Parts Of Me Come And Go

Parts Of Me Come And Go

by Katie Myers

          Our bodies are sore from sitting and listening this week.  My mind and body disconnect sometimes when I’m tired like this.  At school they called it attention deficit disorder.  With my hands in my lap and my butt in a seat, my mind gets up and takes a walk.  I’m in Tennessee, leafy, damp Tennessee; but my mind is in sun-baked Arizona, where thousands of innocent families are being held in detention camps. I have just come from two months out in the desert, working in solidarity with border crossers; the dust kicked up by Border Patrol trucks still catches in my throat, and the silence of the Sonoran night sky hums in my memory.  But I’m here now, and I have to focus.

Clearfork Community Institute photo display, Eagan, TN. Photo by Katie Myers.

Clearfork Community Institute photo display, Eagan, TN. Photo by Katie Myers.

           We’re sitting in Hemphill, Kentucky.  One of our hosts is telling us his story.  He didn’t mean to tell it, it just came out.  We’re always asking people to stay in Appalachia, he says.  He says, I wasn’t ready.  He says, I’m not ready.  He says, maybe I will never be ready.  Parts of me come and go, he tells us, bending forward, head thrust out before his body, speaking into his hands. Parts of me wander out into the world and then wander back home, my mind and my heart and my ears and my mouth, all spread between the place I live, and my once and future place. His is one of the many tales we’ve been told, during our orientation as Appalachian Transition Fellows.

            We’ve been told fantastical tales this week. Fairy tales, even, some beautiful and some sordid. There’s one about a Newport, Tennessee drag queen.  She has a name from outer space, a name that gives birth to stars: Nebula.  She performs in the town of Newport, Tennessee, where she gleefully points to the church she went to as a child and shrieks, elated, I grew up over there!!

            There’s another fairy tale to be found in the town of Big Ugly, West Virginia.  Some kids in the area, I was told, made up a creation story about their home: that a drunk giant, dragged home by his wife at night, carved the deep holler with his toe.

Mural painted by children in the Big Ugly Community Center, Big Ugly, WV. Photo by Katie Myers.

Mural painted by children in the Big Ugly Community Center, Big Ugly, WV. Photo by Katie Myers.

            Then there’s the sordid ones: the kind that academics tell community members sometimes in the course of their research, saying, This is for you; I’ll bring it back to you when I’m done.  The stranger makes a promise: the stranger leaves, gets a PHD, and never returns. Or the kind that self-styled job creators tell.  “This manufacturing plant will bring a hundred jobs to your community!” though it’s another story once the plant opens. Or else, a well-intentioned organization smoothing over the rougher parts of Appalachia, smoothing over truths of hardship and pain, to tell a story about what they call “the greatest place on earth”: a made-up land that exists only in pamphlets and powerpoints.

           In the mountains you have to backtrack sometimes to get where you’re going: South to Pikeville to get north to Charleston, east to Bristol to get northwest towards Harlan.  In Cumberland Gap, Tennessee, we drove a ways down a dirt road and gave up and turned around.  People that live around there probably take that road; it’s the quickest way between Morristown and the Clearfork Valley.  These roads aren’t on a map. But they will get you there if you can find them and you have the wheels to take you.

            If you don’t have the wheels, turn back and take another road: that way is longer, but there’s no shame in it. There’s no shame in taking the road you’re equipped to take, or coming back with the right wheels next time. To think about what parts of us and what parts of history we are taking to the future, what we need to remember of the struggles of the past, to accept  history as it is, without denying or dwelling on it. There’s no shame in stopping to think as we talk about “transitional economics” and justice in our places, stopping to think about what do we mean? And who are we giving power to? And who are we taking it from? 

            That day we got stuck on the dirt road and turned around felt like a blessing. The rain had just stopped and a rainbow was following us over the ridgeline.  “We’re the gayest cohort ever,” we said, with a laugh but also with pride: how lucky are we to have one another, when we know full well how it feels to be alone? In the middle of so many parts of us coming and going, in between history and memory, we have each other to hold onto.  Between us we can parse out some truths, or sides of the truth, and carve a path forward. Parts of us are scattered throughout this place and we are collecting them, as quick as we can and as slow as we need, so that people here can come and go whole, as they please.

Rural West Virginia in rain and fog. Photo by Katie Myers.

Rural West Virginia in rain and fog. Photo by Katie Myers.



