Clinton, Arkansas is like any small town in America. The backdrop for Monica Potts’s memoir, The Forgotten Girls: A Memoir of Friendship and Lost Promise in Rural America, this far-flung part of the world is, according to Potts, where dreams go to die. Resources are few if any, and those who live there suffer under the weight of their own ignorance or, worse, self-inflicted wounds in the form of drug and alcohol abuse, broken and/or strained personal relationships, being in and out of jails, and tragic conservatism. The denizens of Clinton, Arkansas simply do not know what is good for them. It is certainly not God or tradition. Potts holds no punches there. The author’s overt political stance on how to fix rural America is reminiscent of the “deplorable” epithet hurled at those who held different beliefs from those who are supposedly more enlightened about this, that, and the other. In effect, what could have been a very revealing memoir about why one person from Clinton managed to do well for herself while most from that same town could never successfully launch amounts to a two-hundred and fifty page scolding of hillbilly conservatives by a vastly more informed writer who insisted on going to college out of state, away from the community that nurtured her.
I am not here, dear listeners, to offer a scathing critique of a book dripping with progressive points of view. Not all of her conclusions are unfounded, and she is right to point out that bad choices have bad consequences that can make anybody’s attempt to move forward virtually impossible. The meth epidemic in this country is real, and like Potts, I have seen firsthand so much potential come to naught. I could practically smell the cigarette odor and grease wafting up from the pages.
My interest lies in her posturing. Specifically, I wonder what motivates a person to write a book that highlights the poor choices and misery of a childhood friend, Darci, while diagnosing her life with a set of progressive talking points. Why did Darci take the route she did? The patriarchy. An oppressive church. Low expectations for women. Lack of access to birth control and abortion. Misguided immigration laws. It is as if the formula for this book is to first identify how Darci and others like her mess up and then prescribe as a solution something the Democratic party champions.
For the record, I would have a similar reaction if it were a different political party. Potts is simply too scripted; indeed, it seems as if she is othering her former community as a way to create more distance between them and herself.
To say that Potts is looking down her nose at those who remained in Clinton might be stating the obvious. The compare/contrast between Darci and Potts runs throughout with the former landing squarely on the bad side and the latter, squarely on the good. Potts submits herself as the wiser among them. She got the college education, after all. Attended a school that her high school guidance counselors did not even have on their map. Nobody from Clinton had ever gone to that school. Surely, nobody ever would. It was just too far out of reach.
Perhaps it is the subtle and even not-so-subtle arrogant tone. I started the book because I wanted to learn Potts’ perspective on the state of small towns in America. I finished the book because I was hoping to find some redemptive notes – someplace where she pulled back on the lecturing and recognized that we all have struggles and to point the finger at how screwed up someone else is can be seen as the pot calling the kettle black. To be sure, Potts does not seem to notice the plank in her own eye, choosing instead to make judgment call after judgment call, only pausing on occasion to openly wonder if the brokenness was somehow linked to something she did. Even nodding toward this unlikelihood shows who the real hero of this memoir is.
