Kendra Scott and ARH Foundation Give Back to Eastern Kentucky
Shop Kendra Scott to benefit Appalachian Flood Relief!
Hey y’all.
As I’m sure you all know, my hometown and many of the nearby towns and hollers were impacted by severe flooding earlier this month. I legitimately don’t know how to describe the feeling of seeing my hometown — the place where my family and friends live and work and go to church, where my grandfather taught school, and where my parents met — on The Weather Channel as being only a few miles from the epicenter of flooding activity. I’m so thankful that my family is safe and sound, but a lot of our friends back home were impacted pretty extensively. Homes and lives were lost, schools were destroyed, and people have been trapped in remote areas when their roads quite simply washed away.
It’s been devastating to see such extensive loss, but it’s also been amazing to see how communities have come together. In my home county, volunteers are providing meals and necessities to those who are in need. I’ve heard so many amazing stories of how friends and neighbors are helping one another recover and thrive. It’s going to take time, hard work, and a lot of assistance to get our tiny Appalachian towns back up and running.
My friends at Kendra Scott recently reached out to me about a very easy way to help benefit Appalachian communities, including my own home county. Through Saturday, August 27th, you can shop Kendra Scott jewelry online or in the Lexington or Louisville Kendra Scott stores and 20% of your purchase price will be donated to the ARH Foundation fund, which benefits Appalachian flood relief. Just mention ARH at checkout if you’re in one of the Kentucky stores, or use code GIVEBACK-CKNGN in the coupon box if you’re shopping online.
Any Kendra Scott purchase can count toward this fundraiser, but I particularly adore the Official ARH Collection, which is comprised of three beautiful pieces of Platinum Drusy set in silver tone. This stone is believed to be associated with peace, tranquillity, patience, intuition, and unconditional love. I’m wearing the necklace and earrings from this collection in the photos accompanying this blog post; the collection includes a bracelet as well. These pieces can be worn with nearly everything in my closet, and I love feeling a little closer to my community when I wear it!
Thanks so much to my friends at Kendra Scott for this wonderful opportunity to help Appalachian communities in need!
The H Word, JD Vance, and Appalachian Identity
JD Vance ain’t from around here, and the Hillbilly Elegy trailer is a trainwreck I don’t want to see.
{This blog post contains commissionable links to my Bookshop affiliate account. I receive a very small commission on your purchase, at no cost to you. That said, I ask that you please don’t buy Hillbilly Elegy; don’t give that work or its author any more power. I frequently add more fitting books to the Appalachian Voices page of my Bookshop storefront.}
Growing up, there were a handful of words that under no circumstances were my brother and I ever allowed to say. There were the usual ones, the ones that probably got y’all in trouble with your parents as well, and then there was the H word. You know the one. Well, at least if you grew up like I did, in 1980s Eastern Kentucky with educator parents, you know the one: Hillbilly.
“I’m proud of my hillbilly, white trash background. To me, that keeps you humble; that keeps you good. And it doesn’t matter how hard you try to outrun it. If that’s who you are, that’s who you are. It’ll show up once in a while. ”
The message was clear: yes, it’s a pejorative term for people from the Appalachian region. Yes, people say it about us, both behind our backs and to our faces. But if we allow ourselves to play into the stereotype, then we’re giving them power over us.
Now, I’ll admit that, over the years, I’ve played with dropping the H-bomb myself. Isn’t that what taboo words are for? I was taking back the idiom, as they say. Besides, Miss Dolly Parton embraced the term, and who am I to question Dolly? But, anytime I did use that word it was always with the sense that “I can say it because I am one. Y’all can’t.”
The truth of that word, whether taboo or reclaimed, remains constant: it’s a “them and us” mentality. Appalachians are, by definition, sheltered. Our geography and our culture sets us apart. We learned a long time ago not to trust outsiders. A few may come to help — Mrs. Alice Lloyd comes to mind, as does Mary Breckinridge — but most come to exploit us. Because of the cycle of exploitation and ridicule, we’ve learned to protect ourselves from outsiders. My grandfather grew up on the campus of Alice Lloyd College in the 1930s and ‘40s. He often told a story about when he was 17 and Mrs. Lloyd found work a group of local Knott County boys on a Massachusetts cranberry bog. When a Boston reporter interviewed my Poppy and his friends, they purposely defied all expected stereotypes by speaking perfectly enunciated, grammatically-correct English. Similarly, a few years ago when a UC Berkeley professor profiled my brother about his remarkable career in coding, our entire family proceeded with extreme trepidation until she won our trust. Call it us vs. y’all or call it insular behavior, if you ain’t from around here, we don’t quite trust you.
Last thing I’ll say about JD Vance is I also grew up in a holler with moonshiners, coal miners and all the stock hillbilly characters. Venture capital has also put money in my pocket. Difference between him and me is that I don’t consider myself superior for “rising above it.”