Alice Beecher - Charlottesville


The sweat pools on my hands and threatens to erase the jail support number written on my thigh. The air is thick as cotton. I can still feel the teargas stinging my tongue and lips, can still see the white t-shirts and hip hair-cuts of the hundreds of Nazis marching through downtown Charlottesville. The governor of Virginia has just announced a State of Emergency, effectively cancelling the Unite the Right rally before it officially begins. Confederate flags battle with a banner that reads “SMASH WHITE SUPREMACY” in the flat blue August sky of the Shenandoah. Scattered empty water bottles and respirator masks litter the streets. I can still hear them shouting “We Will Not be Replaced” over and over in horrific chorus, can still see the heads of black clergy bowed in prayer, can still see their white knuckles burning into the bodies of my screaming friends.

  For a moment though, we are not running or screaming. We catch a reluctant breath. Local organizers lead a march past Justice Park, and community members honk in solidarity as we chant “Charlottesville We got Your Back We Got Your Back We Got Your Back!” To our surprise, at an intersection we are met by hundreds of other counter-protesters carrying Black Lives Matter and IWW flags, a welcome contrast to the seas of white nationalists who poured down these same roads just hours before. For a moment, it feels like we’re winning. I catch myself spitting out a laugh as we talk about how well we blend in with the UVA preppy-chic in our strategic “Chad and Becky” bloc. The rally is shut down. White supremacists have lost a platform, once again. The pavement trembles against our feet and my bones relax. This ritual feels familiar, this march like every other march I’ve ever been on, feels almost comforting in comparison to the anachronistic nightmare of the morning.

    Then there is a sound that is something like gunfire, something like limbs cracking. I happen to be on the sidewalk of the intersection. I run into a side street. The chants and singing collapse again into screams and confusion. I see a scattering of empty shoes, tattered banners. The sun shines like a belt buckle.

   “Someone got hit” my friend from East Kentucky says, face plastic and panicked with tears. The cops cars role in, the sirens begin their low persistent moan.

                My friend rushes to provide medical support for Heather Heyer. The police pull him away from her as he is doing chest compressions, despite the fact that no EMTS are nearby. My hands grow hot and sticky and the air smells like rust. My friend from Kentucky is crying on the sidewalk, her leg twisted and broken from the trampling crowd. This moment feels like loss.

                But what I realize, in the days afterward, when my world becomes a flurry of anxious text messages and the country erupts into stormy rhetoric, is that this was in fact a victory. That the Left was attacked that day in Charlottesville not in a moment of weakness but a moment of strength. That the politics of the neo-confederate, white supremacist alt-right are at their core reactionary, regressive, envious even.

 At the moment James Fields hit Heather Heyer with a car in Charlottesville, we were singing. There were masses of us. Despite our ideological and tactical diversity, on the street we supported each other, praying clergy working in tandem with militant black-blocs, medics and legal observers ensuring our safety when the police would not. Blind to the institutional power whiteness already affords and eager to claim victimhood, the far-right craves the comradery and collective resilience we have built for ourselves on the left, despite centuries of oppression and violence. Naming multiculturalism rather than capitalism or state oppression as the enemy of freedom, neo-nazis parrot and distort ‘identity politics’ to fetishize heritages of whiteness. They want our solidarity. They want our power.

                These reactionary politics parallel and are informed by Trump’s rise following both the Obama administration and the development of the Black Lives Matter movement. Blaming both the neoliberal elite and racial demographic changes for the weakening white American middle class, white nationalists and Trump supporters locate hope in an autocratic return to 1950s, neo-confederate populism. 

     But there is only so much power in reaction, in nostalgia for a history both brutal and imaginary. True power rests not in nostalgia, but in faith. In a vision for the future that presents something better than what this fucked up, extractive, colonial world offers us. We gain strength not by pacifying our radicals and catering to the center, not by the Hilary Clinton-esque “unity” preached by mainstream Democrats, but through solidarity. Solidarity means collective struggle that respects a diversity of tactics, from punching Nazis to prayer to potlucks. Solidarity means honoring the leadership of people of color and the legacies of our ancestors who fought fascism in America and the world over. Solidarity doesn’t mean erasing our political differences, but strategically acting in coalition as the moment calls for it. Solidarity means addressing the economic conditions exploited by the Nazis and developing our own anti-racist/anti-capitalist movements for the social redistribution of wealth. Solidarity means recognizing the power that is inherent in standing on the right side of history, in sacrificing personal comfort for the survival of our fellow human beings.

