An Accidental Love Letter to West Virginia

I am typing in Times New Roman font because  that's the standard and I won't chance being one missing serif away from yet another judgment. Little do they know that as I type in my current state—clad in bargain-bin slippers and mismatched pajamas; eyes underscored by sunken-in, darkened half moons; pale face framed by flyaway dead ends—I could fit their narratives like a worn-in camouflage trucker cap.

Who are they? The disparagers of West Virginia. This week, they are represented by Trevor Noah of The Daily Show and John Saward, a writer for Vanity Fair. 

I'm not here to deny humor. There's a lot of fodder tucked into these hills-on-steroids, and since I can take a joke at my (or my home state's) expense, sometimes I'll laugh along. Other times it elicits an eye roll or a yawn or that look you give when the server delivers your vegetarian omelet with bacon sticking out of the side. How do we draw the line between jokes that are okay and not okay? When there's a pileup by outsiders mocking that which they know nothing about. 

This week, the offenses against West Virginia include a tweet and an essay. Neither was inaccurate. Both were incomplete. The tweet, belonging to Mr. Noah, referred to that "West" Virginia, which is "creepy" and gives him the "willies." I'll give him creepy. Backwoods hillbillies can be an acquired taste, with their peek-a-boo teeth, bushwhacked grammar, and indifference to big-city life forces like manicured brows and Balmain boots. 

Or is it that hillbillies are simplistic in a way most of us fear because it'll take us too far away from our life-affirming nouns: People, Places, and Things that we've been conditioned to believe matter more than plain old l-i-v-i-n-g. Hillbillies know how to scour forest floors for the mushrooms that won't kill you and the ginseng that can bring in a pretty penny. They know how to shoe horses; tell hilarious stories about Ex-lax brownies and barroom bloopers; whittle knife handles out of deer antlers; make a mean pot of potatoes and green beans (high five in heaven to my Grandma).

Not all of us West Virginians are brave enough to be hillbillies. Some, like me, have a taste for the city.  Some are university scholars who've exposed shady doings by companies like Volkswagon. Some have written successful books, like Jarhead and The Good Earth and The Glass Castle. Some dedicate themselves to community action. One West Virginian is Steve Harvey. Another is Jennifer Garner. 

Listing accomplished residents and expounding upon the wonders of hillbillydom won't matter, will it? Outsiders will still savor the easy jokes and caricatures, won't they.

I'd wager that Trevor Noah has never been to West Virginia. Come see us, Mr. Noah. You can still call us creepy afterward. At least then it'll be substantiated by experience.

As for John Saward, esteemed Vanity Fair contributor: His essay, while nicely crafted, was disappointingly myopic. Like I granted Noah his chosen adjective, I'll grant Mr. Saward his depictions. They weren't inaccurate. We have our gun toters, pot-bellied purveyors of amalgam meats, belligerent blue collars, and accidental career waitresses. We have those who think liberals are the clarion call for the demise of civility and those who believe what's missing from government is God. These are West Virginians as put to the page by Mr. Saward. As pages (whether print or online) lack dimension, so do these depictions. 

Unlike Mr. Noah and Mr. Saward, I know West Virginia and its people. While the adventures of my life—along with an intrinsic urge for critical analysis and revolt—have redrawn the districts of my mind, I haven't forgotten from where I came: I am one-half East View hellraiser and one-half Glen Elk greaser. I am a child of holler hijinks, BB gun battles, crab apple crunching, and Alabama sing-alongs. I am a creative spirit and an eternal thinker. All of me is a product of West by God Virginia. And I can't in good conscience forego defending West Virginia's people and places that Saward, with creative license, obliquely dismissed. His interviews in Morgantown especially show he was disinclined to explore the diversity that exists here. Had he looked not very far at all, he would've found bright and progressive minds in my city's restaurants, coffee shops, small businesses, and university classrooms.

West Virginia is a place from which I ran like hell during my angsty 20s and early 30s.  South Beach and New York City and Memphis took me far away from my home state's confines, both literal and figurative. When I returned in my 30s to my hometown of Clarksburg (highlighted in John Saward's Vanity Fair piece), I wasn't fully reformed. In a small town that had been ravaged by drug addiction and joblessness, I felt frustrated and alienated. So I left again, if only 45 minutes away to Morgantown, where the trappings of a thriving college town were a better fit. 

This week's dose of stereotyping on the national stage—courtesy of two men who sought confirmation bias rather than knowledge—called me to speak up for my home state and the people who are fiercely proud to live in it. 

West Virginians are what you think and what you see. And they are more. Much more. In short, West Virginians are just like you.

Thanks for the opportunity, guys.