White Trash Legend   

                        

By HC Smitty

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

Copyright

 ©2025 HC Smitty any unauthorized reproduction of this work is strictly prohibited without written authorization by the author and violation will result in severe retribution fool

 

 

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 by: David Vriendt author of the novel LOW MAN 

"White Trash Legend" is a raw and unfiltered memoir by HC Smitty, chronicling his tumultuous journey through addiction, crime, and redemption. Born in Rust Belt America, the decline of his hometown, familial struggles, and a relentless pursuit of freedom marked Smitty's life. The narrative delves into his experiences with substance abuse, the criminal justice system, and the subcultures that shaped his identity. Through candid storytelling, Smitty offers a poignant reflection on societal issues such as poverty, mental health, and the search for belonging. This memoir is a testament to resilience and the enduring human spirit, providing an insider's perspective on life on the margins of society.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 HC Smitty’S INTRODUCTION 

     I am a big fan of the written word. It has on many occasions throughout my 20+ years of incarceration in various state and county jails provided me a cease fire from the madness and chaos which might reign directly outside of my prison cell. And so it is with that thought in mind that I only hope that I can do it justice in the pages you see before you, and to not embarrass myself in the undertaking.

     I grew up in Rust Belt America in one of the satellite cities of our nation’s industrial capital, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Born in 1970, I witnessed first hand what became known as “White Flight”: following the decline in commerce due to the steel industry being sold out to cheaper & more economic Chinese producers came a parallel decline of the population. And when the money leaves, the white folks follow. 

My family and I were not that kind of white. We were more of the “fuck the police” type.

 When the phrase “White Privilege,” is spoken, it damn sure isn't us they are referring to, I can assure you of that. My maternal grandfather was a first generation American. He was born in 1904 and went to work in the mines while still a boy. My Grandmother, the oldest of six children, attended a one room schoolhouse until eighth grade, when it was deemed that she would better serve the family caring for her five siblings while her Mother worked. Her Father, an alcoholic, drank away his earnings in the speakeasies, and brothels. 

 

My Mother grew up in the holler where the mines once were and the company owned houses. The saying, “Sold my soul to the company store” was rooted in real life. Mining companies owned the houses and the stores that served the goods miners and their families needed. It was common that there was nothing left at payday and workers would be in debt so bad that saving money was a fantasy to something that could ever be realized. By the time my Mother lived there the mines were played out. Her earliest memories were of fetching water from the community well, and gathering coal along the railroad tracks that fell from the coal cars. Also of eating the game my Grandfather could take from the woods surrounding the Holler. My Grandma grew vegetables and canned them for the winter. She was accustomed to this life of poverty. They made due and my Mother and Uncles never went to bed hungry. Though my Grandparents may have gone hungry to ensure their children didn’t have to. Both of my Mother’s parents drank heavily and fought often. My Mum was no stranger to domestic violence it was just the way things were. Though her parents may have fought each other neither beat their children. The youngest of 3 siblings, my Mother was the first in her family to graduate from high school. Pregnant with me not long after graduation she married rather than having the stigma of being an unwed mother she tried to give me and my brother and sister a better life than the one she had. Though the husband she chose only stuck around until I was 5 and my sister the youngest still only months old. 

We didn’t have much money but always had clean clothes and a full belly and were shown affection and knew that we were loved. My Mother’s loyalty never wavered even at my lowest points. She always had my back and I was not an easy child to raise. She sleeps well at night now knowing I’m not in prison or a hospital bed. My brother and sister turned out to be responsible successful middle class Americans. The last of a dying breed. I myself have never hit that high of a station in life. The White Trash Roots aren’t as visible in my siblings unless you threaten harm to someone they care about. My brother and I are still connected and close. My sister unfortunately can’t forgive me for my harms quite yet, though I hold out hope that someday that will change. 

This is the story of a bright but restless kid that becomes a troubled youth forged and hardened in the fires of the justice system, he has to become a man far too young. Turning to alcohol and drugs at the onset of puberty. My thirst for adventure and desire to overcome the drudgery of daily life runs afoul of Johnny Law. While still a boy I was caught in a vicious cycle of incarceration. Life is reduced to small chunks between prison terms like commercial breaks in a long sad story. I was never good at rules but a master of breaking them and pushing the limits and testing boundaries. Right around the time I hit puberty I realised that I wasn’t the same as everyone else and had enough of school. Though I attended for a few more years my participation was limited. I wanted freedom in its purest uncut form and the more I tasted it the more of it I lost to prison, a thrall to whatever chemicals would take me out of my head. Creative by nature I managed to keep my sanity in this world by losing myself in things I’m passionate about such as music, art, the written word and film. I was a singer in a couple of bands where we made original music. I enjoyed writing lyrics, I got to play some gigs opening for bands I was a fan of. Taught myself to draw, paint, and play a few chords on guitar (horribly I must say)  

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually I felt confident enough to try writing. I took an English class in Prison after I wrote a novella titled, “Max Out” because it made me aware of how bad my grammar was. I pitched another book to one of the more underground publishers that sell subversive literature and counterculture stuff that was to be titled “Prison Dynamics” I guess it would be a guide book for someone brand new to prison or was looking at going soon or would eventually. I thought it would also appeal to the curious of how things are structured and how we are able to do some things like make weapons, and booze, tattoo machines. You dear reader will get a glimpse of that reading this. My hope is to give you my eyes, ears and as many of my senses as possible as I walk through a world again that I never want to return to. 