                The left tends to wallow in a narrative of weakness, of loss. I’ve even heard friends become so nihilistic as to say that winning isn’t even the goal, that going for wins in these times is to promise the impossible. But what I realized from the horror in Charlottesville is that neo-nazis have nothing on the gravitational pull and power of Black Lives Matter and Queer liberation activists, of antifa and DSAers, of indigenous and immigrant-led struggle. In the words of Assata Shakur, repeated like a prayer by activists in the shivering twilight of the blue hills of Virginia: “It is our duty to fight for our freedom—It is our duty to Win. “


                This past week, at the annual Highlander Homecoming at the center in New Market, Tennessee, we remembered how to sing. I was honored and privileged to gather and break bread with organizers, healers, radical educators and revolutionary artists from across the various landscapes of the South. After leading us to braid our hands together in the same holy, powerful chain our movement ancestors have woven together for centuries, we sang “Which Side Our You On” with some of the original SNCC Freedom Singers,  our voices echoing in the glittery twilight of the Smoky mountains. This felt like liberation to me. This felt like power. 

Although I grew up in the northeast, for most of my adult life I have lived in rural towns in the Rust Belt and Central Appalachia. Confederate flags spring up on car decals and bay windows all over the towns I live and work in—but so do “No Hate in my Holler” t-shirts and ‘Goodnight White Pride’ stickers. The Traditional Worker’s Party, the KKK, and other neo-fascist organizations are actively trying to recruit working class white Appalachian people into their organizations, promoting white nationalism as the answer to crippling de-industrialization and systemic poverty. While much noise is made in the media about “backwards hillbillies” and “Trumps supporters who deserve to die if Medicaid gets cut”, I don’t often read about the everyday work community members are doing to uproot racism in the mountains. Or the fact that very few members of the local community in Pikeville, KY where the TWP hosted a rally this April, showed any kind of enthusiasm for the Nazis coming to town and in fact organized their own counter-event. The narrative that working class Appalachian communities are responsible for the current rise in white nationalism, or even the ascension of Donald Trump, reflects a misguided and factually inaccurate narrative with long historical roots. (

Coastal elites have consistently scapegoated Appalachian people for the racism that pervades every corner of American society and geography. While neo-confederate and white nationalist sentiment certainly exist in Appalachia, so to do movements to abolish prisons, challenge the police, and create democratic and inclusive communities. Where I live in Eastern Kentucky, we host a weekly radio show connecting the families of prisoners to inmates, run an active campaign to prevent a prison from being built on a mountain-top removal site, and host rallies and dinner table conversations centered on challenging racism and upholding the movement for black lives. Additionally, the narrative of “white racist hillbillies” erases the many communities of color that have made their home in the mountains for centuries. Affrilachian (or African American Appalachians) were in fact the first non-native people to settle in the Appalachian Mountains. (Check out Will Isom’s research on Blacks in Appalachia to learn more!)  

While confederates, the KKK, and neo-nazi groups have always tried to recruit from the rural working class, it is important to recognize that these groups maintain their centers of power elsewhere, and that Appalachia has a long history of defecting from both confederate and white supremacist causes. During the Civil War, West Virginia split from Virginia in rejection of the confederacy and many counties in Northeast Tennessee and Western North Carolina voted against secession. During the dramatic “mine wars” of the turn of the century, the UMWA was one of the first unions in America to demand that black workers be paid the same wages as white workers. This is not to absolve Appalachian communities from responsibility for the pervasive, ugly, systemic and interpersonal racism that does exist in the mountains, but to challenge the national narrative that explicit white supremacist groups are solely organized by the southern, rural working class. Richard Spencer and the National Policy Institute (which sponsors the white supremacist American Renaissance policy think-tank) are slick, white collar, wealthy politicians. The “western chauvinist” Proud Boys draw on upper-middle class frat culture to build their racist base. Even the purportedly “socialist” Traditionalist Workers Party has roots in Indiana and the upper Midwest. And let us not forget that Trump himself hails from the urban-northeast megalopolis of New York City.

Most importantly, resistance to white supremacy exists and is powerful in the hills and hollers of Appalachia. Counter-protesters overwhelmed Nazis not only in my home state of Massachusetts but deep in the coalfields of Pikeville, Kentucky. The question that remains in the aftermath of these demonstrations is how do we use these impressive displays of solidarity to leverage actual power?

