Janie Slaven: THE PREACHER'S DAUGHTER: "A Seat at the Table"

Mar. 27—The people in the picture. The black and white image are of those who paved the way for me to stand on my own two feet. I don't intend on preaching, but if I do, like my daddy says, "hopefully it's a blessing."

Statistically speaking, none of them were successful. My grandparents and great grandparents didn't receive accolades or achieve much of anything worth noting. Out of the 8 pictured only one of them graduated high school. My maternal grandparents never saw the ocean, neither my Mammaw Edith nor Mammaw Virgie drove a car. My Pappaw Kelly quit school in the third grade to help out on the farm before entering the log woods ultimately inheriting a bum leg. He told me once that he got paid a quarter for every ton of coal he could shovel, and that wasn't very much with a crippled leg. My Pappaw Cossie, exiled from the mountains of Virginia, settled in Harlan county only to die a young man gasping for air, a nice parting gift compliments of the company.

Collectively speaking, none of them ever owned a home with an appraisal value exceeding $100,000. Between the eight of them there were no "late" model cars purchased. Nothing to note of significant value. They were poor and common. Raising their children in homes without running water. Uneducated to a fault. They didn't accomplish much.

Yet when I think about all the things they did do, that list far outweighs the list of failures. My Mammaw Virgie raised nine children, giving birth to the vast majority of them at home. She worked tirelessly to cook and clean and instill a love for others. My Pappaw Kelly taught himself to read. Even after he essentially became crippled, he worked until retirement as a grade school janitor. A small treasure trove of pay stubs was found in a suit jacket pocket once long after his retirement, a direct indication to me of how much that job meant to him.

My Pappaw Ted broke horses his entire life, boarding them and training them for other people. He preached the word of God from a pulpit accompanied by my songbird of a grandmother who at 5'1" was affectionately called "leather lungs" given her booming anointed voice. A wife and mother by the age of 16, Nadine was a literal force of nature. I am a product of poverty, yet I come from a long line of wealthy people, who defined what Appalachia means to me.

I spent 32 years of my life in a region where no one considers themselves to be Appalachian. I'm aware that may sound ludicrous but it's true. I'm always drawn to what I know about the region depicted in literature and film. My "people" honestly are so diverse and complex that they complement one another. How's that for irony? I shall explain.

Most are enamored by it. It's kind of entertaining. This fairy tale notion that we all grew up quilting and canning hoarded up in shanty shacks. The truth of the matter is the majority of us have never called ourselves hillbillies. More distinctly this trendy term "Appalachian" I feel is relatively new, we certainly didn't identify as such nor did our ancestors. This is just who we are, nothing more or less.

I grew up 12 miles north of Tennessee. A border town with the Cumberland River smack dab in the middle. From what I understand there's a more proper name for the region, it involves a plateau. I prefer to call it home, it's just south west of the Cumberland Gap, a land of foothills, hollers, mountains, and streams. Given there's a branch, some forks, and a few creeks sprinkled in. I find I miss it most in the winter when I'm shut up in the house, yet I think about it more in the summer when I'm outside barefoot in the yard.

This magical land of "Appalachia" isn't really magical at all. Instead it's inhabited by people from all walks of life, who meet up at Mammaw's after church on Sundays or at the local Mexican restaurant. As romanticized as such a place is via decal sticker or ATV adventure park, it's just a place. Yet a well loved place. One that is familiar yet foreign to many.

I grew up waving at strangers from the comforts of a porch. I can sing page 114 by memory from the red back church hymnal. I know how to bait my own hook. I earned my keep stringing half runners and shucking corn as a kid. I can smell a snake from 100 yards away. I know the importance of stopping your vehicle to honor the dead, and cheering on the high school during a district tournament.

I dreamed about winning beauty pageants as a kid and complained about boring Friday nights as a teenager, while sitting on a tailgate parked in front of the bank. I attended watch night services, helped cover casseroles, and I've looked at my share of dead deer. Mind you there are characters from my youth that could have been pulled from a book, if Appalachia was a story it wouldn't have a plot nor a setting, it would only have a theme.

Neighbors are family. Community is shared. There is and was poverty but most don't seem to notice, and that's somewhat of the silver lining. There isn't a label large enough to cover happiness and it can't be measured by a bank account or square footage.

Appalachia isn't shiny. It isn't a performance or one distinct culture, it's many. It can't be manufactured. In fact it's dingy. The most well loved items aren't polished anyways. So it's really much to do about nothing much. But it's also everything.

