[upbeat jazz music] - So we're gonna be talking today about the book "Appalachian Reckoning: A Region Responds "to Hillbilly Elegy."

I want to start, whenever there's a room filled with people, I like to ask this question.

How many of you read "Hillbilly Elegy?"

Wow, okay.

Then we'll have a great conversation.

So I was lucky to co-edit this collection with Tony Harkins.

We worked together with West Virginia University Press to bring together a really diverse group of voices, and I'm happy to have three of the contributors here today.

How did we feel about the book "Hillbilly Elegy?"

- I actually enjoyed it very much.

That grandmother was my grandmother in Puerto Rico.

A feisty woman who fought for her family.

That resonated very much with me.

It was a story of a family and the good and the bad of family, and I felt really close to that story.

- The problem I think for a lot of people with the book is not that part of it, but what comes after.

So he sort of extrapolates from his own experience and makes these very big, generalized claims about a whole region.

And there are some pieces in the collection that talk about even the pronoun shift from talking about I and my experience to talking about we and us, that become really problematic.

But I think what's interesting, and I think what the book tries to get at, and the reason that there's been such a kind of rich and complicated conversation after is that, a lot of us want to understand, not just Appalachia, but these places that are sort of hidden, you know.

They're tucked away.

And it's easy to read his book I think, and think, yeah this must be true, it sort of feels right in a way, that I realize when I read about other places in the world, and it feels right.

I'm like, yeah that makes sense, but I have to step back and think wait, that's way too easy.

And so I think his book has a really emotional punch that he then sort of carries over into these pseudo kind of academic claims that become then a little hazy and complicated for a lot of us.

And I think that's where we sort of push back, is that second part of the book.

- Yeah and I think too, what he does, I mean Jeremy really captured what to me was hard about the book, and also what Ricardo said.

I mean, his story, his personal story I think is really compelling, it's clearly very compelling.

A lot of people enjoyed reading about his experiences, for whatever reasons.

That shift, the I to we, I had an issue with, but also what he's saying, the reason I think he's positioning himself is, that's what I really had a problem with.

The way that he is kind of blaming the victim, and saying that, people in Appalachia are just this way, and there's nothing that you can do about it.

He says at some point, we created these problems, we got ourselves here, we'll get ourselves out.

And that is, in contrast to, if you look at activists in the area, there is a lot of argument against what he's saying in that book.

There is a lot of evidence that people are really trying to fight to change things, and are not complacent.

So that to me was another issue that I had with the book.

- Okay, well then I will be honest and say I have not read "Hillbilly Elegy," and you might wonder, why am I in this book?

[laughs] It's called "A Region Responds to Hillbilly Elegy."

I think it was in the summer of 2018, Meredith put out a call for a collection on Appalachian voices.

And as I say in the piece, I had tried to write the story that's in this collection many years ago when I was a creative writer at Miami of Ohio.

I did my Master's degree there.

And I just kept trying to tell this story about my grandmother's suicide attempt.

And of course I didn't know all of it at that time.

It took a while for me to get all of the information.

And as I kept sharing it with my friends, they'd say, have you read "Hillbilly Elegy?"

You know, there's some really interesting similarities, [laughs] and I said, no.

And I wasn't really interested.

And I know I'm still not, but then what happened was, [laughs] [audience laughs] I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Anyway, I have not yet heard a compelling argument for why I should.

Meredith put out this call, and apparently around about the same time, Tony Harkins was putting together a collection of critical work about "Hillbilly Elegy," and West Virginia University Press about six months later said, we're gonna put these things together, because they're doing something really similar.

It's gonna be this really interesting thing.

What I've learned from this experience of reading the book, and being with other contributors, is how varied those voices are, and so, did I have a crazy grandmother in my family like J.D.

Vance?

Well I guess I did, but I wasn't trying to figure that out, I tried to find her story, I wanted to tell her story.

And that's really what got me started writing this piece.

And I didn't just want to leave her as the crazy family member that everybody had said she was, because she wasn't.

You know, she was a victim of domestic violence.

And she made some very hard decisions because of that.

- So this is from the introduction, called "Why This Book?"

"This is a book born out of frustration.

"This is a book born out of hope.

"It attempts to speak for no one and to give voice to many.

"This is a book that could have emerged without "'Hillbilly Elegy,' but it was also created "in the explicit context of a post-election, "post-'Hillbilly Elegy' moment.

"It therefore attempts to respond to those who felt like "they understand Appalachia, quote, "'now that they've read 'Hillbilly Elegy.'

"And to push back against "and complicate those understandings.