People close to me kept telling me to write my story and at that time I would say, “I don’t like the ending.” Which was true because the ending sucked. So I wrote a couple of books and used my life experiences and some from experiences of friends that were told to me sitting at my favorite bench in “the Yard”. I’m in a good spot right now. I'm not shooting dope and I’m not on Methadone maintenance or Suboxone. I got a good woman that loves me so much you would think I hung the moon. I do not deserve this woman, God has graced me with an Angel. This woman is just the coolest and she doesn’t believe that she is. She likes to think of herself as a nerd which she is and it’s awesome. She is just her, and I encourage her to be silly and allow true self time to be sunny. She is the most natural artist I have ever known. Her creativity is out of this world. Amazing. The things she creates just blows me away. I tell her how cool she is and she says, “I'm not cool, never was.” I say, “Baby you are the epitome of what cool is. You don’t follow the herd, you blaze your own trail and could give a shit less who agrees.” All of my friends think the same thing. They are people others would consider “cool” I tell that validates it. What she loves most about me is how I encourage her and support her creative endeavors. She was always someone's daughter, wife, Mother, ect. I let her be Shelly and she didn’t know who that was so we are finding out together and it’s been a truly awesome journey.

     When she took a long road trip tent camping with me on my Harley and had encountered torrential downpours the whole ride down to North Carolina and half way back to Pennsylvania and she didn’t once complain instead smiled. She would spread her arms wide and howl like a wolf as we crossed bridges high above rivers, lakes and gorges. She wasn’t going to let the rain ruin it and neither was I. We were married after only 6 months of dating. Most of this book she won’t recognize the protagonist/antagonist (that’s me I just wanted to use those cool words) because she doesn’t know that version of me. I’ve kept nothing from her. She knows my past and lets me know that is exactly what it is, my past. Not present. She says to me that the man she sees is kind and loving, one that has known suffering, and sadness and that I need never be lonely again. To never be lonely again is a reason to live. Allowing others to live as they see fit is a thing to make living that life that I want to live so much easier.

     My heroes were the troubled souls, musicians and artists, outlaws, bikers,convicts,hustlers. These were my role models, so I think I lived up to their standards. Ozzy was one of my early heroes I was around 11 when I discover his music. Then I discovered his antics and I knew that I was gifted and not cursed. I wanted to live as loudly as possible. Ozzy was doing just that and his fans loved him. There were people that hated him also and those were the people I hated.

One thing I did was live my life on my own terms. Though a heavy price was paid for the choice of doing so. I was always the wildest, I tried my best to push past what others would do. Safety was never a state of being I was comfortable in. I never lost my sense of wonder, and must lust for adventure and experience was stronger than any drug. This is my story White Trash Legend, and a piece of my soul. Let this Mutha Fucka begin. This for the Homies walking the yard. You are not forgotten.

I fall upon the thorns of life. I bleed 

Blood for blood - Boston, MA 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How it Werks

 

    Blood has dripped on my jeans from poking around in my arm with the needle that started out sharp. The dope that fills the syringe is close to clotting the rig which will send me into a panic. It is becoming harder with each attempt to hit the vein to see if I’m registering. It’s not that I don’t have any veins I got fucking pipelines, only they are scarred and hardened making a clean hit difficult. Even though I’m not able to get the clean tap into the shipping lane that delivers my salvation straight to my soul, each shot I take at it a little blood enters the rig clouding and thickening the elixir I purchased with funds that would send me to prison if it were to be discovered how I obtained them. If the blood clots it will render the dope useless if I can't inject it. I try an old favorite that had quit working on me a month ago hopefully that month was long enough to heal and it was. Ka-Pow bitches! I am in the shipping lane. Once sure that I,m in the vein properly I slam that motherfucker home Cuz. Once you are in the vein no need to play around in there pushing the blood back and forth like I’ve seen a bunch douchebags do before.” Why do that?”I ask them and they say it gets the dope residue left behind. These narco-savants also think a small air bubble in your needle will kill you. They probably think screwing with the broad on top is a solid form of birth control because their Father a man with nine children swears by it. The dope begins to do what is was designed to do that is sweet oblivion. My thoughts are always so loud and so constant that stepping away from them is like a refuge from the war in my diseased brain. Used to be that I could shoot heroin and be in a blissful state where everything was beautiful and peaceful. There could be sirens blaring and gunshots ripping through the night just outside the window of the slum palace I was holed up in. Those days are long gone. Where did the heroin go? Did Purdue Pharma lock it all down and horde it all? I don’t know, but I do know that for years now it has only been fentanyl or fetty as it’s called by the hip crowd. They mix that lovely fatal substance with Xylazine the cool kids call tranq. Gotta love these Millennials putting the “q” on that. Sometimes it isn't even fetty; it's U47700 or another research chemical that mimics the effects of opioids. All these fine chemicals can be shipped right to your friendly neighborhood drug dealer and mixed in his basement by the fourteen year old illegal immigrant he has been pimping out on the internet. There is a certain thrill that comes with injecting a substance into your bloodstream known to have high rates of fatal overdose. You can do a shot out of a bag you've been shooting out all week that doesn’t even stop you from being dope sick, and die. That is because of “Hot Spots” that occur from not having been mixed properly and consistently. 

