Alice Lloyd College

This post originally appeared on HerKentucky in November 2011. In honor of Women's History Month, I thought I'd re-share the impact that Mrs. Lloyd had on my family and my hometown.

The history of Alice Lloyd College sounds a whole lot like a heartwarming story made custom-made for ABC Family or the Hallmark Channel.  A turn-of-the-century Boston Brahmin debutante turned newspaperwoman leaves her opulent New England life to found a school in the heart of Appalachia.  She and her husband are soon estranged -- he moves back to the city -- but she remains in the mountains to further her mission.  Soon, a determined young Wellesley aluma hears of the experiment and moves to Kentucky from her upstate New York home to serve the area. Their tenacity and "society connections" lead to a sustainable donor network, allowing for a free education for all.  A century later, hundreds of Kentuckians owe their educational and professional success to these great ladies. 

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My great-grandmother, Rilda Slone Watson, in an ALC uniform.

While this may be the stuff TV movies are made of, it's also the very real basis for countless educational opportunities in my hometown.  Alice Spencer Geddes Lloyd, Radcliffe alumna, proto-feminist and editor/publisher of the Cambridge Press, moved to Knott County, Kentucky in 1915, with the goal of improving social and economic conditions.  Along with Miss June Buchanan, Mrs. Lloyd soon founded a school in the Caney Creek area, which would become Alice Lloyd College. 

Mrs. Lloyd's impact was felt in every corner of the tiny mountain community; the town itself was even re-namedfor the Browning poem "Pippa Passes", in a nod to both Mrs. Lloyd's literary leanings and an influential set of early donors.  Her commitment to staid Yankee values shine through even upon a visit to the modern campus.  The strict dress and moral code(no cosmetics or heeled shoes, no "consorting" with members of the opposite sex, sailor-style skirt-and-blouse uniforms for all women) of years past may have relaxed significantly, but Purpose Road and the If Guest Cottage (named, of course, for Kipling's ode to perseverance) serve as constant reminders of a sterner era.

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My own family's history is so intertwined with the history of ALC that it's impossible for me to separate one story from the other.  My paternal great-grandmother,

Rilda Slone Watson, grew up on Caney Creek,one of eight children.  Most of the college's original buildings were designed and built by her brother, John Commodore Slone. Her sister, Alice Slone, went on to found a nearby school on the ALC donor-funding model.  My great-grandmother herself worked for the college, assisting Miss Buchanan and manning the Exchange, dispersing the estate items that donors bequeathed to the university. (By all accounts, her office was a treasure trove.)

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Rilda and Miss June

Over the years, Mrs. Lloyd's legacy has shaped my family's destiny in countless ways.  By all accounts, the extended clan were a bookish, artistic lot, but the education and opportunities afforded by Mrs. Lloyd'sCaney Creek schools were truly remarkable for the time and place.  My grandfather, an Appalachian teenager during the Great Depression, spent two summers in Massachusetts working on cranberry bogs and seeing the sites, due to a "work-study" arrangement Mrs. Lloyd set up for local kids.  My great-great-aunt earned a B.A. from Ohio State in 1932.  In the 1930s, a trip to Lexington from Caney Creek took at least a full day.  I can't imagine the physical rigors of traveling to Columbus or Boston, and I certainly know that those doors would not have been opened without the influence of Mrs. Lloyd and Miss June.  (Although my grandfather, a hardcore Literature teacher in his own right, contended to his dying day that Mrs. Lloyd was an unduly rigorous second grade teacher.)

The ALC campus has adapted to the twenty-first century, and many of the buildings of my childhood have made way for modern campus life.  Still, the school remains a charming testament to Mrs. Lloyd's vision. You can learn more about the early days of Caney Creek Community Center here.  And if y'all will excuse me, I've got a screenplay to write.