"It's meant to open a conversation about why that book "struck such a deep nerve with so many in the region, "but it's not meant to demonize J.D.

Vance.

"Instead, the contributors to this book prioritized "focusing on the region, reclaiming some of the talk "about Appalachia, and offering ideas through the voices "of many who have deep, if varied lived experiences "in and of Appalachia."

So the first half of the book is a collection of scholarly responses, kind of complicating some of the claims that Vance makes in the book in speaking from scholarly perspective.

"Part two, 'Beyond Hillbilly Elegy,' features "narratives and images that together provide a snapshot "of a place that is once progressive, haunted, "depressed, beautiful, and culturally and spiritually rich.

"In their broad outlines, they are stories that anyone "could tell, but they are stories told by Appalachians, "grounded in the specific.

"The sound of a vowel, the feel of a tool, "the recipe for cornpone, the name of a school.

"There is no singular focal point to part two, "other than the shared idea that there is no consensus "about Appalachia."

So that's the thing that has been interesting as we've gone around and talked about this book.

There's often this question about what Appalachia is, and there's a desire to have a really clear answer.

And there's an inability to give a clear answer.

So we will hear next from Jeremy Jones, from his piece in the book.

"This is an essay about Ernest T. Bass, "a fictional character on the American TV sitcom, "'The Andy Griffith Show.'

"This is an essay about Ernest T. Bass, "informed by Wikipedia.

"And so this too, is an essay about us, or them.

"This is an essay about Howard Jerome Morris, "a Jewish man born in the Bronx in 1919, "the classically trained Shakespearian actor "who played Ernest T. Bass, and whose entry "on Wikipedia links to a page titled, 'Mountain Man.'

"Quote, 'A mountain man is a male trapper and explorer "'who lives in the wilderness,' unquote.

"When my great-great-great- great-great grandfather "moved into the mountains where I was raised, "the map labeled the area as only the wilderness.

"In a private college full of smart wealthy northeasterners, "someone once heard me speak and called me a mountain man.

"Immediately I saw Ernest T. "'Howdy do to you and you.'

[audience laughs] "I loved Ernest T. more than any character "on 'The Andy Griffith Show.'

"This is an essay about me.

"It's me, it's me, it's Ernest T. "This is an essay about 100 acres in a community "named Fruitland in the Blue Ridge Mountains "of North Carolina.

"Or if you like, this is an essay about a massive region "reaching from Alabama to New York, about how every "single one of the people living in that streak "of the map is a male trapper.

"Not thousands of male trappers, but, like the body "of Christ, we together form male trapper.

"Some an I, some a coonskin cap.

"Ernest T. Bass appeared in only five out of 249 episodes.

"He threw rocks and wanted to find love.

"I loved Ernest T. more than any character "on 'The Andy Griffith Show.'

"My first ancestor to come here to the wilderness "in 1785 grew rich "in part, due to his whisky still.

"He died in the woods, either bushwhacked, "or clumsy at the age of 95.

"I was born surrounded by the houses of my uncles, "and grandparents, and great-grandparents, "and great-great-grandparents in 1981.

"I spent most of my childhood in the woods.

"My first CD purchase was Dr. Dre's 'The Chronic.'

[audience laughs] "Howard Morris picked up a menu of southern accents "while stationed at Fort Bragg during World War II.

"From them, he brought Ernest T. to life.

"Ernest T. appeared on 'The Andy Griffith Show' "first in the episode 'Mountain Wedding.'

"After meeting him, Andy says, "'If you ask me, that Ernest T. Bass "is a strange and weird character.

"I loved Ernest T. more than any character "on 'The Andy Griffith Show.'

"In college one of my classes took a weekend trip "to the mountains.

"On a hike, I left the trail and tiptoed a tree "fallen across a creek.

"I picked my way along the rocks, peeking from the water, "finding sure footing by instinct, "avoiding slick algae "and shaky stones, "so that I could sit by the water "and skip rocks on the other side.

"Two guys started out behind me, "and within a few steps, they'd both slipped "into the cold water.

"'You can't follow him out here,' a girl hollered behind us, "'he's a mountain man.'

[audience laughs] "When I walked into the woods of our family land "as a boy, I became Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett.

"I roamed, carrying a canteen and a fur pouch, "a cap gun and a coonskin hat, "all purchased at Dollywood.

[audience laughs] "I hid in caves of rhododendron, I dropped "down the steep bank of the creek and threw rocks "at unseen enemies.

"I might kill a bear, or I might camouflage my whole being "into the land of my ancestors, and never go inside again.

"Or I might give it up and play Nintendo.

