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WE NEED TO KNOW KY. HISTORY, HEROES
With the dawn of each new year, we tend to look back. However, our society's idea of looking back seems to be putting on shows like "The Year's Best Dresses" or other superficial best-of lists. And, our attention spans are pitiful. For Christmas, my wife and I received a Trivial Pursuit game -- the '90s Version. Seems a little soon to be asking trivia questions about the movie Titanic and Monica Lewinsky. This bothers me. One thing in particular that bothers me is that my children will grow up knowing more about people like Lewinsky than about the history that happened in their own backyard. Sure, the intern led to an impeachment, but is that any more important (or even as important) as what has happened here in Kentucky? I recently leafed through my fourth-grade daughter's Kentucky history book, and I was amazed by what was not in there. One thing that struck me immediately is that the eastern part of the state got about 20 pages while the Bluegrass section garnered more than 100, but I should be used to that. Eastern Kentucky has always been the state's red-headed stepchild. But the thing I simply could not fathom was that there was no mention of the Widow Combs. To my mind, Combs embodies the very best of being a Kentuckian, holding more dignity in her little finger than most of the politicians we sometimes seem to worship. I'd bet cash money that many of you reading this paper don't know who Combs is. And it's not your fault. It's the fault of Kentucky history books, the fault of families not passing stories down the way we ought to, the fault of a system that glorifies adulterous governors but overlooks the real people: those who are mostly quiet and work like dogs -- the everyday heroes you never hear about. So let me tell you about one of them. In the 1960s, broad-form deeds allowed coal companies to mine land even if they didn't own the surface rights. People were tired of this, and the revolutionary spirit that was hovering over all of America was stirring here, too. However, protest didn't completely bloom until two days before Thanksgiving 1965. That day, Ollie Combs, who became known as "The Widow," climbed a steep hillside at her home in Knott County and stood before a strip-mining bulldozer. I imagine her there almost like that young man who stepped out in front of the tanks in Tiananmen Square (hopefully everyone remembers him and that moment of pure, beautiful defiance). Fearing that chunks of earth would fall onto her home, she stood in protest of the coal company, and she was arrested for it. She was 61. Two officials carried her off the mountain, and she was sentenced to 20 hours in jail. Her arrest was reported on the front page of The New York Times and on the major networks' newscasts. Louisville-born Bill Strode, who captured the arrest on film, won the Pulitzer Prize for his photographs. (He was also thrown in jail because he refused to give up his camera.) Three days after her arrest, Gov. Edward T. "Ned" Breathitt, prompted by the national outrage, urged strip and auger mines to hold off using broad-form deeds in Kentucky. Combs spoke before the state legislature and became a folk hero of the day. Inspired by her courage, Breathitt pushed the General Assembly to pass one of the nation's strictest mining laws, but this wasn't widely enforced, so Breathitt kept fighting. Eleven years later, a federal law was enacted. Combs was invited to the White House for the bill signing, but she didn't receive her invitation until the day of the event. She died in 1988. We should remember this woman. And we should remember all the other people who performed similar acts of defiance and bravery in our state. It looks like the history books aren't going to record it, so the responsibility falls to us, to pass these stories onto our children. We need to tell stories about this instead of talking about Jennifer Lopez's dress. Because, sometimes, we need to take action, the way the Widow Combs did.