In the everyday, long-haul, economic transition work I do in Hazard, Kentucky, community leaders are working to build bridges between diverse populations of black, immigrant, and white working class folks to develop a collective vision of what we want our future to look like in the mountains. This means hosting celebratory potlucks that highlight the cuisines of Syrian, Indian, Mexican and other populations that are an essential piece of Hazard’s community fabric, while spurring discussion about the complexities of Appalachian identity and what we can do to make Hazard a more welcoming place for all people. This means hosting poetry workshops with black community leaders centered on defining and re-envisioning home. This means ensuring that city development ideas must recognize and respect the economic and infrastructural needs of everyone up and down the holler, regardless of class or race. 

In Appalachia, I believe that we need to draw strength from traditions of militant direct action and multiracial struggle against corporate enemies, from coal mines to Walmarts. We need to build a locally owned, dynamic solidarity economy that values the health of workers and the environment. We also need to do the slow, intentional, long-haul work of unseating centuries of structural and institutional racism. The work to resist prison expansion as a form of economic development, to advocate for single-payer healthcare, to fight gentrification and address environmental racism. That work has been happening for years before this most recent display of white brutality and it will continue now. If we are to actually prevent white nationalism from taking root in the mountains, the urban left must support and respect these ongoing campaigns and struggles in the rural south.  

As Highlander Director and fierce change-maker Ash-Lee Henderson so often says, “The South’s Got Something to Say!” It is high time that everyone across the country

Alice Beecher - Community Led Development vs. Gentrification

A couple of Saturdays ago, I was asked to help facilitate a poetry workshop for the congregation at Common Bound Ministries, one of the historic black churches in Hazard. Along with Hazard native Emily Hudson, we led a room full of grandmas, babies, young people, and teenagers in writing poems about what the concept of home means to them, using an exercise developed by Kentucky poet laureate George Ella Lyon. Many of these people had grown up in Hazard, some had left and came back, some moved up from across the mountains and found themselves in this little city.

  The process of writing and sharing these poems as a group made me think of what it means to define ‘place’ as a collective, along with who is invited to evolving conversations of what a place becomes when industry, development, and time change the landscapes we call home. In Appalachia, the loss of a thriving coal industry and efforts towards “just” economic transition have provoked questions about what regional identity means without this infamous industry. However, the homogenization of Appalachian cultural and geographic identity by mainstream media has already historically erased the complexity of the stories and identities of people living in the mountains. Until the 1960s, many academic journals formally defined the world “Appalachian” as ‘a white person living in the rural mountainous region of the eastern United States’.  Frank X. Walker, founder of the “Affrilachian Poets” sought to challenge this racist, narrow definition by giving a platform to black poets with roots in Appalachia.

Why is it so important that a plurality of voices be involved in the communal defining of any place, and particularly of Appalachia? This collective storytelling matters because it is so easy for those who are awarded structural and political power to determine the economic and infrastructural future of given localities in times of transition. When “home” gets taken away by processes of deindustrialization, corporatization, environmental destruction, and neoliberal capital flight, too often it is only the owning class or political elite that are invited to “imagine” the future of cities and rural places. Often, this translates to city officials and financiers supporting economic development efforts that have the effect of dislocating low-income residents.

We need to start having a conversation in Appalachia about the difference between gentrification and community controlled economic development. Contrary to popular opinion, rural gentrification DOES happen in this country, and does happen in Appalachia, with Asheville, NC and the surrounding towns/cities as the most prominent example of this phenomenon. Gentrification is dangerous because it is a false solution to unemployment and post-industrial recession. The displacement, rising housing costs, and increased policing that so often accompany the creation of elite “creative economies” do not represent a “just” transition from extractive industry. They simply replace extraction economies with exclusive, expensive, tourist enclaves. Without community control over both industrial and downtown/main st development, the story of a place becomes one that is told only by economic and political elites, not by the diverse communities who are deeply rooted in the area.     

When I talked to the poets at Common Bound Ministries about what they imagined the future of Hazard would look like, they emphasized a vision that reflected a desire for both growth and continuity, for the physical and economic spaces they call home to become more vibrant but to remain stable. Everyone wants more jobs and prosperity, but no one wants to be rendered expendable as a result of development.

