My baby sister stood in a glass box the size of a long gone, street side phone booth. She was seven years old. We were visiting the mall in the city where my grandparents had relocated - Spartanburg, South Carolina. She had been chosen from a crowd of people that had gathered around the booth in curiosity. I don't know if they thought they were being clever choosing a young kid for the show. If they did, they had never encountered a kid like my sister.
She wore a mix of fear and excitement on her face. They closed and sealed the door to the box. As soon as it was secured, they turned on a blower that shot a high force of air up from the bottom of the box. Her hair blew. Then, they released the cash. A combination of bills, mostly ones, blew all around her. The timer began. She had thirty seconds to grab all she could hold and stuff into her clothes. If she was lucky, she'd snag the hundred dollar bill.
She reached and grabbed faster than I had ever seen her little, chunky kid body move. Most of the bills flew out of her reach, but she didn't focus on what she couldn't get. She kept all the effort close. She clutched and snatched the money like all our lives depended on it. I can't remember how much she had when she left the box. I just remember how impressed everyone was with the amount. They said, "She might as well have grabbed that Benjamin!"
Everything that required and effort or attempt from me received 100%. 100% of frantic, desperate, overly zealous, hurried, raging fire me until I burned out. I felt the need to seize every opportunity that I felt confident I could use to achieve. It didn't matter what I was achieving, as long as people would think it was good. I'd give it my best regardless of whether or not it spoke to my heart or fed my soul. I'd do it simply because I could.
Dylan isn't the only teacher offering classes on the app, and soon I was saw another instructor, Melini Jesuadson, who offered specific handstand conditioning and training. She was trained in the Cirque du Soleil tradition, and made it look so doable. I picked up that program a month ago. I train strength and mobility with Dylan and a few others. Proprioception, approach and form is covered in Melini's program. I continue with my regular asana, pranayama, and meditation practice.
In the class of the series Melini calls Handstands with Wall, she talks a lot about fear. What creates it and how to work passed fear. She suggests that a handstand practice can tell you a lot about your personality and your approach to life, especially challenges. Seeing handstanding as unattainable for so long gave me the impression that there wasn't much more that I could learn about myself and my body from its practice that I couldn't learn from doing foundational asanas like Warrior II. From the first time I worked through that class, I decided to use the practice as a tool to help me pin down patterns of behavior, my inner voice, and ways in which I react to challenges that I cannot readily meet. The practice of handstand would be the alchemical process for understanding these aspects of myself and transforming them into something more useful. It's been amazing.
That brings me back to the story about my sister. My quest and self imposed obligation to take on every opportunity to earn money or credentials, like my sister's money grabbing adventure, is indicative of a scarcity experience creating a scarcity mindset. Growing up knowing that there was no and never was going to be a nest egg drew out the drive to grapple for those opportunities. It's common among people where I come from. It's basic sense of survival. Leah and I were taught that our mind was our best asset for providing a good life for ourselves. It was a combination of education and achievement that would secure a comfortable life. Our mother hoped too, that we could make ourselves attractive enough to possibly marry up.
In 2012, according to a health issues poll conducted by the Foundation for a Healthy Kentucky, eastern Kentuckians believed that their children would be worse off financially as adults than they are by a rate of 61%. I know that fear was real for my family growing up in the 80s and 90s. We were always encouraged to do well in school, go to college, and leave the mountains. Based on some comments female adult family members made to me and teasing in school, I decided early on that my looks could get me nowhere. I had to rely on brains. I had to use every available space to prove myself worthy of being chosen. Being from eastern Kentucky, I better never turn down a good opportunity to earn my keep whether or not it would be through a means I was passionate about and felt drawn towards. Another good, or better opportunity may never come. The grass is never greener. Accept the blessings you're given and be content. I've never been content in traditional roles, in the rat race, or selling my soul to the machine.
the outside world who could make it happen for her? After many rejection letters for my short stories, I had to give my time more to making a real living and raising kids.
To land yourself in handstand there are variables that must have your attention. If any one component is off or unrecognized, you find yourself using a lot of energy without ever holding your body upside down. At worst, you'll fall feet over head on your ass. Every time I had randomly attempted handstand, I did so wishing that my brute strength would see me through and something would click. Like training wheels on a bike, I was too ornery to use a wall. I've fallen many times flat on my back, even the side of my face. It was as if in every approach I was setting out to prove myself right. Handstands were not possible for me, therefore I could justify it as not being part of my practice no matter how far I advanced my physical abilities. It was like my dream of being a writer. I was unlikely to score through serendipity. My effort needed to be toward achievable goals.
It turns out that handstanding can be learned through a variety of clear methods. Step by step. Body awareness. Fun daily practice. I'm learning to be an upside down tree. Rooting into the ability to trust and believe in the unseen. Proprioception. Tangibly dreaming that in my middle age, I too will float and fly.
Everything I've done, I've relied on my intellect and a force of effort to see me achieve. Because of that, I have kept goals smaller than the dreams of my heart, focusing on the obstacles and practicalities of life instead of potential for finding my purpose. We're now living in an era where it could be easier than ever before to find yourself making a livable wage as a writer and speaker on topics of personal growth and spiritual awakening. Many times I tried, taking the risk only when I was sure I could recoup from the pain of the fall. Taking the similar more pragmatic offers, always getting me close, but never the cigar. There is a way. A plan. A means to see my dreams alive under my hands and in the sound of my voice speaking to curious hearts.
I stand feet together, hands shoulder width apart on my mat, and wrists in one line. I draw my navel in and up, lift my pelvic floor, and tuck in my lower ribs. I lock out my elbows and lift through my chest. From flat feet, I bend both knees, and spring with control off both feet. I push the ground away with my hand. I tuck up and find my big toes against the wall. I point my toes, press my ankles together, and squeeze my butt. I check core engagement. Arms straight. Eyes focused on the mat between my thumbs. All this I have practiced also laying down. One step at a time. Daily practice until I am practicing in the center of the room.
It's a marked and steady decline from my youth. It would take me an entire essay to explain to outsiders how living here is so unlike the urban American experience that it is as if you're from an entirely different country. Cultural norms, stereotypes, and etiquette are difficult to translate. It's a place that the developed world over still finds it politically correct to publicly and openly insult without most people thinking less of you for doing so. I've experienced it often firsthand, even from people I thought respected me. It may be worse from within our own state where whole swaths say, "We're not THAT Kentucky," when referring to the eastern part of the state.
This place, more so the landscape, is my home. It is the substance of my blood. It's a place you should experience with a guide. Not just any guide. Not a romanticized reframing narrative of how its quaint, enduring beauty has been falsely portrayed. Not the resiliency narrative of a people perpetually oppressed and misunderstood as if they were the butt crack of society. The scapegoats. While both hold merit and are important pieces of the story, they are glorifying oversimplifications. It's far more complicated and nuanced. In not taking the time to convey or discern the big picture, many efforts of revival here shoot off their own toes, spin wheels, and self sabotage.
As much as this place is a part of me and what I want to keep in my life, there is a significant aspect of me that feels stifled, put down, and silenced. Working on my own groundedness, I have realized that the place I call home has never fit outside of a few mossy rocks and rolling mountain streams. That part of me wants to go. I imagine some sort of balance where my permanent dwelling is here or another part of Appalachia and I travel for my work. I have both worlds in that scenario. I have my landscape. The microcosm that created my body and foundations, while at the same time finding a wider interpersonal community where I can contribute through sharing embodiment workshops, yoga, and my writing. I can share with people who are interested in my perspective and experience, while I learn from them and their offerings.