— Heather Watson⚜️ HerKentucky (@HerKentucky) October 14, 2020
In one of the very first posts on this blog, I mused that, every few years, there’s some documentary or photography exhibit or TV show that reinforces all the old, hurtful stereotypes. Of course, I’ve been pretty vocal about my own Appalachian identity and my loathing of these pandering displays over the years, so it wasn’t exactly surprising that yesterday, when Netflix dropped the first trailer for the film adaptation of J.D. Vance’s best-selling memoir Hillbilly Elegy, a lot of people texted, tweeted, or Facebooked to ask my opinion. I certainly have one, that much is for sure.
Mr. Vance is an Ohio native who was raised in part by his grandparents, natives of rural Breathitt County, KY. Hillbilly Elegy tells the story of a difficult childhood: Mr. Vance and his sister were abandoned by their father and, later, by their drug-addicted, frequently-married mother. He spent time in Middletown, Ohio, a steel town outside Cincinnati, as well as with his grandparents in Breathitt County. After troubled high school years, Mr. Vance went on to a stint in the Marines before matriculating at Ohio State University and Yale Law School. He went on to a Silicon Valley venture capital career before settling into a million-dollar Cincinnati home. Elegy tells the story of his tumultuous childhood, shaped by his iron-willed grandmother and the cycles of addiction, violence, and poverty so common to Appalachian families. The love among Vance’s family members, even in hard times, is apparent, and his Mamaw is a wildly compelling character. His academic and professional success is impressive. But, Mr. Vance is way too self-satisfied in his telling of rising above his humble beginnings and his analysis of Appalachian culture smugly oversimplifies so much.
Hillbilly Elegy experienced tremendous success when it was released in 2016, reaching the top spot on the New York Times Bestseller List and securing Oprah’s recommendation. Many viewed the work’s analysis of blue-collar rural Americans as a key to understanding the paradoxes of that demographic’s support of then-Presidential-hopeful Donald Trump. Suddenly, his tale of personal success had a very coded message about the politics of the disenfranchised. And, it seemed a launching pad for Mr. Vance to embark upon a career as a conservative pundit and potential political candidate. It also pissed off a whole lot of Appalachians. Mr. Vance’s analysis of Appalachians’ perceived laziness (“many folks talk about working more than they actually work.” and financial instability (“We spend our way to the poorhouse… Thrift is inimical to our being.”) are cruel and antiquated, painting all hillbillies with the broadest possible brushstrokes. Faced with these ad hominem attacks on our very existence, Appalachians have, in the four years since Hillbilly Elegy’s publication, responded with more nuanced and reasonable books of essays. We’ve also collectively shouted that he ain’t even from around here.
The brilliant singer-songwriter Sturgill Simpson — himself an actual native of Jackson in Breathitt County, and not just a sometime visitor — mocked Hillbilly Elegy by calling it “Tuesdays with Meemaw” and noting “I’ll give this to J.D.- like so many coastal elites that have come to eastern Kentucky to point out all its problems, much like them he offered no solutions, but just found a way to get f—ing paid for it. Twice.” My own view has always been that Mr. Vance is like the kid that every Appalachian youth has encountered - the one who comes down from Ohio to go to Vacation Bible School with his cousins and tries to tell us how backward we are. Yes, your Mamaw lives here, but you don’t, kid. You don’t get to claim “insider” status on telling us how to live.
My paternal grandparents receiving degrees from Eastern Kentucky University, 1961
In the four years since Hillbilly Elegy’s publication — four years since I started reading the book, then gave up and disgustedly put it in my neighborhood Little Free Library because I just didn’t want it around me — I’ve thought a lot about my own Appalachian experience in contrast with Mr. Vance’s. I didn’t live through generational abuse and trauma. I was fortunate to have parents who worked hard and treated my brother and me well. I was fortunate to come from folks who had access to higher education. My relationship with my own tough-as-nails Appalachian grandmother isn’t traumatic or fraught. I’ve had kinfolk who made really great personal and professional decisions and others who haven’t. I chose to leave the holler; my brother has built a fascinating career in our hometown. I know Appalachian folks who, like Mr. Vance, have gone on to Ivy League law schools. I can count at least three folks from my hometown who currently work at the Cleveland Clinic. I have friends who’ve stayed in Appalachia and enriched our community as schoolteachers and policemen. And I know a few folks who don’t seem to do much of anything. I don’t really judge their worth by their resumes or their bank accounts. One group is neither inherently lazy and irresponsible nor categorically commendable. I didn’t grow up in the cartoon of Mr. Vance’s Appalachia, and I don’t particularly want to hear his commentary on my homeland.
So, to answer the question asked of me yesterday, I won’t be watching Colorado native Amy Adams and Connecticut-born Glenn Close in an Oscar-bait, poverty-porn denigration of my homeland. I don’t need to laugh at gorgeous and talented actresses in cringeworthy hillbilly garb. Maybe I’m continuing the exclusionary cycle of us vs. them that keeps Appalachia secluded or maybe, once again, I’m shielding myself from harmful outsiders.
All I know is that we real hillbillies will be over here savoring the lyrics of Dolly Parton, Sturgill Simpson, and Tyler Childers instead.
Alice Lloyd College
Statue of Alice Geddes Lloyd
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.
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.
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.)
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!
On Appalachia
via Amazon.
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.
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.
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.