Alice Beecher - Justice in the Just Transition

               At the recent AppFellows regional gathering in Benham, KY, after spending the day scheming, dreaming, and arguing over what it means to create a “just transition” in the Appalachian economy, we emerged from the conference room to visit the Kentucky Coal Mine Museum. At the Coal Mine Museum, we heard two former UMWA miners talk about their experiences both fighting for the union and fighting against mountain top removal. Then, climbing up a narrow flight of stairs to the roof of the museum, we were met with a fleet of solar panels glistening in the early mountain sunset. This image, which has been both ridiculed and celebrated by pundits commenting on the irony of installing such “green infrastructure” on a museum dedicated to the history of the infamous fossil fuel, illustrates the complexity of the regional debate around “Just Transition.”. According to a PSA about the project I heard on the radio, the solar panels were installed mostly to save money on utility costs, not to make a political point.  But the image made me wonder— if the coal industry is fading regardless of political intervention, and people in Appalachia are forced to consider economic alternatives regardless of their personal ideologies, does it matter whether or not our communities and our allies agree with our views? Additionally, to what degree does the mainstream media erase nuances in Appalachian political thought, making the installation of solar panels on a coal museum so surprising to outsiders?

               I have met many retired miners who are both dedicated friends of coal and fighters of mountain top removal. That “contradictory” stance comes from deeply felt economic realities, and represents a positionality I wish more of our political leaders would respect. The danger, however, in allowing for and embracing such ideological diversity, in making the tent of ideas that exists under the ‘Just Transition’ framework as wide and open as possible, is that a wide tent also makes room for projects that bear an eerie resemblance to the exploitative mono-economies we are supposedly “transitioning” away from.

Take the proposed federal prison in Letcher County, KY, for example. The proposed USP Letcher would take $444 million of federal money to build a maximum security prison on a reclaimed strip mine, in a country that incarcerates a higher percentage of its population (in particular, people of color) than  any other country in the world. But because this prison will bring relatively higher paying jobs to a county in deep economic distress, I’ve anecdotally heard many refer to the prison as a step in the right direction for East Kentucky, if not explicitly a “just transition” away from coal.

               This raises the question of whether or not we are working to push forward the collective education of our communities—specifically, collective education around power and structural violence. If we want to move away from the kind of industry that once paid miners in script and forced children to work for 18 hours a day in dangerous and back-breaking conditions, why would we support an industry that produces billions of dollars in profit for essentially unpaid labor—and relies of structural racism to justify this practice)? While I do not believe in activists self-isolating into ideologically pure subcultures that refuse to engage the people we are supposedly organizing, I think there is an immense danger in allowing terms like “Just Transition” to be appropriated and diluted by the power elite. And I believe we have a duty to be vigilant about recognizing when conversations around economic transition in Appalachia intentionally and unintentionally exclude people that will be directly impacted by whatever economic future happens in the mountains. [jh1] 

               Directly after the regional gathering, I attended a separate, larger conference about economic development in Appalachia.  While the conference introduced me to [jh2] many exciting projects and ideas, I believe [jh3] there were fewer than five black people present at the entire event, and few if any participants I met [jh4] were currently working in the manufacturing or service sector. It is less than surprising to me, given these demographics, that the keynote speaker of thesaid conference was an enthusiastic advocate for capitalism as a way to “get things done and create social change”—a statement that was met with applause and affirmation by most (if not everyone) in the room.  Similarly, when I have attended more local gatherings about economic development in eastern Kentucky, there are very few people of color present, and rarely any attendees who do not work in professional non-profit or government sectors. Where are the Dollar General and Walmart workers at these meetings? Where are the unemployed young people struggling with health issues or addiction? The jargon-heavy language used in such spaces is exclusive and alienating, even for many people who have had access to college education like me.

               I believe a diversity of ideologies, strategies, and tactics will be necessary to build the new world we want to see in Appalachia and across the country. But I can’t quite come to terms with the contrast between environments like The Highlander Center, where we talk about collective liberation and critiquing the machine of capitalism,, and events like the East Kentucky Leadership Conference, where aluminum plants and military drone launch pads are promoted as innovative steps forward for Appalachia. Does the term “Just Transition” really mean anything at all if such contradictory visions for the future can be encompassed within it? Is it still useful, however, to embrace these spaces of contradiction and political tension?  In Appalachia, there is a growing consensus that we need to work with the Trump supporter and the tree-hugger alike if we want to build any kind of real political power. I think it is deeply important to organize a base of diverse backgrounds and political persuasions, but I don’t think we’re ever going to get the world we’re fighting for if we prioritize networking with business owners and politicians over creating community with workers and unemployed people. I think we need to think critically about the term “Just Transition”—who defines it, who implements it, and who ultimately remains in power when the framework is applied.

Hope Hart - AppUpdates via photos!