I have some beautiful opportunities to share some aspects of who I am here. Those chances keep me from feeling devastated. Yet, overall, I often feel a waste. I feel as if I am an odd peg with a chipped corner and one side swollen from getting wet. I belong to the set, but I don't fit well in the hole. The only time I don't feel awkward here is when I am teaching a yoga class. As soon as I end with "Sat Nam," the awkwardness floods back in. I have stopped being in public here aside from errands, school events for my children, teaching yoga, and wherever I can escape into the woods.
There are ghosts here to dodge. Eyes that have shared with you behind a screen like a confessional, but won't look at you in the grocery store. Ducking behind displays on aisle end-caps to avoid small talk that is only cordial. Empty store fronts of inaccessible, unsustainable opportunity. A community you love so much it breaks your heart, but has only so many tiny spaces where you can squeeze in for a moment if you can behave not pushing too many wrong buttons. I've pushed those buttons, and like a mouse in a scientific experiment, received the electric jolt to associate with the behavior. I use the word "afraid" a lot. I'm adverse to small town drama because it is no longer worth the consequences. I'm happy to risk when my heart is passionately led. Other than my personal work in my little room and teaching yoga privately and at my local library, I haven't felt passion in a very long time. I have not felt the space for it. I have not had what I need to add fuel to what burns in me. The burning turns to sadness unexpressed and dies there uncomfortable to breathe.
I don't know my answer. I want to trust that the opportunity comes where I find that balanced place I mentioned before to feed my soul. I know that it is becoming harder for me to accept as when I visit away from here, even conversation in the checkout lines feels so much warmer and genuine. There are more spaces for me than I have the ability to fill. Here, I find myself more insular and reclusive than is healthy for me, and I don't have much impetus to change that in the current configuration of home.
Maybe... just maybe... I haven't been home yet.
The April 8th opener for Saturday Night Live, “Donald Trump Goes to Kentucky,” is the latest example of what many Appalachian academics, activists, and advocates feel is outsiders taking liberties with extreme representations of our people and culture. In the skit, four Kentuckians from Boone County (not in Appalachia or the coalfields) express concerns to President Trump who is there to relish in undying support. They express their concerns. Trump replies in his vague and ridiculous manner. Each of them sit down a little shell shocked, but still wanting to believe the president they elected has their best interest at heart. Almost immediately after the skit aired, my Facebook newsfeed was ablaze with offended eastern Kentuckians admonishing the writers of the skit for stereotyping and making us out as idiots. A little later, came more blogging about liberal elitism and how the Democrats are to blame for our communities’ Trump votes.
I have felt the need to add the qualifier, I am a coal miner's daughter, to add credence to my writing or a thought I was hoping to express since the "Trump Digs Coal" slogan and his election, I've done it countless times. As far as I have been able to gather, my family ended up in this far armpit of eastern Kentucky to mine coal on all sides. We've been pioneers of the Appalachian mountains since we came over the big water, and my Cherokee family, well... this land is theirs.
The top picture is my great great grandparents on the Hansel side and where my name is descended from - Zachariah Taylor Hansel and Elizabeth Evans Hansel. The little dark headed fellow standing next to his dad is my great grandfather John Thomas Hansel Sr. The Hansels moved to Harlan from the Mount Sterling area of Kentucky to mine coal and that is where the very direct experience I have with coal miners begins.
The bottom picture is William Stephens and Amanda Sue Clay Stephens from Olive Hill, Kentucky in Carter County. They moved to Letcher County during the building of Jenkins, Kentucky which was built by Consolidation Coal Company beginning with the purchase of the land in 1911. My great grandmother who was my babysitter all of my young years was their daughter - Golda Ruth Stephens Johnson. She was born in 1912 as the first of eight children. It seems the family came around 1914 to Letcher County for coal mining. My Mamaw Johnson always told me her daddy was a Blackfoot Indian which seems kind of strange to me considering he or his family would have had to travel a long way in order get to Olive Hill, Kentucky from Montana or Canada even. Who knows though? He's definitely from somewhere.
Golda Ruth (Goldie) married Luther Johnson. Papaw Johnson was my best friend when I was small and the way we spent our days together was directly influenced by his time as a coal miner. Luther is the tall man in the second row with the pipe hanging from his lips. He was a union miner as most were in those days. Yet, he realized really fast that being in the mines wasn't going to pay him off in the long run and could potentially take him from his family and this old world. Papaw Johnson had the wit, grit, and wherewithal to find a way to get himself out of the mines and into the business of being his own boss. Weekends at the Isom Stock Sale turned into the Cowshed Trading Post, and there I "helped" him keep shop nearly every day of my childhood. The Cowshed was a kid paradise.
That brings us back to the Hansel men. Pictured below is John Thomas Hansel Sr. and Junior, both coal miners. Great Papaw Hansel lost his larynx to throat cancer, and as a kid I used to be fascinated that the piece of gauze that flapped over the open hole in his neck was the only thing that kept the outside world from seeping in to his body where it could not be rightfully contained. I will never forget the hushed sucking and choke sound that he used to create his voice with family. He didn't like the mechanical voice box to use all the time. Inconvenience, I suppose.
Papaw Hansel became an electrician in the mines and eventually took that skill and became a teacher at the vocational school in Letcher County. So, he too found a way out of the mines, but not the economy dependent upon it. When I was 8, he moved his family to South Carolina where he applied his mining skills working on machinery and such things at a fabric printing plant. He passed away of bone cancer in South Carolina just a few years ago.
So, here I am. This proud coal miner's daughter working for a place that has the commonly associated tag of "anti-coal" by some in the community. My dad supports my work and always will because he's confident in how he raised me. Here's the thing... Appalshop is not "anti-coal", we are an arts, culture, and media organization who documents and preserves life and tradition in Central Appalachia. However, you will find some related people who in their personal lives and opinions are not believers that coal mining is good for the region and especially strip mining. Yet, as with any organization, company, or workplace you will find a wide range of beliefs none of which in and of themselves represent the principles of the organization.
My dad experienced some of this directly when he worked for Enterprise Coal which was located in the building next to Appalshop at one point in time. A member of a visiting group called Mountain Justice Summer who were in Whitesburg to organize and demonstrate against mountaintop removal coal mining vandalized my dad's work truck by urinating in the truck bed and marking the paint. They were caught in the act and when my dad tried to confront them, he was spat upon. Now, someone not understanding that various organizations sometimes have to interact would leave that situation with a very strong opinion about "liberal" minded people who protest mining and because they were visiting Appalshop, direct that opinion onto Appalshop.
Fortunately, my dad knew better. He knew that many of the founding members of Appalshop were his neighbors and classmates in school. He played basketball for Whitesburg High School with one and lived down the street from another for awhile. He knew a large number of Appalshop employees were locals. Of course, he held some really strong feelings about the association and the kind of education or encouragement that would lead young people to violate the respect of their elders and personal property. I think he has mostly let that go these days. I haven't, and I won't. It's been said about us "hillbillies" that we have tribal loyalty to a fault. Maybe we do, but I plan to set this action right for the good of my community as best as I can. I want to redeem the dignity of my dad and the men and women who stay, work, and worship here.
The recent election has brought new attention of the coalfields and it seems we've become the poster children for "Trump Country" as before we were and always seem to be the poster children for American poverty. It's really laughable, but at the same time I've seen a lot of troubling behavior stem from this renewed attention. Every week, I produce a 5 minute radio news roundup of the coal industry and its place in the bigger picture of the energy profile of the United States. It's unbelievable how many ways the same thing can be rehashed with different words and published to lock in the attention of new readers. I doubt there was ever a planned "War on Coal" fueled by legislation aimed to cripple the industry. I do believe some of the legislation did not help an already failing industry.
James Higdon wrote the best article concisely explaining what I believe to actually be happening for Politico and it was published last week - The Obama Idea to Save Coal Country. He begins with the "War on Coal" and takes us through Kentucky Republican Representative Hal Rogers's RECLAIM Act which was shot down by Republican law men from the western coalfields states which is the most recent government effort to provide assistance to the barely breathing economy of the Appalachian coalfields.