"Quote, 'The life of a mountain man was rugged.

"'Many did not last more than several years "'in the wilderness,' unquote.

"The wilderness my ancestor came upon at the age "of 75 was named Flat Rock.

"Later it became a mountain getaway destination "for wealthy plantation owners in the south.

"Today, New Yorkers build houses and retire here.

"This is an essay about being "from a vast void of desolation.

"To announce his arrival to Mayberry from the mountains, "Ernest T. Bass breaks windows.

"To court women, Ernest T. Bass breaks windows.

"To threaten men, Ernest T. Bass breaks windows.

"To send a letter, Ernest T. Bass breaks windows.

"He is a connoisseur of window-breaking rocks.

"He often, he brings them from home, toting the rocks "down the mountain before he commences "to smashing up the town.

"Town is not a place that can hold Ernest T. "He is a man for wild, uncivilized mountains.

"In Mayberry, he skips through traffic, yelping "and laughing, an escaped monkey "in a tattered vest and big boots.

"He cannot be contained, resisting every social norm "pressed upon him, escaping from lockup as if by magic, "only to appear grinning in his ratty britches "on the street again.

"'You ain't seen the last of Ernest T.

Bass.'"

Thanks.

- And next we'll hear from Ricardo Nazario y Colon.

- So I am not the reincarnation of Ernest T. Bass.

[audience laughs] But I am a Puerto Rican from the Bronx.

[audience laughs] So I like to write about place.

Place is really important to me.

And living in the region, I feel that I have to know about where I am at, and pay honor to that.

And this piece that I wrote for this, for this particular collection, is really about making the invisible visible, and giving voice to people and things that are happening here that other people don't know.

And just something that adds to the many voices that Meredith mentions, and the many stories.

So it's called, "Panning for Gold: A Reflection "of Life From Appalachia."

"The truth in the story of a boy from a sunken place "is that the lives of mountain folk "are more than just Scot-Irish.

"They are a mix of Cherokee defiance "and forgotten African voices.

"Of thin air rich, and sea level poor.

"Of new accents, thick as southern humidity, "who declare their existence.

"On election season, politicos don their timber boots "and red handkerchiefs.

"Many claim salt of the earth roots, "every time they eat a watermelon, "but they never bite the bitterness of the rind.

"Everyone likes a good show, and the politics "of poverty never disappoints.

"On the bestsellers list, you read of the continuous "love affair in the ins and outs of hollers.

"Newly minted shirt tail cousins, and their expert views "write with the intention of a better cheekbone, "pecking at the stitching of a handmade quilt.

"When the election came to town and kicked "over an anthill of fire ants, the spill of people "cried out their only care.

"They coughed up lungs black as the underground caskets "they have hung their hopes upon.

"These coal places lay claims to fathers and sons.

"Few pay attention to the old diseases that gnaw "at the souls of Appalachian folk.

"Deplorable is a prescribed numbness for broken backs "and promises of a better sacrifice.

"It makes way for mutable poverty when panning for gold.

"Amidst the Blue Ridge Mountains, there are remarkable "expressions of life, tapestries woven by generations "that are always on trial by those who amputate hope "from what once was Native land.

"Digesting each day, the unpleasant taste "of yesterday's home buttermilk."

And then, I'd like to read another piece, I think it's self-explanatory.

"It is not the shock or disbelief that has numbed "every hill and dale of my body.

"Nor can I say that these men and women "who might have sheltered for generations hate me.

"I want to forget, but on my best day, the sound "of metal, a vibration on the road, or the smell "of asphalt brings it all back, "and I feel like it's happening again and again.

"Sometimes, no matter how many times I wash my face, "the smell of gasoline remains, and my wrist burns.

"The sensations are overwhelming, and they cling "to me like a deep despair that disconnects me "from this reality.

"And I pray for everything to just pour out.

"With each minute, I learn to survive, even though part "of myself has been stripped, lost.

"My body wakes me at the same time that it happened.

"It is not the headaches or the bellyaches "that make things difficult.

"It is the loss.

"Every night when the moon chases the sun from my sky, "I search the mountain.

"I look in the brooks and under the brush.

"There is shame in my movements now.

"Strangers see the change in me, and choose not to visit.

"And I wonder if they think I am damaged goods.

"In some way, I feel responsible.

"I must have seduced them.

"Perhaps my pristine beauty was too alluring, "and I took it for granted.

"I just wish I could stop feeling dirty, "that my sense of worth was higher, "that every stare was not one of pity, or judgment.

"It's been nearly 90 years.

"And it seems like it will never go away.