Our Communications AppFellow Hope Hart, based at Appalshop, has been visiting each of the Fellows and documenting the work they are doing in their host communities. Check out this excellent album of photos to see the work and places our AppFellows are becoming embedded in!

Jenni Roop - Sunday Funday

At the current moment, I’m tired. Physically and mentally worn out. With my project in full swing, a garden, a family, and a house to tend to at home, throw some traveling in there and I’m done for. Fortunately, I’m not normally this much of a Debbie downer, I just so happen to be writing this with a mild case of the “Mondays”.

As I’m sitting here at my little desk in Abingdon, VA at the Appalachian Sustainable Development office, I’m stressing out about the mountain of laundry that needs to be done, the puppy hair tumble weeds bellowing about on the hardwood, the streaks of dried water from an unknown source ruining the shine of the stainless steel, all while planning and scheduling, designing, and facilitating….the list goes on and on. As tension may seem high, I can’t help, but feel grateful. I’m grateful that I get to walk through the doors of an organization that actually strategies and executes meaningful work. I’m grateful that my sunflowers are sprouting. (I was scared to death that I screwed that up!)  I’m grateful that when I came home from the our first AppFellows Regional Gathering, that my husband was waiting there, with a smile that would make any heart melt, ready to scoop me up and shower me with “I miss yous” and kisses. Most of all, on the Monday-est of Mondays, I’m grateful, that in a few short hours, I’ll have the best work buddy ever, sitting beside me and spinning around in an office chair, even though her feet don’t yet touch the ground. The best part of being involved in this work is the freedom to have Annabel Lee beside me when a baby sitter falls through. Thank goodness for decent, understanding folks and the absence of ridiculous rules and regulations.

Sunday’s are family night at Casa De Roop. We put on our jammies, pop some popcorn on the stove, and pick a movie to watch together. Last weekend Annabel got to watch “The Wizard of Oz” for the first time, and a time before that “Harry and the Henderson’s” (If you haven’t seen it, you should. It’s really funny!). Sundays are a time to relax and enjoy the presence of those you love and cherish the most in your life….at least that’s how we like it. This past Sunday, however, was a little different.

jenni table4.jpg

Appalachian Sustainable Development had the second FUNdraiser of the year Sunday the 21st. Our Director of Communications and Development, Sylvia Crum, came up with the brilliant idea to host a family style Sunday supper at the brand new, up and coming events facility in Blountville, TN: The Ron Ramsey Regional Agricultural Center. Lindsey Keen, the Farmer’s Market Promotion Coordinator, and I were on the planning/execution team this time around…known as the “Biscuits” per Sylvia. The tables were set up like long harvest tables adorned with white table clothes and a variety of beautiful, random dishware. The center pieces were made up of a variety of fresh cut flowers; peonies and lilies from my garden, roses from Lindsey’s, and wildflowers from the fields of Sylvia’s land. An assortment of rustic décor (Most of which came from my mother. Thanks, Mom!) And informational pieces were scattered about the lobby were a cocktail reception was held; can’t beat BYOB! There was locally sourced food prepared and served by ASD Board member, Chef Mike Archdeacon, owner and operator of the local food truck “Foodie Fiction” and his team. Set up began at 2:00pm Sunday afternoon and cleanup was finished up by 10:00pm with a 30 minute drive home to follow. It was a long, busy evening. Our dogs were barking, eyes were heavy, and bodies felt like a bunch of limp noodles, but this was, by far, one of the most rewarding experiences I have been a part of yet with ASD.

Though our quaint little family night was interrupted, I wouldn’t have had it any other way this weekend. The rewarding (and nostalgic) rush of planning and executing an event, even with a few qwerks, is like no other. The best part was getting to spend the slow moments in between the hustle and bustle with amazing new friends and my undyingly supportive husband and mother. There isn’t enough thank yous in this world to express my gratitude for a life that I wouldn’t dare trade for anything in this world.

Alice Beecher - Alfombras

Walking down Main Street in Hazard past the Kentucky River on one of the first t-shirt hot days in April, I noticed a group of teenagers spreading flakes of colorful sawdust into images of flowers and football regalia on the sidewalk. They were constructing Alfombras, a traditional Spanish folk craft made at the beginning of Easter, meant to represent the coming of spring. Made from such delicate materials, it is understood that the Alfombras will blow away at the first high gust of wind, leaving only a kaleidoscope mash of colorful dust behind.