I think of the information in Higdon's piece, my dad's experience with social justice activists, the media coverage of my home during the election, and the disgusting opinions of people wishing death upon Trump supporters and coal miners reflected in the Facebook comments of a radio story my colleague Benny Becker produced with Howard Berkes when it was shared by National Public Radio (NPR), and I'm embarrassed to be thought of in terms of political leanings or someone who could sit by and do nothing in response to the comments of the very people who claim to have a heart for the poor and troubled. Here are some examples from that comment thread.
"One candidate ran on improving job training and education opportunities as the means for navigating the 21st Century job market. The other candidate promised to bring back coal mining jobs. Millions of Appalachians considered those proposals and said, "I want black lung disease, too!" ~Jeff Fulmer
"West Virgina, PA, and Ohio...all solid Trump territory. They loved that the fool actually said he would bring coal back, and that he would dismantle ACA (Obamacare). For many years, people like me (considered the coastal liberal elite) fought to bring politicians into power to bring jobs and health care to these regions---services that we personally don't need in regions that we don't live in--because it was the right thing to do. But apparently, a bigoted, misogynist snake oil salesmen promising them a version of the US that looks like Berlin in 1939 was more appealing. So, this liberal American is done with the Rust and Bible Belts, and focusing on California and California only." ~Michelle Whiting
There's so much wrong with these comments and the disgusting political divide that they represent that I would have to write my own book, or create a collection of the articles already written in counter to such opinions. It boils down to the fact that a mono economy was purposefully created in the coalfields by the coal companies that wished to take the money to the bank. They wanted to make this money on the backs of people they considered as little more than property. This labor created the "coastal liberal elite" cities that Ms. Whiting referenced through the industrialization of America. When these men died under needlessly dangerous conditions and did not receive fair wages, sometimes being paid in script instead of money which could only be used in company owned stores, they fought battles against their employers and the United States government to earn Americans the fair labor laws we have today. Because coal mining was seen as a service to the nation and a vital support of the entire American economy, these men and women found their worth in mining coal and providing an honest living for their families. Americans have demanded coal to power this country for the last 100 years and now the region of America that was populated for the sole purpose of mining coal has been forgotten and looked upon with nothing less than disgusted disregard by people who would claim to be interested in the pursuit of social justice and opportunity for all. The people making these comments have no idea what our families fought for and that now, coal mining done right and well is not without risk, but fairly safe and pays really well in the $70,000 a year range with no college debt for those that go in right out of high school. Add to that, full benefits, and aside from the fact that coal has been in steady decline and these jobs have become fewer and fewer, who wouldn't mine coal? It isn't coal mining in and of itself that has caused the problems we see in coal mining. It is however, crooked politics and money that has.
Then, there was this article by the founder of Daily Kos, the left leaning group blog for those involved with "netroots activism" to further the socially progressive policies and candidates in politics - Be happy for coal miners losing their health insurance. They're getting exactly what they voted for.
That article solidified my questioning of being involved at all in journalism or anything that can be labeled left or right. I've never desired to be a career social activist, and I don't now. I mostly see it as hot air blowing. I'm more interested in the tangibles. My community is more interested in the tangibles. As my ancestors chose to make a life here, and stayed here to do a job they were told was important for the well being of the nation, we work in the hard rock of reality. We always have.
Last week, Daily Kos tried to redeem itself with An Open Letter to America's Coal Miners and America by former coal miner and company man, Mark Sumner. I wish Sumner had taken his letter to another outlet, or maybe he wrote the appeal as a prompting from Daily Kos as a redemptive action. However, the letter is quite good. As Higdon's article summarizes the realities of the down-turned coal industry well, Sumner encapsulates the feelings of a miner and his family in a pill that's hard to swallow. Voting for Trump was a hail Mary for the coalfields. No one representing the power in this country or the liberal or conservative elite has fought hard enough for the future of a people that in no small part helped build this country.
Some would argue that with the same vote for Trump that we expect to save some jobs, we screwed ourselves out of the best healthcare access we've ever had. Increased access to healthcare only does so much. Yes, it provides more healthcare industry jobs. Yes, it brings federal dollars into our economy. Yes, it brings some people who desperately need doctors into the clinics to receive care. What we know well is that as always, federal programs are subject to change and political whim whereas a good job is a Godsend. One statistic someone might share with me is how many of the people who are insured for free under the Affordable Care Act expanded Medicaid actually made it to the polls to vote. And, because our access to news is somewhat limited by poverty and lack of wide availability of broadband internet, a jaded media brought confusion by renaming the Affordable Care Act to the point of essentially doing away with the original title - ObamaCare. And then, memes like this were created.
You know what's real hillbilly of me. I wanna fist fight you people. What I want to do is scream at you and make your nose bleed. It would be wonderfully gratifying. In your social activist and liberal and segregated city bubbles, you are part of the system that have always seen my ancestors as collateral and expendable. You want people to believe that we are all lower class white people, which in my layout of my family history was disproved. If this is widely believed, you feel you have permission to publicly belittle us and make fun of us and still call yourselves politically correct. I wouldn't care if we all were the color of hospital bed sheets bleached to stiffened, you still have no right. We are human beings, and you in doing so are a hypocrite and I don't trust you to have my well being in mind or anyone else's that you see as against your social values.
When Hillary Clinton won the Democratic nomination and then said, "We're going to put a lot of coal miners and coal companies out of business." the Democratic party lost coal country. I understand that taken in context Mrs. Clinton's comment can be understood in a totality that adjusts the impact slightly, but not enough. Our region's economy is hurting so bad that such an insensitive comment could not be redeemed. Many of us became willing that very moment to see in tunnel vision as many working poor must, to where our next meal will come from and if our kids will have equal or more opportunity than we do, and take a gamble on the nutcase of a Republican candidate and businessman - Donald Trump. In case you want to know what those of us in the eastern Kentucky coalfields think about opportunities for our children, in the Spotlight on Eastern Kentucky the 2012 Kentucky Health Issues Poll, 65% of us said the next generation will be worse off than the current generation of working adults. To not expect us to fight for anything we can to fill those gaps, would be akin to us consuming our own children.
It was a two party and polarized political system that failed us by creating an environment where such a thing could occur. Both parties see the coalfields Appalachians as expendable or little more than pawns in a game of dollars. See as proof of this an article from the Heritage Foundation explaining away a government bailout for UMWA (United Mine Workers of America) backed pensions. The same government that created a situation where homeless veterans beg for money and food in Washington D.C. and 20 veterans commit suicide every day after they sacrificed themselves in service to the country is well on its way to allowing former, elderly coal miners to lose the healthcare and benefits they earned by retiring coal miners. This same government allowed an industry to push out the unions without requiring that they do anything in good faith to the miners who made their money. Here's one fine example of how coal miners are being thrown out with the sludge and coal ash in order to give company executives big bonuses in hopes they'll stick around even though their job won't last even with the down sizing of debt and assets. Alpha Natural Resources is just one of many. Corporate greed and government complacency.
I could go on and on and on trying to explain to you why so many of the people I know, respect and love voted for Donald Trump, but I think so many of you would continue to think of us as merely ignorant or stupid and will label us with your social justice buzz words like - misogynistic, anti-Islamic, homophobic, and white supremacists. That's an easy way for you not to claim your responsibility in the creation of this situation we're finding ourselves in, and your democracy's willingness to overlook a group of people hidden away in the mountains of Central Appalachia as a means to keep progress moving forward without facing the issues that progress was making.
