Backdroppers experience living in Appalachia

An Ode to

Appalachia Appalachia

STORY & PHOTO BY JOSIE DONOHUE | DESIGN BY JESSICA ADAMS

The sun sets on a day in southeast Ohio, creating a myriad of colors in the sky.

Backdrop writer criticizes J. D. Vance's memoir, Hillbilly Elegy, and describes how Appalachia is so much more than what meets the eye.

Hillbilly Elegy is a memoir by J.D. Vance about “a family and culture in crisis,” as stated on the cover of the novel. I read the 2016 book for the first time in the fall.

An elegy is a lament, typically for the dead. We are not hillbillies, and we should not be lamented. We are alive and we all have our own stories to tell. This is mine.

I’ve talked to classmates, colleagues and professors about their opinion of the book and found two themes. One opinion is that Vance is too assuming of collective Appalachia by addressing his experiences with the pronoun ‘we,’ rather than ‘I,’ as if everyone in Appalachia lives the same life as he did. This view typically came from those who have grown up or lived in the 13 states that are part of the Appalachia region, which include Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, North Carolina, South Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, Maryland, New York, Tennessee, Virgina and West Virginia, according to the research initiative “Creating a Culture of Health in Appalachia.”

The other opinion was that Vance was correct in his descriptions, and that it would be unfortunate to live in Appalachia due to lack of resources. This view came from those who have not grown up or lived in Appalachia.

I neither agree nor disagree with both opinions. It is up to one’s own interpretation if they have read the book. I will agree that the negative attributes of Appalachia portrayed by Vance exist such as drug epidemics, domestic violence and lack of diversity. However, not everyone in Appalachia experiences those things. Does that invalidate the people who do? No, that is their story to tell, and it deserves to be told.

The issue is that the positive side of Appalachia has been shrouded in the narrative by Vance’s desire to escape the area. He cannot assume that everyone has the same story. This is a piece of my story.

When I think about my Appalachia, I think of home. I think of the rolling hills, hay bales in wide pastures and wildflowers sprouting among weeds in the yard. I imagine the sunrises streaming golden light through my window in the morning before riding a yellow school bus along bumpy dirt roads.

My Appalachia is the dirt beneath my nails when my dad and I plant a garden in the yard, the stalky leaves of corn and tomatoes making my arms itch with little red bumps.

My Appalachia is the blackberry bush my cousins and I picked from that produced enough for a steaming hot pie on the counter, my hands stained purple from the juice.

My Appalachia is riding old bicycles with my sister and wrecking at the bottom of our gravel driveway after she dared me to race her up the hill. She helped me up when I almost passed out from the blood, and we laughed about it the next day.

Most of all, Appalachia is made up of its people.

The people I see smiling at me from farmers market booths along the Ohio River selling hand crafted jewelry, mums and local honey. The teachers who inspired me to discover my passions and chase after them.

I laughed when a girl from Cleveland asked me, “So, what do you do around here since the closest mall is 45 minutes away?” I told her that before the weekly Friday night football games, my friends and I would go to the same Chinese buffet and then walk around Walmart for a while. I always looked forward to those Friday nights.

Looking back, I don’t think the place really mattered, but rather the company I kept while at those places. As long as we were laughing and smiling with each other in the aisles of Walmart, we were content.

One of the things Vance got right was that Appalachia people are, indeed, some of the most loyal people you’ll ever meet. Appalachia, to me, is seeing people just as people. Not as someone who fits within a socioeconomic class or who has a certain status.

We mourn together. When someone passes away, it’s common to drop everything to cook a comforting meal and hand-deliver it to the affected family.

We laugh together at 4th of July potlucks, complete with bonfires and water squirters and playing backyard games.

We watch out for one another with a phone call warning about an incoming storm or before driving home at night saying, “Watch out for deer!”

We celebrate the local high school plays, sports events or graduation ceremonies, when it seems as if the entire community shows up and gives a standing ovation for each student at the end.

Most importantly, we support each other. There has been a countless number of people in my community who ask when they see me how I’ve been and genuinely want to know, rather than asking out of courtesy.

People from outside the area see the abandoned gas stations, the puffing smoke of power plants and country roads as a sign of poverty — as no opportunity, no growth.

I will say that my experience does not account for the experience of everyone in my hometown, and definitely not throughout the entirety of Appalachia. I cannot deny that there is poverty here and that there is a struggle because there is. Although this struggle may not target every family or household, it is still present.

I, however, choose to see the good. Challenging circumstances do not denote the goodness within a person’s heart. No matter where life leads, I’ll always remember and cherish the roots of my Appalachian heritage.

This is just a glimpse into my experience, and I wish I could tell the stories of all the wonderful people who have inspired me growing up, but that would be too long for this article. Hopefully this shows that Appalachia is so much more than what meets the eye. b