The temporary nature of these Alfombras made me think of how much the work we do in community is ephemeral—moments of joy and celebration and resistance that fade after the last song plays or the last tomato is sold, after the rally ends and (in a darker vein) we kick the Nazis out of town. Is it worthwhile to spend so much time planning events and programs that are by their nature fleeting, locked in particular moments in time and space? From InVision Hazard community gatherings to summertime arts festivals to even the mobilization against the Nazi rally in nearby Pikeville, I often wonder what impact is left by these events after the proverbial sawdust blows away.

While it is easy to dismiss such events-based organizing as un-substantive, perhaps the moments of beauty, joy and power created by these temporary spaces give us the strength to keep moving, to do the long-haul, unsexy work of building a new economy and a new resistance. As we discussed at our last AppFellows gathering, the bravery required to build what often begins as temporary, small-scale acts of participatory democracy—planting a community garden, creating a coffee cooperative, painting a mural downtown, etc.—can be leveraged into larger scale transformations in the ways people determine the future of the land they live on and the economy that governs their lives.

In similar vein, when I think of the patchwork quilt of new economic paradigms proposed by AppFellows projects—a fiber shed, a food and dance trail, film/tech coops, farmer’s markets, a star park, Hazard’s downtown—I wonder if these projects can scale up to a new economy resilient enough to exist and thrive against the competitive threat of mass-produced goods and strip malls. The “no silver bullet” concept seems to be a favorite phrase of community economic development experts here in eastern Kentucky. There is an understanding that a diverse, decentralized “economic ecosystem” that supports new entrepreneurs without relying on a single, monopolizing industry will be the most effective model to lift Appalachia out of structural poverty. But does the formation of a new economy need to be centrally planned and implemented in order for it to succeed against global capitalism?

I don’t know. What I do know is that whether it involves revitalizing a downtown or fighting the spread of white supremacy in these hills, bravery is a requirement in scaling up.  And while beautiful moments and colorful spaces are so necessary to keep our movements vital and strong, we must find a way to make this work impactful for years and generations down the road.

Jenni Roop - Still Truck on Two Flat Tires

It has been 5 months since the 2017 AppFellows adventure began and everyone seems to be getting down and dirty with their host community projects. Here in Virginia and Tennessee, we have hit a couple of potholes in the road with the Working Groups. Some are very active with very promising projects underway, others yet to meet or have stopped meeting all together. Unfortunately, the time our members invest into these groups is strictly volunteer time, whereas my full time job is to focus on the group’s success. 

After applying for and awarded a small $5,000 grant through the Central Appalachian Network (CAN), the Policy and Economic Development Working Group will act as the steering committee for a program titled Building Political Capital in Northeast TN and Southwest VA. The program will begin with a one day, region wide Policy 101 Workshop that will teach its participants basic local, state, and federal policy knowledge. Following the Workshop, we will be scheduling a series of 3 Roundtable Flash Talk and Small Group Discussion Luncheons: the first with local officials, second with state officials, and third with federal officials.  The project is structured to increase community capacity and leadership, develop a more “policy wise” region that is comfortable communicating with their elected officials and identifying when they can lead community efforts through policy change. Members of the other 4 working groups will be invited to attend. We also hope to get the Fellows down to participate as one of their scheduled monthly workshops!

The Food Access Working Group will be developing two projects this year. First, they will be working with different organizations throughout SWVA and NET who have up and running Summer Feeding Programs in order to develop new sites in the neediest counties. Second, the group will create a plan of action titled “Farm to summer” for getting fresh, local foods, prepared on site (at the markets) and served to the children registered with the program. The action plan will then be presented to Market Managers, local elected officials, and Summer Feeding program operators in October. We hope to hold two pilots (1 in NET and the other in SWVA) in the 2018 Farmer’s Market season.

The Workforce Development Working Group has two very active group Chairs meaning all I would really have to do for them is take the minutes. AWESOME! Not only that, but these two very driven women want to focus on creating pathways for High School Agriculture and Culinary Arts students to College Courses with CET dual enrollment programs. VERY AWESOME! Sadly…this group has yet to meet for the year, but I’m not giving up hope and continue to badger them on a regular basis!

Beginning in June 2017, a pilot program titled “VeggieRX”(Modeled after the very successful “Farmacy” in Whitesburg, KY) will kick off for the duration of the summer months in Washington County, TN. The Food and Health Systems working group is currently acting as part of the Steering Committee. The goal for participation is, since the group is made up of SWVA and NET folks, that in 2018 when the successful program broadens, that it will be carried across the VA/TN border. Unfortunately, only a few members of the group have been able to participate in the planning meetings so far.  To add to the discouragement, the Food Production, Marketing, and Distribution Working Group met once in March this year. We scheduled a follow up meeting in April to plan for our Farmer/Producer Regional Assessment, but no one ended up making it to the meeting.  The lack of participation from these 2 Working Groups means 1 of two things: Going back to the drawing board and revamping the groups or deleting them indefinitely.