I won't fight your ugly words with more ugly words. I won't hunt down the brainwashed kid who thought he was protesting "corporate greed-heads" by spitting on my dad and kick his teeth in. I won't even laugh out loud as I see those who identify with us either celebrating or debating the very simplistic and unthought provoking memoir of J.D. Vance just one more time. I mean dag gone ya'll, give it a rest. Instead, I'm going to listen to you when you speak. I'm going to take your concerns deep within, and I'm going to ask the hard questions of my community that need to be asked. I'm going to try to encourage people who are working with the concrete things that can offer some relief in our dying coal towns every day. Those who are offering things we can touch. Things we can eat. Words that give hope instead of tear apart. I'm going to keep talking about opioid addiction for the very fact that it's damn unpleasant and it is another way the people here have been exploited for the sake of a dollar. I'm going to give prescription drug misuse a human story because I've lost a stepmother and numerous friends to it. I don't care what anyone thinks about focusing on solutions rather than problems. Our problems haven't been faced in any real way yet, and until we do that, we won't see solutions, we'll see bandages.
I am going to love on people as best as I can with the gifts I have. I will share the story of my people with those in these city bubbles who do give a hoot and want to listen because I know there are more reasonable folks than there are hypocrites. The thing that keeps me going in radio journalism is the thought that someone is listening who cares or who is willing to change their mind when presented new facts. The God's honest truth is that I don't know that journalism is where I can best serve my community. I'm giving it everything in me I have to give, but I question the tangibles. I am going to share yoga with my community to help heal the deep generational trauma we have experienced. I'm going to share spiritual insights that have helped me. I am going to try my best to be a mediator between you folks and my community. I'm going to try to heal broken relationships related to this ugly rhetoric. Relationships that on both sides we should have fought harder to maintain. I'm going to write ranting blogs like this one, fiction, and poetry. I'm going to love people instead of ideas. I'm going to consciously choose the middle road.
The following are two long Facebook posts I have made this week leading into the Trump inauguaration.
January 19, 2017
"Mama, you're pretty crazy," Gwennie says to me this morning while I'm getting her dressed. "Yeah Buddy, I am," I say. I had just been thinking about how these small eastern Kentucky towns are so insular. Thinking about how they aren't big enough to hold all the passionate, smart, and rightly heart convicted people in them and keep us all kind toward one another, not jealous, and without drama.
In two days, Donald Trump will be inaugarated. So many are scared. I remember when some I know were scared that Obama was the AntiChrist and made ready for an oncoming revolution - stockpiling guns/ammo, canned food, and water. I'm not scared of Donald Trump. No. I fear the hurt we might cause one another when our hate has light shed upon it. Hatred of ourselves and fear of the unknown. Unconscious beings giving birth to unconscious actions.
Appalachia has been deemed Trump Country by the press. Most of the people I know did in fact vote for Donald Trump, if they actually voted. People I love and respect voted Trump. The answer as to why someone could vote for a racist, misogynistic, and sexually deviant (I don't judge what he likes to do in his bedroom. I don't agree with that kind of judgment as long as it is between fully consenting partners. I'm judging the fact that he wants to shut women up by "grabbing them by the pussy".) individual is very complicated. I do not judge anyone for voting for Trump. I don't bash or treat anyone who voted for him like an idiot. I can understand how they came to that decision. We meet each other where we are.
The fact is, we have a national narrative to change and some healing of ourselves to do. No, we are not racist, sexist, or religiously radical people. No. We were all born naked of a womb and shaped by genetic predisposition and how the world around us shapes how we think we fit into it.
I overheard a conversation in the grocery store a few days ago. "___ wants me to get whole wheat bread. I hate that stuff," said Man 1. "Well, Preacher Bill says it's us who is supposed to do what you all say," said Woman. "That's right and it just ain't that way anymore now is it?" said Man 1. "I don't know what's gotten into this world. Everything is so out of order. We'd all be better off if we could just get in line," said Man 2. "That's the Truth. And, I trust Preacher Bill," said Woman.
I know Preacher Bill. He's a friend of my stepdad and the preacher of my stepdad, mom, and brother's church. He's coming on 80 if not already. He's a kind country man and he loves people so much. He came to visit Deladis in the hospital here in Whitesburg when a stomach virus put her in for 4 days. He slipped me a $20. Beautiful man. Loves us dearly. You and me. Is he right here? Absolutely not, but I know where this teaching comes from. I know Preacher Bill's heart and the life experiences that has shaped his train of thought.
Yesterday was a very difficult day. Out of the gate I had to drive an hour and fifteen minutes away to the doctor way too early. I got pulled over, cited, and received a court date. (Please someone tell me how to erase leadfoot out of my DNA.) And, had some hard conversations. But, later on I had to be in Hazard for a story I am working on. I sat down with some people and heard their tale of struggle, but ultimately of hope. I got to tickle some baby toes. On the way there, I passed by a trailer park. It was one of the ones that have trailers packed into a space like sardines in a can. But, one woman had a side yard. And this picture is of her January garden. Everything in it was created by what many would consider trash. She was out hoeing. A just beyond middle aged woman. Two doors down, her neighbor flew a Confederate flag. As they say, Appalachia isn't a diverse place. All foreigners are Middle Eastern, Indian, or Asian and they are doctors who won't stay. While there is truth in every stereotype, and in many ways one can draw that conclusion. This woman was a dark skinned Asian with beautiful black hair. Living in a trailer park. Hoeing a lovely January garden with frost cover made from trash.
I love my place. I also hate my place. It's a balance. But, if I have the power, I am going to try to paint in the mind of America a truer story of my place. A bigger picture. A call for empathy. A call to hear the voices of the voiceless. A calling out of hate directed toward those you see as inferior to you.
January 20, 2017
We are probably all aware that rural America has been dubbed - Trump Country. Many liberal minded folks have taken to degrading rural Americans - and especially coalfields Appalachians in multiple ways and across a variety of platforms.
I've been trying to read Anthony Flaccavento's latest article in Yes! Magazine for 2 days. The next few months are going to be busy for me at WMMT. I'm working on some big things. So, sometimes, I can't keep up with all the reading I should be doing. However, I've been to Anthony's farm and we featured one of his talks on Mtn. Talk Monday. He's a smart man. In this article, he tries to address what liberals/progressives are questioning - how did we lose the rural and working class? Many of that camp of political beliefs feel they are the champions of the poor. What I have found to be true is they misunderstand us a great deal.
We are not stupid - we are common-sensical, practical, and connected to our surroundings in a myriad of ways. I heard more wisdom from a 23 year old mother of 3 when I interviewed her than I have heard in a long time. You can get the same thing at a DQ if you sit at a table across from where the old men meet every day and drink their coffee. Sure, you can hear a lot of bs that way too, but isn't it what we choose to pull out that frames the meaning of what we hear?
This young mother who I won't name right now because I'm working on making a few things with her story and would like you to listen to her, has said it best. This isn't a direct quote, but what she said was something like this - They think we like Trump so much. It isn't that we like Trump, it's that we hate the government. Well, not that we hate the government, but that we really distrust them. That is what got Trump elected. She's right. This has been a fact for a VERY long time.
Now, he is our president and we are about to see what that means. I think Flaccavento's #3 on his list is really good. Those of us working and hoping to diversify our mountain economy need to start producing tangibles. Start using practical language. Tell folks what it will mean to them, not later, but right now. And, if it doesn't make a difference right now, question whether it is the best use of an opportunity to work for good. Where are your efforts here best utilized? Where is the grant money you received best spent?
I sat in a meeting yesterday with a group of healthcare providers and administrators being asked to believe that story circles and art projects can help them figure out how better to help the community. One administrator said, I'm sorry... I have no clue what you are talking about. We work with numbers. We are practically minded. Another said, Yes - I thought it sounded like we were going to sit around and draw and figure out how to help someone with diabetes. LOL On the surface level, it does sound like a laughable proposal. But, when we think of qualitative and quantitative data and how one can inform the other, the idea changes. Thinking of how in one conversation we can pull out multiple ways to help our community by addressing hardships, it changes the picture a little. We talked about that, and they understood it very well. We listened to one another and addressed our individual concerns.