E. KENTUCKIANS' ACCENT PART OF MOUNTAIN HERITAGE
When I was in elementary school, a teacher tried some ethnic cleansing on me and my classmates. She insisted that we lose our accents. Some of the kids listened to her and were changed forever. I didn't. I knew, even then, that if I consciously changed the way I talked, I would lose a piece of myself. Through the years I've faced plenty of prejudice because of my accent and because of where I'm from. As an Appalachian, my accent announces my roots in as big a way as the color of my skin announces my race. I can't count the number of times someone has said, "Talk for me," and then turned to a friend and said, "Isn't it charming?" I never know if the "it" they're referring to is me or my accent. Not one but three academics have accused me of being a racist, a homophobe and a misogynist before ever meeting me. They formed their opinion because they had heard I was from Eastern Kentucky. One of them told a colleague to not trust me because I was "obviously a fundamentalist. They all are down there." In short, we hillbillies are judged because of the way we talk and because of where we were raised. I've met thousands of people, and the examples represent maybe 5 percent of them. Most people don't judge you based on your accent or where you're from. Good, smart people judge someone based on what he says instead of how he says it. I've had all this on my mind recently because I heard about a workshop being taught at the Mountain Arts Center in Prestonsburg. The ad reads this way: "Masking the Appalachian Dialect: A Course in Accent Reduction is designed for potential drama students and others in grades six through 12 ... cost is $80." I know that actors have to be chameleons. A close friend of mine is a working actor who has appeared in several movies. He would be the first to tell you that an actor has to do everything in his or her power to get work, to be perfect for the role. Most actors don't bring home that $20 million paycheck we hear so much about. Most of them are hard-working, incredibly disciplined and passionately dedicated. However, this workshop bothers me because it specifically targets children and young adults; 12 to 18 is an impressionable age. I wonder if part of the workshop will be dedicated to explaining to these kids that it's essential they not completely lose their accents. Of course it won't. And will someone tell the participants that being intelligent is shown through what you say rather than how you pronounce a particular word? Everyone should use correct grammar, but you can do that with an accent. Most likely, the workshop also will not tell students that people will judge them based on their being from Kentucky and the South even more than the way they talk. Does this mean acting hopefuls should lie and say they're from California or New York? Where does one draw the line on losing himself? Yes, an actor has to be able to fit the role. Most of all, they have to be great actors. Some of them accomplish that by changing their accent constantly (Meryl Streep) or by rarely leaving behind their Southern accent (Sissy Spacek). I'm fully aware that actors have to work with different accents. But I would think that this workshop would be more suitable for working adult actors -- not children who are just beginning to develop their sense of self and identity. Early adolescence is a bad time to mess with a person's sense of who he is. Workshops like these teach children that the way they speak is wrong. I'm sure the workshop leaders had good intentions, but they are misguided. We should be leery of anything which in any way hints that our accent is something to be ashamed of. That's really what this workshop is saying, after all. Were the Kennedys ever asked to lose their accents? No, and I'll tell you why: They had money. An Appalachian accent is connected to poverty, and that's why people think it's bad. If this workshop was on how to lose an African-American dialect, there would have already been lawsuits. And no, I'm not saying African-Americans are litigious, or comparing the hardships suffered by African-Americans to those of Appalachians. But I am saying that African-Americans and Appalachians are both ethnic groups. An ethnic group is defined as "a sizable group of people sharing a common and distinctive racial, national, religious, linguistic or cultural heritage." If being Appalachian doesn't fit that, I don't know what does. Which brings me back to my point that encouraging people to lose their accent is a form of ethnic cleansing. And it's wrong. And it sure shouldn't cost $80 to chip away at your heritage.
PROTECT E. KY. LIVES, ROADS FROM OVERWEIGHT TRUCKS
A bill that would have legalized the weight limit on trucks hauling gravel and other natural resources at 60 tons (an increase from the 40 tons now allowed under state law) failed in the House of Representatives last week. Sounds good. But what about the coal trucks that are already allowed to carry 60 tons on our roads? The bill's supporters claim that changing the law would allow trucks carrying non-coal loads such as gravel, dirt and sand to be more productive. It's very interesting that the House struck down a bill that would allow road-building materials to be hauled when coal trucks have been allowed to carry such huge loads since 1986. Why are coal trucks allowed such big loads in the first place? I can't help thinking that it has something to do with the fact that rural Kentucky roads are the major thoroughfares for coal trucks, while trucks carrying road-building supplies might be more likely to travel the