I've bought all the graphic t-shirts, and I love all the memes, but what I'm most proud of is the invisible tattoo inside my chest that I carry wherever I go. I saw a logo recently that said "Appalachian Til I Die..." and I suppose that's accurate, but I'll be a "hill person" even after that. We aren't a brand, we aren't some elusive group of home makers and bibbed overall mountaineers.

We're just human beings, blessed and highly favored.

There's not one description that fits "us." We're a vast array of things thrown into one pot. I imagine it much like a day old vegetable soup that needs stirred now and again and heated up. Sure it's good, but it's better the next day, and even "gooder" the day after that.

We aren't all barefoot and full of tooth decay, but some of us are. We aren't all addicted and out of work, but some of us are. We aren't all living in dirt floor homes dependent on government assistance, but some of us are. That's the reality of who we are. Stereotypes aren't fun, decent, or fair. But until we address that some of them aren't fiction, we can't expect growth. That's painful even typed out, let alone read aloud, but honesty hurts. It hurts real bad.

So how should any of us react? I feel in my heart the solution isn't easy. However, what I do know is that the Appalachia of my lifetime, the one I've been blessed to call home most of my life, is worth it. You see even hillbillies removed from Kentucky and living elsewhere, carry gumption and pride with them. How do I know this?

My aunts and uncles and cousins all left but carried "us" with them across state lines. Street after street of "hillbillies" from Kentucky and West Virginia, building Fords and manning power plants. You can even find hillbillies in Michigan on the assembly lines at Chrysler and Jeep.

Every summer of my childhood those hillbillies would come home with metal coolers and fold out lawn chairs. They still sounded the same, they still took their coffee the same, they still laughed the same. The Appalachia I know, it isn't just a place, it's a spirit, it's a mindset, it's a heartbeat, and it certainly is a people.

So for every piss-poor adaptation meant to showcase how our people think and act — I tend to latch hold of what I know to be true. Behind the black and white photos we all have stashed away in trunks and in sticky photo albums — the photos that have a distinct smell and texture, you know the ones — there are stories and love.

The Appalachia I know is made up of hard work, heart ache, honesty, courage, success and defeat. The Appalachia I know is made up of men like Frank Swain from Paint Creek and Cossie Mullins from Coxton Coal Camp. The Appalachia I know created role models like Kelly Lambdin from Frakes, and Virgie Rose from Mud Creek. The Appalachia I know can't be marketed, bought, or sold. In fact it's worth far more than rubies or gold.

You see, the Appalachia I know is full of all kinds of kinds. It's as timeless as a bake sale outside of the local Walmart or the Friday night lights of a football field. Its endless boundaries engulf generations of people who pray, cuss, spit, and dwell. It's not perfect, in fact it's flawed and always will be.

You can see it on full display when a baby is born, or when someone joins the "service." It's how things are done, how things were did, and how things will be.Appalachia is who I am, it's who you are, it's who we are. There isn't a book, film, or song that could capture any or all of it.

Never once did I care about where I lived or what kind of car I drove until I moved away. I'm not proud of that but it's true. I stand before you today a broken person, that's been patched back together like a quilt. At times I've watered myself down out of fear. My accent, my passions, and interests, I'm too much most of the time. But I've realized my ignorance doesn't make me weak, in fact it does quite the opposite, it empowers me to see the best in people. I love people. That's how I was raised.

Sometimes I like to reflect on the gifts of my Pappaw Frank Swain. He could read shape notes. This was considered a talent within the old regular Baptists. He often even taught others. These congregations still yet today line out songs so others within the congregation can join in. This originally came to pass due to illiteracy within the mountains. Folks couldn't read hymns. I find it interesting that in a world set on inclusion, the ancient saints of old were set on doing the same, just in a very unique way.

To be fair that's really all anyone from Appalachia has ever wanted. A seat at the table, to be seen and heard. One might consider this a manifesto of sorts, but this proclamation is one I've held inside a long long time.

We're here, We've been here, and we ain't going anywhere.

My name is Erinn Williams. I'm a daughter of Appalachia. I'm from Frakes on Pine Mountain and the head of Mud Creek. I'm from Paint Creek across the mountain on the other side of Jellico. I'm from Coxton Coal Camp, and Clintwood, Virginia. I'm from where those that came before me came from, and because of that I'm proud of who I am.

Erinn Williams is originally from Williamsburg, and now resides in Owensboro, Ky. The daughter of a teacher and a preacher, she hopes to make a difference through her words. She serves as an elementary educator in Daviess County, and writes for Owensboro Parent magazine in Western Kentucky. She can be contacted at erinn.williams2017@gmail.com.