Trump has already threatened to privatize the Corporation for Public Broadcasting which could devastate them. Nothing new. People have been suggesting it for years. Remember the Save Sesame Street campaign? He also wants to defund The National Endowment for the Arts and the National Endowment for the Humanities. I have a job in LARGE part because of these organizations. I have health insurance through my employer because of them. I share the news of our community to a national audience in part because of them. I don't make a lot of money doing the work I do, and not one person I work with does. We do this work because we care. Who knows what will happen if they take these organizations away.
In February 2015, Kentucky Gov. Matt Bevin on his visit to Hazard said that we needed coal companies because they are the patrons of the arts. Let's see if Frankie Justice wants to fund my radio position. I'm not anti-coal. Have not bashed it. Will not bash it. I hope miners go back to work. My dad is one. My grandfathers were miners. But, is one person's job more important than another's. Where politics are concerned, it seems so.
Who knows what the next 4 years will bring? I didn't watch the Obama inauguration and I did not watch Trump's today. As the mama said, I don't trust the government to give any hoot about me, my family, my community, or my country.
If you ask people in the county where I'm from - Letcher County, Kentucky, about my family, they would say that I come from a good home and good people. They would be right. I knew love throughout my entire childhood and I know love from my family today. In Part 1 of this series, I shared some of the moments from my coming into adulthood. When I shared the post on Facebook, several comments were about how real it "seemed" or "felt", and how they were sucked into the story. I wrote the piece in second person. I answered them that it felt real because it was; it was my own experience and every bit true.
I shared my personal experience because I am not ashamed of it and I believe it isn't an uncommon one. Part of me believes that the things I described are more related to living in a certain economic class of people and family dynamic in the United States than it is a uniquely Appalachian experience. It is maybe the truly severe bits that I didn't tell of that would fully couch my early life experiences more in place. The experiences I could share of joy and honest sadness would as well. I purposefully did not tell my most tragic of memories. The Appalachian experience gets plenty of attention for the tragedy of it. The unfortunate reality is that this tragedy is most often displayed or filtered through the eyes and mind of an outsider looking in and distributed through the national media outlets. Very little have I seen someone completely embedded in Appalachia and particularly eastern Kentucky telling the story and it reaching far and wide. For, if it were an eastern Kentuckian in complete control of the telling, the complexity of the Appalachian experience would be revealed. It would demand to be thought about instead of gawked at. To be digested and integrated instead of judged and laughed at. The truth is we are a people who have for over a century now have been told that our way of life isn't normal, isn't proper, isn't fulfilling, isn't joyfilled, isn't healthy, is poor, is backward, is ignorant... is less than. So, I ask. What do you expect to witness from the people who live in arguably the most beautiful natural landscape in all of the United States when for generations we have been told by nearly everyone that comes to visit that they can offer us something better, or that we need saving? Then, in turn, they exploit our hard working ways, our strong backs, and our common sense for their personal gain of ego or profit. What do you expect to see? What?
Now, I come to the part where I have to call out the most well meaning among you to think for a moment about what impact you want to make in my community. Why are you here and what do you want to offer us? And, if you offer, are you going to deliver and do what it takes to understand us well enough that you can? Otherwise, please, just enjoy yourself while you are here, make good memories, spend a lot of money, and pass on through. We aren't here for saving or for boosting anyone's ego. We are a people in transition. We will either succeed and be a story that renews the viability of the American Dream for the average and less than average person or we will fail and be a lesson to the country in the many different ways slavery can still occur in this country legally to line the pockets of the rich white men in control while others bank off the tragedy in their own ways under the guise of morality and ethics.
My people have been in the Appalachian mountains since before written record... since before the white man. My Cherokee ancestors made their home in these hills, respecting the land and managing the resources for posterity. My great great grandmother walked with a lame leg from New Echota/Calhoun, Georgia into Dayton, Tennessee at age fifteen. She followed the ridge as her people taught her to escape violence from white men as her mother wasn't able to do and the family who were separated from her through the Trail of Tears long ago and were in Oklahoma on Indian Territory and couldn't save her from the hardship. She had made the trip herself to Oklahoma several times with her parents. So, she walked. No, she ran away to never look back.. From Dayton, TN, she ended up in Hazard, Kentucky where her husband worked in the mines and was eventually killed in them. She remarried a British man there as I understand.
My Scotch Irish people came into these hills to escape the slums and prejudice of the cities. They wanted to find a home that reminded them of the Old Country so they settled in these mountains where they wouldn't be bothered. They developed a strong sense of place here, becoming clannish and protective of one another and their land. It was a sensibility born of necessity that has been passed down in our DNA as a trait that is as natural to us as breath. Many see it as mere violence and stupidity. We know that for us it has been necessary to fight for home, family, and freedom on our own soil more than it has been to fight in foreign wars. It has become our way to be wary of a stranger. It is a way we have survived. So many of us cannot be convinced to resist this instinct because we are not yet comfortable in this country, but we are at home in these hills.
I have spent all but seven years of my 37 in eastern Kentucky. I have seen very little of the United States or the world with my own eyes. I have only seen the ocean twice as an adult. I can't say I will ever see it again with any certainty. I have lived most of my adult life without health insurance. I've paid my own way in this world since I was sixteen. I have had to go to food banks to eat. I have had to use a chamber pot to relieve myself in my own home for months. I have had to have my teeth worked on at a RAM (Rural Area Medical) clinic, waiting all day in very uncomfortable conditions with a thousand or more people receiving medical care in an open very public place. I have lived with a drug addict. In fact, she was my stepmother. She'd make me pay my car insurance twice sometimes eventhough I had record of my having paid it. I know where the money went. She's dead now. I'm pretty sure drugs were the cause. She left my dad beforehand, but she was my stepmother from the time I was nine until I was 24 or so. I know addiction. Honestly, I know too many good and very intelligent people who have lost their lives to drugs either literally or because they are just a ghost of who they should be. People I love. People that have so so much to offer our place. I love them still and my heart aches for the loss of them and their contribution.
I have had to shelter my brother and sister under my arms and usher them into the house like a mother hen because our neighbors, two brothers, would take to shooting at one another. They lived in small campers and peed in the creek and crapped in the woods where we played. I don't know if they bathed. And yet, when my baby sister put a knife through her hand in the front yard, it was one of them to came to her aid using his shirt to put pressure on her hand. He saved her quite literally. It was one of them who worked on small motors and rigged bicycles to be motorized, buzzing up and down the holler. He chased an emu down the holler once calling - "An ostray... an ostray." That was funny. Almost as funny as when he came and demonstrated for us his Achy Breaky Heart dance.
Another neighbor had a hog farm. I watched many a killing there and can recall the smell every time I fry bacon. I put a rusty nail through my foot at their barn once, jumping from the loft. Another let their toddler run in the holler road with a sagging diaper. And later, one of their toddlers would get bit twice by a cooperhead on two different occassions walking through the grass barefoot at dusk. They lived in a trailer that most of the time had no running water or electricity.
I know what it feels like to have the wind blow hard on my face and through my hair from riding on the open highway in the bed of a pickup truck. I know what it feels like to be an adolescent girl and be looked upon by the eyes of a very drunk man and how the room smells after someone has holed up and went on an alcohol and cigarette binge. I know what it is like to share one bathroom and three bedrooms with five adults and six children. I have also seen what it takes to bring yourself out of a dark hole and run your own store as my great grandfather showed me with his Cowshed Trading Post. I know family secrets that would make you cringe.