roads of urban districts. Rural people need good, safe roads as much as anyone else. Seems like the message to us is that we're just lucky to have an economy, so therefore we should feel OK releasing our children out on the roads where coal trucks loaded with 60 tons -- or more, since they often appear to be overloaded -- zoom around winding roads. I may be wrong, but I wonder if this bill was struck down because people in Lexington and Louisville would be affected by it? It seems that way. Initially the Senate voted the bill through, but only after exempting the streets of Lexington and Louisville from overweight trucks carrying any kind of cargo. Why exempt those cities but not my county seat? Do people in Lexington and Louisville deserve safer roads than people in London or Hazard or Morehead or Middlesboro? Still, it's not the fault of people who live in urban areas. It's the fault of the representatives who have been elected by rural people. Supporters of the overweight bill said that it would help all districts in Kentucky, but especially the rural districts. Yes, allowing coal trucks to carry 60 tons instead of 40 helps more coal to be pumped out of the region. But it sure doesn't help our roads any. A 12-mile stretch of U.S. 25 between London and Corbin was under construction for months. In the end, there were some new turning lanes, and sections had been resurfaced. Not even a month after the road had been redone, large holes had been stamped out by overloaded trucks hauling coal, road-building supplies and timber. A sign on either end of the recently completed construction announces that the project is supported by our tax dollars. Well, our tax dollars didn't do much good, because U.S. 25 isn't a bit better now than it was before. Many people would even say it's worse. It's a mess of potholes, cracks and crumbling shoulders. One reason is that our tax dollars aren't being used to enforce the existing weight limits. It's not only coal trucks, either. I have news for Kentucky legislators: Trucks are already carrying 60 or more tons of sand and rock and soil. Weigh stations exist on Interstate 75 and are easily avoided by using Ky. 25, since the department of transportation doesn't bother to patrol the back roads. Naturally, this only makes for more road damage. When word of the overweight bill began to spread, the Herald-Leader ran an article, "Heavy trucks could enter cities." The headline seemed to have a note of breathless panic about it, as if it was unbelievable that such an injustice could be visited upon urban areas. Rural counties have been putting up with it for years. I'm glad the bill failed, but I also wish that the coal trucks would have to revert to lesser loads, too. And I wish that the load limits were actually enforced on Kentucky's back roads. How often have you seen an overweight truck pulled over except on an interstate? I never have. I'm all for independent truckers making as much money as they can. They are among the hardest-working people in the state. But state government should regulate overweight trucks and lower the already too-large limit of 60 tons for coal and 40 tons for other kinds of loads. Too many people have already been killed by overweight trucks that are unable to brake in proper time or that turn over on steep curves. The family of the Rev. Lonnie Preece knows all about that. Preece was killed last week when a coal truck hit his pickup truck head on. Police say that the truck was carrying nearly twice the allowed weight. This is only one example. Anyone who lives in Eastern Kentucky can give you plenty more. That wreck happened on Ky. 40, a winding mountain road in Martin County. I have to wonder whether there would have been more outrage if such a thing had happened on a major thoroughfare in Lexington.
DEVASTATING VIEW FROM THE MOUNTAINTOP
Coal mining is a part of me. My grandfather lost his leg in the Leslie County deep mines in the 1940s. When he was able, he went back into the mines and worked 20 more years. My Uncle Sam was in a mining accident that left him branded by a coal tattoo across his left cheekbone. I can recall my Uncle Jack coming home from the mines with the coal dust so thick in his lashes that it looked as if he had applied mascara. They all loved their jobs. Mining allowed them to rise out of poverty. I am proud of my grandfather's lost leg. Proud of my uncle's coal tattoo. They are symbols of determination and hard work. But slowly, my love for the industry turned to a love-hate relationship. When I was a teenager, there was a strip mine directly across from our house. We breathed the dust and listened to the groan of machinery for more than a year. I spent long hours on the ridge above the mines, watching and mourning the loss of the woods and rolling pasture I had played in all my life. It wouldn't have been so bad if the land had been treated respectfully. But it wasn't. Trees were thrown aside like useless things. The good topsoil was buried beneath clay and rock. Still, I knew that coal mining was an important part of our economy. A couple of years ago, I got my first glimpse of mountaintop removal --in which the summit of a mountain is removed to extract coal -- along Ky. 80 in Knott County. The mountain that just the spring before had been crowded with a thousand redbuds was now a barren plateau dotted by shoots of brown grass and struggling saplings. Late last month, 14 writers met on Lower Bad Creek to view active mountaintop removal. These were writers who are widely known and those who are just starting out, all Kentuckians, and all concerned citizens. We walked