By Appalachian Woodworker and English Teacher, Brian R. Melton.
You can’t fault ignorance of the unlearned, so let me educate those who still think Appalachia needs an elegy. Let me discuss the full gospel with those who imagine every hill dweller is a Hatfield or McCoy. Let me offer a true photograph of the part of Appalachia that doesn’t make it into B.B.C’s articles.
Appalachia is home. The thick daytime darkness of the hemlock thickets by the Little Hurricane Creek where we hunt squirrels, camp, and take a summer swim. The train whistle of the Muddy Pond Sorghum Mill that cuts through the fog off the pond on a cold Saturday morning. The people who gather as a community for a benefit auction when a family member has unexpected medical bills or the offering plates that travel from classroom to classroom at public schools when a neighbor’s house burns. The local food pantry that offers meals to the children of the destitute who are still tweaking from the last pill that went up their nose. The teachers that load you up in their truck and take you to work on their farm after school to help you buy your first pickup truck. The small group of boys that gather and fight as one unit on a sandlot baseball field that we lovingly call “our house.” The 5’ tall church choir singing English teacher who models the love of Christ by ripping an apple in half with her bare hands as she splits her entire lunch with a hungry classmate. The mother who says that an education is never a waste as she makes you copy lines out of a book of classic poetry when you were mean to your brother. The father who blesses the food before every family meal and gathers to read scripture and pray every evening before bed. The principal who is kind enough to paddle your tail and send you back to class when you deserve a suspension. The grocery store that blesses you with the first tax paying job, winter work. The community gatherings for a high school basketball game. The art teacher who laughs and talks you through the white canvas painted white hanging in a fine art museum. The elderly neighbor who takes you in and lets you warm your 13 year old self that gathers for every cousin’s birthday. The preacher who takes the time to shepherd a flock with barely enough pay to merit the cost of his drive. The elderly veterans who fought in the hell of World War 2 who had to sit on a boat at the sea missing Christmas with their family because the coastal dock workers union went on strike. The cattle strewn hills that made the Scots-Irish feel at home. The multitudes of family members who fought to end slavery. The dirt poor grandfather who read every book in the high school library before graduating valedictorian. The calm, peaceful drive void of selfish individuals who use their 3,000 pound vehicle as a weapon of aggression and intimidation only to get one car length ahead just so they can sit beside you at the next red light, genius. The free breathing air that just hits different on the lungs. The calloused hands that serve as a badge of honor for kids in high school. The principal who fusses at you for not having a pocket knife he can borrow in a pinch. The rich language that speaks words preserved from generation to generation. The stars at night. The bluffs. The hills. The jungle of cucumber trees, mountain laurel, and elephant ears. The people who continue to love and live. The unprecedented draw that keeps pulling you back home. And when you get there, the warm hugs from mom and dad that welcome you to a table dressed up with meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
So please allow me to suggest that the next time you paint a picture of my home, my people, my culture, please leave your elitist generalizations and biases at the door, and, instead, take a seat at our table as we invite you to take another helping of collard greens.
