smiling in her gracious and smooth southern belle accent, “FAA regulations require that small children be held in your lap if you have not purchased a seat for them.”
“So if we crash er sumthin bad happens... the kid goes first and I’m all safe n sound? What the hell’s that all ‘bout?” Momma raised her voice to the nice lady.
“No ma’am. Actually, if we crash or something and your son is belted in with you, well, he gets snapped in half.” And then she moved on. Leaving momma with a look on her face as if…well…as if her kid had just been snapped in half. You go girl!

The rest of the flight went pretty much like the above statement. I, as a future researcher, watched carefully as the Clampetts rose to their glory throughout the flight. Jr. was pretty much my favorite, weighing in at 130 pounds, four feet two inches, and all of ten years old. And his comments, oh, his comments. When the flight attendants were taking the cart down the aisle to start doing the drink thing, they passed our section (as we were in the freaking middle of the plane) and Jr. shouted out, “MAMMA, SHE AIN’T GIVE ME NO DRINK! YOU SAID SHE’D GIVE ME A DRINK. SHE AIN’T GIVE ME NO DRINK, MAMMA!” Mamma retorted quickly like any loving mother would, “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! IF I HEAR YU SCREAMIN’ AGAIN I’LL COME BACK THERE AN BEATCHA!” Oh, I’m serious, folks. This is no fictional account; it’s just an account from one person’s perspective in the world. YEAH RIGHT,WHATEVER….these people were Awesome!

Other wonderful statements from Jr. that I happened to jot down as we were flying:
(To his cousin) “Are you scared? I’m scared. I ain’t seen one of them plan pro—pell-ers move since we took off but I ain’t tellin’ on nobody cuz I don’t want ‘em ta get in trouble. That makes me scared. You scared? I’m scared.”

Another statement to the cousin about ten minutes before we land: “Why on’t you talkta me no more? Yer bein’ stupid.” (the cousin has his hand up in Jr.’s face at the moment gesturing to him that he has no intention of speaking to him anymore) “Yer even bein’ stupider then me. MOMMA, KYLE’S BEIN’ STUPID! HE’S SAYIN’ I’M STUPID AND WON’T TALKTA ME NO MORE…”

Mamma: “OOOOhhhhhh, Kyle, I can’t WAIT ta get you home ta yer mamma. I know you glad but I’m more gladder then yu!”

Kyle? Well, he just sat there, you could tell, thinking, How have I come to be right here, right now, with this amazingly horrible family? God, why have you forsaken me?

Me? Well, I played with the Korean one year old sitting in his skinny mommy’s lap next to me all the while taking notes on this family who made me want to laugh and cry all at the same time…on a one hour flight……

So there I am with a page of notes on the Clampetts front and back. I have descriptions of mamma and Jr. so vivid that I’m sure the page could become a novel itself, and what do you think happens? Just take a guess….anyone? Yes, if you guessed that the paper somehow mysteriously flew out of my lap and onto the floor RIGHT UNDER MAMMA’S NOSE, you win a million, ga-gillion dollars (like that guy in Congress or somewhere who’s won the lottery “by chance” three times). So there my paper of notes went. On the ground…by mamma’s foot. I hold my breath. One of mamma’s seventeen kids leans over to pick it up for me and I’m just in agony. Let the plane go down now, good Father. Are you catching on to the theme of Hilary will have karma surrounding her every move in life yet? Whatever. The bitch was over the top and yelled shut up to her kid. I’m allowed to judge, darn it! But her reading my judgments would have been … well…not so good, I guess.

Moving on, the plane landed, but when we pulled into Atlanta, we had to sit for awhile on the runway because of some other plane, yadda, yadda. So Jr. starts standing up, screaming at the flight attendant that we’re here and why don’t you let us off and did you know that this darn propeller don’t even work and it hadn’t worked the whole time and you didn’t even give me Sprite and mamma, when can we get off cuz I gotta pee! That was the gist of his ten year old rant at that moment. We were pretty much scared. Jr. was going crazy. And Mamma? What was she doin’ you ask? Oh, you know, the typical motherly response to an unruly child: “SHUT UP! IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP YE WON’T BE ABLETA WALK WITH THE BABY OFF THE PLANE, SO SHUT UP!”

What? If Jr. doesn’t stop freaking out, he’s not allowed to escort his redneck one year old baby brother off the plane and that’s his consequence? For telling the flight attendant she “sucks,” yelling so the whole plane can hear him that he HAS TO PEE, MAMMA “and I’ll piss my pants if you don’t let me go NOW!” That’s his punishment? Ohhh, the Clampetts would have been SO offended if they knew I was comparing him to them….

BIG GAME this weekend. Old drunk men in the stands yelling at young boys trying their hardest on the football field because the old men could, um…do it any better? More on that later….This is good for my first judged phenomenological account. HEH