Pink and Green Plaid Butterfly Quilt

Every Thursday, I share photographs of a quilt my grandmother has made for me. My quilt collection is something I cherish deeply, both because my sweet granny has put so much time, skill, and love into the finished product, and because quilts are such a valuable key to the Appalachian culture in which I was raised. 

My granny has always been really sweet about using the exact fabrics I pick out, even if they seem a little over-the-top when we're planning the quilt. I love the fresh, preppy colors of this one; the bright, almost chartreuse, green really adds a springy, preppy look to the room!

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On Appalachia

People from both sides of my family were born, lived, and died here.  Neither of my grandfathers ever lived anywhere else.  In true mountain tradition, they both gave land to my parents to build their home.  When I was young, I couldn't wait to leave Kentucky.  Now, as I get older, I value every day when I return. -- Shelby Lee Adams, Salt and Truth.

Yesterday, The New York Times Sunday Review published a series of photographs entitled Of Kentucky, excerpted from the new book Salt and Truth by Shelby Lee Adams, a Hazard-born photographer.  As soon as I heard about the project, I immediately got my guard up. 

Here it goes again, I thought. Prepare to be embarrassed.

The black and white photos depicted sad-eyed children standing among coonskin hats.  Bad tattoos.  A freakish funeral.  I was immediately ashamed of the labels that I knew many would affix to the work:

Methhead. Skinhead. Inbred. Hillbilly. 

And yet, Mr. Adams, a 2010 Guggenheim Fellow, interspersed the photos with earnest statements proclaiming his love of returning to the mountains.

RFK in Hazard

Every few years, it seems, Eastern Kentucky catches the eye of the national media.  In the wake of Bobby Kennedy's 1968 "poverty tour", it seems our plight is newsworthy in a very cyclical pattern. 

Documentaries, news specials, and even cheesy TV talent shows present the most backward hollers and the most extreme cases of poverty.  It's suddenly quite easy to believe that all Appalachians speak in an unintelligible patois, use outhouses and generally live the lives of 14th century peasants.

Predictably, the outcry from so many of my Eastern Kentucky friends and neighbors never changes:  "I'm proud to be from Eastern Kentucky," the bumper stickers read.  "My child is a doctor/teacher/lawyer/pharmacist. It's not like that at all."  Feelings are hurt and pride is bruised.  And, some very valid points about success and work ethics and the beauty of the area are raised.

The other Appalachian viewpoint I often hear is one of shame, disdain, and distance.  The folks who wanted nothing more than to get out forever.  Those who, when they stop to mention the area at all, are quick to note that Eastern Kentucky is a land of poverty, Mountain Dew teeth, and despair.

The thing is, I grew up near Hazard, KY. About 35 miles away, to be exact. My own Appalachian experience has been uniquely filled with culture, education and general celebration of the area.  Many of my ancestors were artsy and bookish, a proud array of writers, painters, and educators.  My great-grandfather was a high school calculus teacher-- an amazing degree of training in 1920s Appalachia.  Other relatives have overcome extreme poverty and hardships to succeed.  I grew up among educators; my cousins and I never questioned that we would attend college.  My own parents made sure that my brother and I saw more books and museums and battlefields as children than we could possibly count. And yet, that isn't the entirety of my Appalachian experience.

From Salt and Truth

The very things that we've tried so hard to downplay -- the poverty, the drug abuse, the apathy, and the hopelessness -- are very much alive and kicking in the town where I was raised.  As much as I want to turn away from Mr. Adams's images, I see folks like his subjects every time I visit the Wal-Mart.  I've seen addiction and poverty and utter desperation.  I've seen childhood friends and classmates rendered nearly unrecognizable from a lifetime's worth of hard knocks.  And, yet, I've seen as just many flourish despite similar circumstances.

As I scan through the photos from Mr. Adams's work, I'm surprised to say that I don't feel shame or hurt.  I don't find the photos funny, or charming, or heartwarming.  There was a time when I would have been angry at the photographer for capturing and publishing the images, and even more angry at the subjects for consenting.

The truth is, these photos just are.