"But I've learned not to think about it "every day anymore."

Thank you.

- Next we'll hear from Kristin Squint.

- "Kentucky, Coming and Going: For My Grandmothers."

"Leaving home.

"In the early 1950s, a woman jumps from a bridge "into the Ohio River.

"She is saved by a man who rows a boat from shore "when he sees her jump.

"She is disappointed when she wakes up "on the Kentucky side of the river with weeds "in her hair, because she is still alive.

"The Cincinnati newspaper that reported the story "described the woman simply as a mother of two.

"It mentions nothing of her husband who came home "whisky drunk the night before and tried "to beat her with a baseball bat.

"This scene wasn't new.

"What was new was her 14 year old son "stepping in to stop him.

"That's why she took a taxi cab to the bridge.

"This is a story I've tried to write many times.

"It is not my story, but it is my family's story.

"My mother's people always said she was crazy, "because why would a woman try "to leave her children like that?

"Everybody already knew she drank in bars "and never set foot in a church.

"My father's family never said anything about it, "especially my father.

"He was that 14 year old boy.

"The story that I had always heard, "that Mamaw Hazel was crazy, stayed with me "until I was in my mid-20s and asked her about it.

"She had lived in Florida during my childhood, "and it was only when she moved back to Cincinnati "with her second husband, "to die at home, as she put it, "that I got to know her.

"She is the one who told me about the river weeds "in her hair, and my first Papaw's abuse.

"After our talk, I went to the Cincinnati "Public Library, and read what had been written "about her in the newspaper.

"My father had a horrible fear of heights, "especially crossing the bridge "that connected Newport to Cincinnati, "the one we walked across to go to Reds baseball games "when I was a kid.

"He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, "and never let me stop to look at the water.

"Of course, I didn't know "about my Mamaw's attempted suicide then.

"Later, I realized that even though "it wasn't the same bridge, it was close enough.

"In the years after Mamaw Hazel had tried to commit suicide, "she divorced my first Papaw, remarried a man "who was making a good living as a bookie "in the sin city that was Newport in the 1950s, "and watched her oldest son, my father, "get married at 16 to my mom, who was pregnant "with my brother.

"My parents both quit school.

"And when my father decided that working "in a chicken slaughterhouse was the worst possible fate, "he signed up for four years in the Air Force.

"The pay and the benefits were so much better "than any of his other options, that once his Air Force "tour was finished, he signed up for the Army "and became a career military man.

"Sometime during those early years "in my parents' marriage, Mamaw left Kentucky.

"She and her new husband headed down to Florida "where they could run a hotel together close "to sunny beaches, and a racetrack where "he could continue his bookmaking work.

[audience laughs] "During my childhood, I knew Mamaw Hazel only "from 1950s photographs.

"The picture that I remember most though, "is a headshot, her alone, chin tipped over one shoulder, "cheeks artificially rosy, as is often the case "in old photographs.

"Her nose is thin, her cheekbones well-defined, "her hair is fashionably curled and cropped close "to her neck.

"Her eyes are dusky with the light of laughter, "or maybe mischief shining just beyond the darkness.

"Everyone always said she was beautiful, "and I thought so too.

"When she told me about waking up on that river bank "disgusted to find river weeds in her hair, "I wondered what the man who saved her life thought."

I'm gonna read just a little bit more from a section called "Returning Home," and this is kind of focused more on my father after he retired from the Army.

"In Corbin, we would always stay with my Aunt Nanny "on my first Papaw's side, who claimed she had raised "my daddy, and who had an extensive collection "of salt and pepper shakers filling tall china cabinets, "and table services throughout her kitchen and dining room.

"I would spend hours examining her shaker collection.

"Some were ceramic, some were glass, some were metal.

"My favorite were the realistic looking "ceramic corncob pipe shakers.

"We would always stop at Uncle Coy's on Mamaw Hazel's side, "my dad's favorite relative.

"Uncle Coy is the only member of my family "who I knew had gone to college, earning a degree "in journalism from the University of Kentucky.

"While dad and Uncle Coy reminisced, I thumbed "through the books on his coffee table.

"The one I found both appealing and repelling "and read every time I was there, "was '101 Uses of a Dead Cat.'

[audience laughs] "I knew the book was supposed to be funny, "but it also made me unsure of Uncle Coy, "like there were things about him I didn't understand.

"My dad's favorite stories were about his daddy "taking him fishing on the Laurel River when he was a boy.

"Dad never did take me fishing down there, "but he did take me to Cumberland Falls, "a magnificent crashing of water and light, "the Niagara of the south.

"It was the prettiest place I'd ever seen.