I struggle with the desire to slow down my thoughts and have a ceasefire in the battle of my brain against making my wife happy and the people in my life as well. My wife doesn’t ask for much from me. Not using dope is the one thing she does ask of me. She has witnessed me overdose on several occasions. The incidents were extremely traumatic for her. She is such a kind and loving soul. The thought of hurting her sickens me and ironically is a reason I shoot dope. It Doesn't make much sense hearing it said, but it makes a world of sense in practice. So many things I wish I could unsee, unknow, unlearn. It has never been easy living in my own skin. My little escape with dope makes it tolerable. I have done all kinds of drugs but none of them do the job I need them to do except dope. 

That was my life, I have lived in a state of constant desperation taking insane risks to be able to feed my habit. I have also lived where I managed to hold things together while not hurting or depriving others of what is theirs. However, even with all of the growth and knowledge I have obtained I can not put a stop to the inevitable truth of I will have to put the dope ahead of everything to be able to use it. It may not happen right away but there will come a day where I will have to have it and rearrange my life around it. If I go on a trip I will need to take along enough to see me through it, or procure a source of getting it where I will be. I must maintain a constant source of revenue for it, or suffer the results of not having it. Being dope sick is one of the most horrific experiences one can go through physically, and mentally. Spiritually shouldn’t be left out. Knowing that all of the anguish you are going through can end just by getting high is a torture in itself.

I do not know if I can explain what it is like with mere words the battle that rages inside of me

 

 

 

 

 

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my family that I drove crazy with my antics but still loved me regardless of performance. My Angel of LOVE, LIGHT,and MERCY mi SHELLITA. The memory of my Uncle Don (Slim) who was my template of being a man. My Dad and my new family that I’ve enjoyed getting to know these last few years. My homies past and present and my road dawgs still walking the yard. Everyone that grew up in the system being told you will never amount to shit unless you tow the line and conform and said fuck that and did it their way and paid a price but kept their identity, you are my people. All the writers that freed my mind from it’s real prison. Sathanas, Acheron, Monstocity, Mindless Aggression, Ferret Youth, and all the Thrash Metal, Hardcore, Punk, and genres between that made my youth bearable and fondly remembered. Last but not least to everyone I hurt and caused harm to, if I haven’t had a chance to set things right I hope and pray that my commitment to not harming others, or take things that don’t belong to me and my desire to help others and spread kindness serve as my amends to you.

 

 

THE FUCK OFFS

A failed and flawed justice system, and how the society treats it’s mentally ill and marginalised citizens. Crooked and racist police. Lazy Public Defenders and overzealous DA’s. The Antiquated bail system. Pimps you are the lowest of low that use violence and fear and the subjugation of my sisters as a means of income. Child predators and anyone that harms children and or the elderly or those with special needs. The Judgemental, The asshole guards that are so small that the only time the feel of any significance is when they are making someone’s already horrible prison sentence much worse. All those that said I can’t or won’t WATCH ME.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

        Lord protect me from my friends, my enemies I see my enemies coming, my friends I don't. That had always been an issue for me when I was ripping and running someone close would be a key part of my capture or conviction that sent me to prison. Calling them friends is a stretch thinking back on it. I don't sit and binge on resentments any longer. At one point in life I did just that. I would binge on resentment, anger, disappointment,making me bitter and uncaring. Those things are not my natural state of being or disposition. I am a very joyous and compassionate person. People may not get that as a first impression, however after getting to know me they find that the old saying is true. You can't judge a book by its cover. I have a good friend that told me about a year into our friendship that the first time he saw me he perceived me as this cocky arrogant asshole from the way I walk and my mannerisms. I laughed and told him I was glad to have not fed into that role. I think my confidence sometimes is seen as arrogance. Truth be told I can be a little cocky and I'm cool with that because it's me and when I'm in a state of depression or desperation I feel far from confident. 

I have real friends today and I am a real friend to those people that I consider family. I have the family I was born with and the one I chose. I am a firm believer that what you put out into the world is what comes back to you. So the friends I used to have that I needed God to protect me from were the fruits of the seeds I’d sown in some cases vegetables. I have done things I am not proud of which gives me anxiety in writing my tale that is about to unfold for you. I hope I can convey the true essence of who I truly am. Cocky? Yes guilty as charged. I titled my book White Trash Legend. It is pretty much started from the jump. However I do have humility and I have so much gratitude. I am also kind and considerate and genuinely care about the happiness and well being of others.

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