And, again. I am confident none of this is uncommon. What I take issue with most of all is the shame we are made to feel about images in the media that others don't understand. The shame that comes with having these stories exposed to outsiders without any of the context. Books could be written, are being written, and should be written on how and why things are as they are here. Why aren't more of us being trusted to tell our own story to the world? A set of photos, an article, an essay is not enough to reveal anything much of substance that an outsider can understand. While we are seeing attempts at bringing more fullness into the display of our tragedy as shown in the recent series release by VICE, it still isn't enough to produce much more than gawking.
I put myself through college and I have a bachelor's and master's degree. I educated myself at the encouragment of a few good teachers, the cultural programming in my school provided through Appalshop, and my grandmothers who both encouraged me to be bookish. I now work at Appalshop as the Public Affairs Director of the radio station there - WMMT-FM. As others in our community are aware non-profits like Appalshop are often questioned in this region. As a young person, I would have never dreamed that I would be able to attend AMI (Appalachian Media Institute) or to work at Appalshop someday. Eventhough I had some friends whose parents worked at Appalshop, I was aware that many people there weren't from my town or weren't of families I knew. I knew no one who had gone through the media institute and spoke about it. When I met the kids from the institute, they all were from somewhere else it seemed. Other than a few, it did seem like people from somewhere else documenting our lives. People who had gone to fancy colleges and travelled a lot. People not like me and my family. I was in awe of them and their life. I wanted a life like that.
Things are a little different these days, or maybe they are the same and I'm just now understanding the reality. Most of the folks I work with are Appalachian, eastern Kentuckians, or long time residents. Not all of us graduated from college. All the kids attending AMI this summer are from eastern Kentucky except for one, I think. Appalshop is working closely within the community and with community leaders in a variety of ways. We are helping to initiate cultural programs in the schools again. And, WMMT is making radio that tells our story in our own words as well as the news that is important to us on a weekly basis.
I mention this because we have an outlet for our voice and the truth of our story that has the potential to be seen nationally. We have this resource right in our yard. Yet, I am well aware of the distrust and I totally understand where it comes from. I also think I know how to change that with many in the region.
What I urge us to do as we begin to reframe the stories being told about us in national media is to have a strong voice. Don't shy away from the images like those taken by Stacy Kranitz and displayed through VICE. I know these images are real. They tell a truth. It is a truth we need to address and if I am truthful myself, we aren't doing what we can to tell this story and to address this truth and people are dying because of it. We want to keep images of drug use, violence, and poverty confined to the urban experience and maybe even the urban minority experience, so we can confidently say, this is not us. No, that particular image is not us, but the images Kranitz gives us is. Period. The people in the pictures gave consent to be photographed. Why do you imagine they did? Were they paid and desperate for money? If Kranitz is acting ethically, no. Can we imagine a minute that it is because they are in pain and they want someone to know, understand, and offer some support for finding an answer or simply aknowledge their humanity? Can we think that just for a moment we need to own these pictures? Own them, talk about them, respond to the truth they reveal. I fully do not believe that we can see any triumph in this place until we own the tragedy and stop trying to push it back in favor of the few positive stories we are seeing, that are happening in spite of the tragedies out of tremendous perserverance and unbendable will. These stories should be told side by side as two sides of the same coin. We must expand the story and include even the ones in our communities that do not get told, for there are many. In eastern Kentucky, it's all real and comes from the same beginning.
We can revive a squaredance. We can create a state park. We can grow a pretty garden and sell at the farmer's market. We can promote art and music. All are important and necessary for moving forward. It is important to our children because it helps instill a pride for their place in them which we hope and pray doesn't get trampled by outsiders telling their story. Tell me though, what does that mean to the drug addict sitting in a haze on their bed wondering if they will have a meal today? What does that mean to the man who's life experience is described like this - "A true redneck don't give a shit about nothing but putting food on the table, working, and getting drunk." -Patrick Green from VICE (What it Means to Be a 'Redneck' or 'Hillbilly')? And, then you have a community with an outrageous unemployment rate. What does it mean?
I suggest we all not be ashamed of the tragedy. I suggest that we own it. We don't make excuses for it, but we analyze how it happened to our people and we begin to promote those stories. We praise those lifting themselves up and finding opportunities to be fulfilled here and to help their communities. We also understand that it is because of who they know, unending effort, continuous learning, and a little luck that it happened for them. It's true, and that's ok.. I know because my life could have looked very differently had I not had certain traits and support. I am a lucky one.
I urge us to not jump to defend ourselves every time these types of stories come out. We should stop that because it isn't nearly as interesting as the story itself, it will widely get overlooked, and it will not stop sensational media from being created. Ask anyone living in Compton, Mexico City, Baghdad. Yeah, do we know what life is like there? Instead, put our own images out with our own stories. Be loud until it can't be ignored anymore. Tell the truth everyone wants to hear, but give them the whole picture. While at it, share the story of the kid who made a film about her teenaged pregnant friend, or drug addicted parent, the dirty water coming through the pipes in their home, or how their vision for the future includes tolerance, inclusion, love, and peace.. Hear our young people when they say they don't need protection from transgendered people, but they need some resources to deal with the drug addicted people in their lives. They need some money for college. They need you to care how literate they are. They'd like to know and understand fresh food and clean water. Every year in the hospital in Manchester 200 babies are born. One-fourth of them will be taken to Kentucky Children's Hospital in Lexington because of Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome (NAS) or drug withdrawl. It costs about $53,400 to treat one baby with NAS. Most of that is covered by Medicaid. Then, what about after effects? Tell our children there is a future here when they are born to these statistics and with everyone arguing over whether or not Obama is the anit-Christ, there is a War on Coal, how good Christians don't condone this gay stuff, and how we are going to get ammo after they cut us off. We are side tracked by lies. Our children are being born into statistics we aren't addressing and we want to highlight the positive as a means for what? An Appalachian born child is well aware of what they have to overcome to have a life seen as meaningful to the outside world. We've been expendable for a long time, even to the people helping us. Tell us our tragedy matters and it didn't happen because we are stupid, ignorant, inbreed hillbillies. Tell us you see our tragedy and you see us too and we are beautiful.
Ok, I'm tired. I've been writing almost three hours. Can of worms... out. My contribution may not be very academic. I'd talk more with anyone in person if this at all feels convoluted. This contribution though is real. It came from my heart.
You are six years old. You live in a trailer park on the hill. Sometimes the rats and mice chew the noses and fingers off of your dolls. Your mom found a dead one in a pot one morning and cried. Your friend has told you there is a witch that lives in a house up a side holler that has a graveyard in it. It scares you when you walk passed there with your dad at night. This friend is a little older and right now she is drawing pictures of nude people and tying them to these puffy white flowers that grow on a bush. You call them snowballs. She takes the flowers with the attached pictures and throws them through the opened window of the trailer where the new boys moved in. They're teenagers. She's ten. She wants a boyfriend. Suddenly, as you both are ducked behind the bush, one of the boys pokes out his head and invites you and your friend in. You go in and they direct you to a room. The room is empty all but some boxes and a mattress on the floor. Before you know it, one of the boys throws you down on the mattress, climbs on top of you and begins kissing your mouth. "You want to kiss little girl?" he says. "Here's a kiss." That's how you learn what boys and men think about girls. It won't be the last thing you learn in that trailer park. Far from it.