"My dad proudly told me that Cumberland Falls "had a world wonder, its Moonbow, "a spectrum of color visible under the falls "during the full moon.

"I would try to imagine that Moonbow as we made our way "through the Daniel Boone National Forest, "seeing a different version of my dad, "a happier, younger one."

Thank you.

- All right, now I'll read from my piece in the collection which is called "On and On: Appalachian Accent and Academic Power."

"'Let's go around the room and say where we're from.'

"It was my first day in a class "called Experiencing Appalachia, "during my first year of college.

"'Raleigh,' someone said.

"'Just outside of Charlotte,' said another.

"'High Point.'

"The professor continually nodded "as the circle made its way to me.

"Haywood County,' I said.

"Her eyebrows raised in respect.

"My home was only about 100 winding miles from the classroom "in which I was sitting, but Haywood County "suddenly became more than a place to me.

"It was a marker of identity.

"On day one of that class, I learned "that the region's boundaries "had been constantly contested.

"I was told that migratory patterns explained some "of the dialects with the mountains, and I came "to understand that I was Appalachian.

"I knew that I was a mountain girl.

"My family had been in Haywood County for generations, "and one branch of my family tree started or stopped, "depending on your perspective, "when the Cherokee were marched through.

"But I had to take a class called Experiencing Appalachia "to even know that I was Appalachian.

"So after graduation I moved to Boston, and became, "for the first time, an outsider.

"Like so many before me, it took leaving home "to understand it.

"While I was proud of my home, I was also learning "that powerful stereotypes about Appalachia had arrived "in places like Boston well before me, "and had influenced the way "that even the most considerate people thought about me.

"The banjo lick from 'Deliverance' "backed many introductory conversations "when I said where I was from.

"Instead of calling people out for their ignorance, "I distanced myself from Haywood County.

"I laughed along.

"I waited longer and longer before saying where I was from.

"I blended in.

"And it was during this time that I applied "to graduate school.

"During visits to prestigious universities in Boston, "I actively tried to talk right, to be correct.

"To hide my accent.

"There was this one lingering linguistic marker "that caused me the most panic when I slipped.

"Long after I had attached G's to my gerunds, "and bleached out the local color from my language, "I stumbled over the word O-N. "My mom would tell me to put my coat on, "and those words rhymed.

[audience laughs] "She told me to call her when I was on the road, "and those words rhymed.

"To my Appalachian tongue, O-W-N and O-N "were pronounced exactly the same way.

"But, not for the rest of the world, I learned.

"This reminder that I was not from around here "meant to me that I might not belong "in a Boston graduate school.

"So I learned to use adverbs, I learned "to take my groceries from a buggy and put them in a cart.

"I nearly stopped calling a hat a toboggan.

"I forced my vowels into shape.

"It worked, I got into graduate school.

"I got a PhD, I learned to pass, but I lost my voice.

"And it wasn't until a decade later "that my own repressed voice echoed back "to me in West Virginia.

"Writer and activist Silas House spoke at a conference "addressing the theme of 'New Appalachia,' "urging his audience to bring civil rights issues "for LGBTQ people into our classrooms, our scholarship, "and our conversations in order "to make Appalachia a safer place.

"Then later I stood up to deliver my paper "about the politics of representation in Appalachian film, "and my G's were intact, my vowels stood up straight, "my on was not my own.

"And I felt a powerful loss of my own voice, my own accent.

"Television shows, movies, and cartoons rely lazily "on the assumption that viewers will signify "a southern accent with a lack of intelligence.

"It's still acceptable in popular discourse "to mock rednecks and hillbillies.

"Reality shows exoticize Appalachia as a safer space "to show how the other half live, "without much interrogation of authenticity.

"People say to lighten up.

"It's just a movie, it's just a TV show.

"It doesn't matter.

"But it does.

"It mattered to me as I left home thinking that "the only way to be a legitimate scholar was "to attend college in New England and change my voice.

"I had learned to talk right, but I had gotten it all wrong.

"Now that I have learned to articulate issues "about representation and gender politics, I want "to do so in my own voice.

"To let my vowels relax into the shape "that they wanted to take all along.

"I want to honor the voices that were the soundtrack "to my upbringing, and respond to the calls of Uncle Joe, "Granny, Aunt Lena, Aunt Betsy, Pa, and Mom.

"I want to draw thick that perforated line to my past.

"I want to claim the voices belonging to my people.

"Perhaps with some attention, the voices of the past "will not be lost, but can find a way "to go on, and on, and on."

Thank you.

[audience applauds] [upbeat jazz music] ♪