through a healthy forest near the mining and viewed the wealth of herbs, plants, trees and water that was being threatened on all sides. We looked down on a strip mine. We drove through the valley and saw plateaus that had once been mountains on either side of us. We drove 20 miles to Hindman. I counted eight mountains that had been removed along the road. Gone forever. Some were still dusty, noisy messes of bulldozers and exposed coal seams. Others had been reclaimed, but I saw no evidence of healthy forests or fertile pastures there. The sites are usually in isolated areas where as few people as possible can see them. Since the coal industry's major defense is that it's providing much-needed flat land for development, I wonder how many people are going to drive the winding, crumbling roads into places like Lower Bad Creek to shop or build homes on subdivided land. Not many, I assume. At a town meeting in Hindman, we were greeted by a standing-room-only crowd of people who had come to share the stories of their experiences with mountaintop removal. These people live with mountaintop removal every day; they are a part of the land. It is their stories that matter. Clinton Henshoe told of the blasts that went off every two hours throughout the sleepless nights. One of his neighbors told me that his grandchildren wouldn't even come to stay with him because they were afraid of the blasts. "They think the house is going to get swallowed up," he said. A young woman lives on a road so damaged by coal trucks that ambulances aren't able to reach the older people who live there. Several people told of reporting damage to government officials, only to be told that the flooding, damaged foundations and polluted air were all "acts of God." One woman complained about the mining near her so much that the company offered her 150 times the amount her property had been appraised for. "But that's our family land," she said. "We've worked that land for over 100 years. Our sweat and blood is in it." There were tales of water that ran red as blood with sulfur. "Our water smells like rotten eggs. I can't drink or cook with it," Erica Urias said. "My husband is a diabetic and goes through about 2 gallons of water a day. We have to buy that. But I can't buy enough water to bathe my child." A man drilled five wells over the last year because the mining blasts caused every one of them to go dry. Story after story was told about valley fills, which are created when huge amounts of earth, rock and unwanted coal and trees are dumped into valleys, causing widespread flash flooding. When mudslides wash out roads, the county's taxpayers pay for the cleanup. "The company don't pay to keep up 1 inch of these roads," John Roark said. "They're getting filthy rich and don't put a dime back into the community." Four mothers who all live on the same stretch of road told of their children killed by overloaded, speeding coal trucks. Ernest Brewer said his property value has plummeted since mining started on his road. He can't even take his two kids outside to play. "If I do, they come in covered in coal dust," he said. "This is a matter of respect." So many stories that it would take an entire section of the newspaper to record them all. So much pain that the entire paper couldn't contain it. None of these people were there with a vendetta against the coal industry. They were there because they wanted their stories taken to a larger audience. They were there because they care about their children and their grandchildren and because the land is a part of them, too. On hearing these people tell their stories, the authors were all emotionally devastated. The president of the Kentucky Coal Association said we were reacting with an "emotional tirade." If the good people of Kentucky could see the ravaged mountainsides and haggard citizens we saw, they'd be emotional, too. I don't see how anybody could witness the pain in their fellow human beings' faces and voices without being emotionally affected by it. I don't think there's anything wrong with getting emotional when my fellow Eastern Kentuckians are being done wrong. Or when I see the land I love being abused. Everyone should be emotional about such things. It is mind-boggling that the whole nation is talking about Alaska being drilled for oil, yet no one cares that Appalachia has been systematically scalped for the last 28 years. And the speed with which that is happening is increasing daily. As one woman at the town meeting said, "I don't care what anybody says, the Arctic Circle isn't a bit more worthy of respect than my mountains." I am not against the coal industry. Coal was mined for decades without completely devastating the entire region. My family is a part of that coal-mining legacy. But mountaintop removal is wrong. The worst part of all is that mountaintop removal actually takes jobs away from the region, since it takes many more men to deep mine a mountain than it does to strip it and remove it. In mountaintop removal, machines do most of the work. A document prepared by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency states: "Although coal production remains high ... new technology has reduced the need for coal miners." If mountaintop removal is banned, there might actually be more mining jobs for the hard-working people of Kentucky. Besides that, the proper respect might be returned to the spirit of the land and its people. I love Kentucky. I love the mountains. But even more than that, I love the people who live in this place with me. Their stories haunt me.
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