Across from you sits your sister. She has a different mother and father. She belongs to your stepdad, but you feel like you were cut from the same cloth. You've been best friends since you were eight. You're 14. She's nine months and three days older than you. She says, "I don't know what to do." "What?" you answer. "I'm pregnant." Her boyfriend was much older. She began to cry. "What do I do?" she asked, beginning to punch her fists into her lower belly. "I have to make this go away." "It'll be ok. We'll figure this out," you say. You don't know how, but you know that you won't let anyone do anything to hurt her. You would risk your life for her. No one. No one knows you like she does and never will. You both manage to keep the baby a secret until at 5 months along your sister becomes very ill and the pregnancy is discovered. She spends the next several days on the couch at your house in and out of a fevered delirium. Everyone is really quiet and somehow you are relieved. Later on, when you ask permission for her to come to one of your eighth grade dances eventhough she attends a different school, you are excited when your guidance counselor says yes. As you begin to go in the building for the dance, this same counselor looks at your sister's stomach and asks you to call your parents to come back because they can't let your sister in. The night ends with alarms, cops, a ride in the police car, accusations, and your boyfriend trying to save the day. You are a straight A and B student. Always have been. Always will be. Yet, you and your friends are treated as if you are a problem. You realize that day what people really mean when they call you a "freak". In November when your sister has her baby, your parents make you stay at school. You feel like throwing up because you told her you would be there. You thought you'd be there. When you go to the hospital, they won't let you see her. They won't let you see the brand new baby that you were the first to know existed. There wasn't anything to save you from. Why were they keeping you away? Your sister breastfed and had an unmedicated birth at fifteen. That day you learned the power of a woman from a teenager. From that day on, she has been your hero.
You find yourself stretched across an unmade bed with your friends half dazed in a trailer heated by a coal stove, covered in what can't be just simple mess - it has to be debris? There are places where the daylight seeps through between floor and wall. Cats are on the counter eating some foul smelling leftover chicken. Something has to have happened here. Right? Nothing happened there but life, the life of teenagers unsupervised by a mentally ill middle aged woman who very occassionally raises her head and mumbles incoherently from her place stretched out on a couch as you and your friends pass through? This is normal and every day here. The boys who live here write poetry and think deep thoughts.
Working at McDonalds pays your rent. You've been working there since you were 16. Now, you are 18 and living in a house with four other people and paying your way through your general education courses at the community college to save money. You got a Rotary Club scholarship. It paid for your books. You'll spend the summer wondering how you will emancipate yourself from your parents so you can use only your income on your FAFSA and actually receive enough financial aid to pay your way through college. No one is going to pay it for you The only college money you had was from your great grandmother who took it from you and allowed others to spend it when you decided to move in with your dad in order to get away from a bad friend situation when you were 15. Now, you pay for everything. Medical bills keep coming from where you cracked your tailbone and realized after going to the hospital that your step mother really wasn't going to help you pay for it. In this moment you are sweaty. You smell like french fries and dehydrated onions. Your manager has had you and another female co-worker scrubbing the stainless steel and baseboards with toothbrushes to prepare for a health inspection. You both are begging him for a break. With a greasy smile, he says, "No, bend back over there and keep scrubbing so I can see that ass." Your heart burns, but you don't know what to do. You can't walk out of there just yet. You have bills to pay and want to go to school.
At the trailer park where you live a bleach blonde woman is your neighbor. She listens to the same Uncle Kracker song over and over so loud that you can hear it inside your trailer. It drives you nuts and makes you laugh at the same time. Her husband is a Mexican man. He's nice, but seems inebriated most of the time. They have twin boys. One of them has fetal alcohol syndrome. His mother shares that with everyone she talks to. He's sweet and reminds you of a wolf. The boys push their bikes up and down the lane and in circles instead of riding them. They did have motorized riding toys, but they got reposessed. You didn't know those kinds of things could be reposessed. You are studying English Literature at one of the closest state colleges to your hometown. You just got married. You are twenty. You had been dating your husband for five years. You both hated your off campus living situations and wanted to live together. You both came from families who would look down on that. It didn't much bother you, but you didn't want to disappoint your dad. Your husband gets some school money from his parents and they helped you get emancipated for your financial aid, so you definitely didn't want to offend them. So, one day, when he was helping you dye your hair burgundy, you asked him if he wanted to get married. He said yes. So you'd have an engagement ring, your sister talked a guy who was in love with her into buying one of the $99 diamonds at Wal-Mart. You wore it long enough to show your parents. Now, you have a nice little trailer all your own. $178 payment every month. But, it's yours and you can relax a little that there is no one. No one. No one you have to answer to anymore... but your husband.
Two days after I accepted a position teaching on an emergency certificate at Henry County Middle School in northern, central Kentucky, I received a call for a job offer as an editor and reporter for the Flemingsburg newspaper. I had put in my resume with the career center at Morehead State University where I had graduated just a few weeks before with my Bachelor's in English and Creative Writing. Both of these offers came from that. When I turned down the newspaper offer, my heart sank. I had taken the teaching position because I felt like I had to. How could I turn down $25,000 a year? It was more money than we had ever seen. I might not get any other job leads. Working at Big Lots furniture department couldn't last forever. Yet, I had never seen myself as a school teacher. I come from a family that have devoted their life to education. I was confident I could do the work, but I didn't really want to from my heart's standpoint. So, when I told the newspaper I was already employed, I could have cried. Patience and trust in Universe is a hard lesson to learn.
Teaching middle school taught me a lot of important things. I also have a $35,000 Master's Degree in Teaching that I'll be paying for the rest of my life. I won't ever go back to teaching in public education unless it is at the college level. I could have taken the newspaper job, potentially been happier, and in a lot less debt now. Hindsight. It must have not been for me to do right then.
I hadn't planned on being a mother either. I've written about that before. Everyone was shocked when I changed my mind and began trying to get pregnant. When I finally did give birth, I didn't go back to teaching. I had always thought that if I had children at least one parent should stay home to raise them. I had always felt like motherhood was a thing only those who are ready to sacrifice everything to be a deeply devoted nurturer should embark upon. I thought that, for me, it would have to look a very particular way in order to work. I knew me. Why have children if you have to pay someone else to raise them? I've held so many strong ideas as golden. It's a beautiful thing how life teaches us even when we are mule-headed.
That same little girl was always more at peace outside of a child's world. I didn't play much with toys, choosing books, chemistry sets, long hikes, and arts/crafts instead. I wanted to hang around the adult table and listen to their stories and talk. As a mother, I have been present and attentive, but not the mother who sits in the floor and plays for hours with toys or watches many cartoons. I'm still the me I have always been. I'm a good mother just as I am. I have a good relationship with my children. They know I love them and find my lap home. They know my words, my food, my stories, and my songs. My lap and arms will always been their home.
I still ascribe to the dream of homesteading, homeschooling, and living off the land. It just isn't doable with small children as a solo project. So, my plans have had to adjust. There are so many ways a good life can look. There are countless forms of good parents. Each of us are unique and important. I have to be open to all the possibilities. I have to be willing to learn and change my ideas based on experience and new information. I have to see myself and my fulfillment as an important piece of what it takes to be a good mother and a good example of what a woman can do in her life for my daughters. I am me and I am their mother. That is fact.
What I also am is a capable, literate, educated, backwoods, mystical, yogi, mountain woman who loves to read, have long and meaningful conversations, philosophize, study the people of the world, and to listen and share stories. I have a contribution to make and the opportunity to do it with a great group of people in a place dedicated to making sure the stories never die. Taking this job sets our family on a new path. I am having to change everything about our life, and that is a little scary. It is the right decision though. I am making it from a place of hope and I will not feel failure or guilt for making it. It is a decision I am making as my heart has opened, come to understand, and forgiven my own mother. It is a decision I am making in honor of my paternal grandmother who was a proud working mother and reminded me not to martyr myself for an ideal that was not manifesting. This decision holds in memory my maternal grandmother from whom I first learned the feeling of nurture and who was a single working mother of three. She was also a working grandmother who provided a roof for many years for five adults and three grandchildren. They all were good mothers. They all loved their children and did their best. That is all we can do. Give it our all and move forward from a place of love.
I start full time next week. I have a lot to do to prepare. There's a great deal to be excited about. My efforts will allow us to begin the process of coming off of welfare, get a more reliable vehicle, find a home that has more space for our daughters to come into their own, travel more, not have to worry as much about money, and provide a well rounded education for the girls. I need to celebrate.