When I started this journey, it was a pretty bumpy start, what with being away from my family and diving head first into the unknown world that is nonprofits. Thankful for being a quick learner and fairly adaptive, I took the steering wheel from my predecessor (The previous Working Group facilitator, Mary Beth.) and, despite the bends and bumps, my Host Community Project is still trucking right along, even if we seem to have 2 flat tires. AND! I already have an amazing plan laid out for my Appfellows individual project. Stay tuned for further Working Group updates!

Brittany Means Carowick - Be the Neighbor You Want

Lately, this phrase has been popping up a lot in my life:

“It’s up to us to make it how it used to be.”

My husband and I have started taking a “Master Homeowner” class, offered by our local Habitat for Humanity. It’s pretty cool—we will learn about multiple aspects of home ownership, from the legal and financial issues of buying a house to how to rewire an electrical outlet or fix basic plumbing issues. Modeled after Master Gardener classes, it’s a good mix of practical and theoretical skills that home owners need to know.

We’ve spent the last two weeks talking about neighborhood relations and home safety. We covered the city’s expectations of property upkeep and maintenance, how to deter burglary, and how to be a good neighbor. Throughout all of this discussion, the importance of knowing and talking to your neighbors has come up again and again. It’s an underlying thread that helps people maintain high property value, feel safer, and respect their neighborhoods. But both instructors and our other classmates have said, “It’s just not like it used to be.”

Here’s how they say it used to be:
People knew their neighbors. They knew their names, their children’s names, their grandkids’ names. They knew their schedules; when they came and went, about what time they turned off their lights at night, and where they liked to park. They would help each other out—grab mail or water plants when someone was out of town, mow their grass if they were sick, and lend cups of flour or sugar.

This made neighborhoods safer. People knew if something was amiss in the neighborhood, and they would check on their neighbors. Someone found their car had been broken into? They would tell everyone on the street, to make sure everyone was vigilant and no one else was missing anything. People felt more secure; they knew if something happened to them, their neighbors would call them or their relatives to check up on them. Did Old Jane’s lights stay on all night, and she didn’t move her car today? Someone would knock and make sure she hadn’t fallen.  Neighbors would chat over fences or while weeding their lawns; if something was wrong, you had a relationship with your neighbor and could talk it out. Sometimes, it was annoying--especially if you were a kid. Your mom would know any trouble you got into before you were even home! But, people who tell these stories laugh about it fondly, wishing their kids were watched after by the whole neighborhood like that now.

And at the end of these reminiscences, our instructor always reminds us that “It’s up to us to make it like it used to be.” That is to say, if you want to live in a good neighborhood, start by being a good neighbor.

This discussion comes at an opportune time for me. It’s getting warm here. We have a big front porch on our house that we share with our housemates, and we’ve been spending a lot of time on it recently. A young family just moved into the house next to us, and the mom is an acquaintance of mine. We’ve started inviting them over to “porch sit” with us.

With these recurring words in my head, I started a Facebook group chat for our housemates and new neighbors.  It’s already helped us become closer (and saved one of us from a parking ticket).

But I still don’t know my other neighbors. Who lives across the street? What are the names of their kids? Who lives on the other side of us? What do they even look like?  

As my husband and I consider and work toward buying a home (outside of our current neighborhood), I find myself wondering if it’s worth investing my time and resources into getting to know my neighbors. I hate that I ask myself that—I don’t think I would have, if we were living in the world as it “used to be.” Is it worth forming new relationships if we might leave soon? Would my neighbors invest in me if they knew I was leaving? I think about my other Fellows, many of who are in communities or neighborhoods they won’t stay in after this year, and wonder if they feel the same way. Do their communities feel that way about them? What is the balance of forming relationships that you know will soon change, with people you know will soon leave?

As I mull over these questions, I’m also reminded that it’s up to us to make the world we want to live in. I want to live in a world where people are kind and considerate, and where they enjoy fellowship with one another and look out for one another. For however long they’ll be around, I want to enjoy fruitful friendships with them that will let us help each other grow. So, I guess it’s up to me to initiate them.