This was the last morning of September. I woke easily and early, did yoga, and prepared breakfast. Deladis, my oldest daughter, woke before I had finished my yoga practice. She turned on the light in her room and began making a music video for her YouTube channel. She's 10 and very into movie making. She's learned the technology on her own. Rarely does she ask for help.
After breakfast, I offered to help her fix her hair. She agreed and we chose a wooden and leather hair piece that I've had since high school. I took my time, feeling her thick, sandy hair between my fingers. Somehow, we had extra time this morning. I made her a lovely little bun. The clasp accentuated it beautifully and set off her navy shirt. She looked so grown up. For a moment, I glimpsed the young woman she will soon become, and I wasn't the least bit nostalgic. I was proud.
In 24 days, I will turn 37. I'm less than 5 years to 40, and according to some standards, in the midst of middle age. If I'm still waiting to reach the pinnacle of adulthood, I'm out of luck. I don't think there's a such thing. That's fine with me. I'm satisfied here. No one could convince me to turn back the clock and moving forward has to happen in its own time.
My great Papaw Johnson owned the Cowshed Trading Post in Isom, Kentucky. I spent most of my early childhood there tending the store with him and keeping my Mamaw company. Papaw was one of the wisest people I will ever know. One day, while we sat at the kitchen bar, he told me, "The seasons of the year are like life. In the spring, you are born. In the summer, you mature. In the fall, you grow old; and in the winter, you die." I may have been 7 when he shared that analogy, but I knew exactly what he meant. I knew too that he was the winter to my spring.
In that case, when looking at the totality of a life span, I'm existing in late summer. Yet, in every phase of life, I think there are cycles within cycles. Time isn't linear. The theory is complicated, you can take Einstein's word for it. You can also consult the Doctor.
“People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but *actually* from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint - it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly... time-y wimey... stuff.” -Steven Moffat (for Doctor Who)
This passed spring began a time of radical transformation for me. Feels silly to admit it. It felt sometimes like I was losing my grip and would drift away in some random state of magnified chaos. I felt out of character, but I was in the process of acceptance. I was accepting who I am in relation to the life and relationships I was experiencing. Dare I say, I was opening the door to the possibility of peak maturity. Pretty laughable. Some might even call it a mid-life crisis. The process continues, though it is more peaceful and grounded these days.
Kundalini yoga is a form of yoga that makes great use of mantra (sound vibrations) in all aspects of the practice. It is my chosen practice on most days. One of the mantras used often is Sa-Ta-Na-Ma. Birth. Existence. Death(Transformation). Rebirth. You can also see the mantra as one of the many names for the God/Source. In its essence, it is the same idea my Papaw shared with me thirty years ago. The difference is Sa-Ta-Na-Ma forms a complete and perfect circle. Birth and life are familiar to us. It is death and what, if anything, comes next that intrigues or terrifies us. We naturally resist death as we resist change. We fear it. Stepping into the unknown is risky. There's so many questions that can't be answered until you are in the midst of the action or transformation. Old patterns, concepts, relationships, habits, and rituals fall away as they no longer serve us. What will there be to cling to for comfort? Who are we if not familiar?
Winter can be a cold and bitter time. We tend to dread it. It's difficult to keep the inner flame lit when all seems so starkly contrasted as snow against skeleton, dark trees and gray sky. Yet, because the spent leaves gave themselves over to new form, earth, literally becoming our foundation, new life springs forth. The cycle begins again. Ma - the mother. Rebirth. The next step. The death of anything is nothing more than a Divine renewal. It is the force that brings form, experience, or wisdom. Like birth, death opens the possibility of creation. No matter what our belief in afterlife, we can agree this is a transition from physical form to energy. We know energy cannot be destroyed only transformed. Sarah Bernhardt said, "'Life begets life. Energy creates energy. It is by spending oneself that one becomes rich."
I remember when Oprah Winfrey turned 40. She had an on air birthday bash. She talked about how 40 was the new 20 or something like that. The theme regardless was her readiness and openness to experience the fullness of life. It was 1994. I was almost 16. I understood that the struggle and hang-ups of her younger years were refined and she was moving forward in a spirit of freedom. She was unapologetic. A goddess. I remember thinking when I watched the program that getting old was relative and not something we have to do.
In times when we can either let go to make room for our truth and grow, or continue to cling to the things that have arbitrarily kept us going, we must choose to be courageous or give up our meaning. Lately, I'm doing my best to be brave and honest with myself. Saying it is hard is understating. Deladis isn't a baby or even a little girl anymore, but there's so much to look forward to as she grows. I will never stop being a witness to her beauty, laughter, creativity, fire, and tears. I'm always the birthplace and the place she can come to be safely reborn. I can hold her and give her space. I am the energy. As my life becomes more truthful, and able to reflect the light I hold within, I recognize further that time is a formless container, meaning nothing more than a context for our history. What we do with it matters.
Will living here rightly prepare my daughters for being in the world?
How do I ensure that my children see the bigger picture of culture and a more accurate representation of the variety of people in the world while living in a largely homogenized location?
Will they be able to raise a family here, or make a living for themselves if they desire to remain in the mountains?
Could they develop resentment and contempt for being here if they are aware of what is outside of these hills?
I can ask these questions with a type of hindsight, as I was young in the mountains once. While I had a deep love for the landscape and culture, I longed to experience more of the world. I was endlessly curious about other cultures/peoples. I often didn't feel like I fit in well in my community, and because of that, a place where I could be more anonymous appealed to me. As soon as the opportunity arose to leave the mountains, I took it. It was also something I had been prepared for by the adults in my life. As they noticed my interests and the way the economy was turning, they encouraged me to find a place outside of the region if it was made available. They wanted more for me than what they thought I could find here. It was made clear to me that at the time I was considered the youth, it wasn't good to be young in the mountains. In fact, I was taught by several of the elders in my life that it is best to keep where I am from hushed when outside of the mountains so I won't be judged and have opportunities taken from me based on the stereotypes promoted about our home.
The conference was well attended with youth and those supporting them from throughout and outside of the region. The vibe was very upbeat and the conversations seemed energetic. I attended a workshop on applying for grants through the Kentucky Foundation for Women, and I sat in on a panel discussing whether or not it is worth it to pursue higher education if you plan to remain in the mountains. It seemed that even though we are all still very unsure about where the future in the mountains leads, we are hopeful. As a parent, I'm more hopeful than I have ever been about the increasing opportunities for my daughters to broaden their outlook and express themselves to the world while being right here at home. There was a time when we were considered an isolated and backward people, but that is quickly changing. Our young people are making themselves known in a larger sphere.
What I saw at IG2BYITM was dedicated youth. The Ghandi quote that we always see in memes and even cheesy home decor - "Be the change you want to see in the world." - sums up what they are embodying. If our youth want opportunities, they must create them. With the support of those of us who came before, they will clear a path through this dense underbrush placed in their way by previous generations who latched on to mass culture and the perpetuation of misconceptions through the rest of the country. Will we take on the mantle of the stereotypes and allow them to stand outside of the context with which they were bred, or will we use our uniqueness to bring about a time when mountain youth will be proud about their heritage and hopeful about their future here?
Kelli Hansel Haywood is the mother of three daughters living in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky. She is a writer, spiritual explorer, avid yogi, reiki practitioner, and is living life with chronic illness. Connect with her @ Kelli Hansel - Writer & Spiritual/Yoga/Self Transformation Guide
What Clients Are Saying
Kelli's authenticity in the work was paramount in me feeling safe and comfortable in facing some challenges in my life. The practice has been helpful in me finding focus, strength, and over health and well-being. Kelli is a beautiful person and that shines through all her work.