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Thoughts on visiting Margaret Miller in Meat Camp every First and Third Friday for the past Two Years.
This is the House your Father built. On the same road where your grandmother sowed seeds to the pattern of the stars; this is the land where your father planted in the Earth, not on the Moon. Those are the hooks in the fireplace where your mother hung her cast iron cooking pot, this is the kitchen where she fed eleven little mouths. There is the photograph of your oldest brother Marvin. In the hallway where your mother was told her eldest son would not be coming home from that hospital in Statesville; these are the walls that heard her heart break. Here are the stories you give me. On the first and third Friday of every month; these are the rooms where you show me the quilts your mother made, the smooth rocks you carried back from that beach in Canada, and that picture of you with your best boyfriend. This is the House your Father built. On the same road where your grandmother planted hens and chicks; these are the floors that remember your footsteps when your eyes don't see too well anymore. Here is the porch where I tell you goodbye and you tell me you love me; this is the promise I make to myself to comeback to see you again. "Forever taking pictures of mountains" will be carved into the rock above my head when I am laid to rest. I can't help that I am always remembering the structure of my backbone...
Last weekend in Harlan, Kentucky I gathered with folks whose backbone has the same structure as mine at the It's Good to be Young in the Mountains conference to discuss how to stay in Appalachia, and not only how to stay, but to thrive in Appalachia. Last weekend I had the energy of leaving Boone, the energy of being around other passionate young people. Last weekend it felt good to be young in the mountains. Surrounded by so many different kinds of mountain builders it was hard not to hold a vision of tomorrow. However, as a young black man attending the conference pointed out during the closing of the conference, that vision is not complete and we still have a great deal of work to do before we see tomorrow. Tomorrow cannot continue to be a vision of predominately white people, no matter how well-intentioned we are. Because tomorrow looks like understanding that Appalachia is not just in the hills and the hollars, Appalachia is Charleston, Knoxville, Huntsville, and Pittsburgh. And tomorrow? tomorrow looks like momentum... Momentum looks like the drive home from Harlan and a 20 minute conversation with Sam at a gas pump in Virginia about how we can love Appalachia actively and how not to just accept the parts that need to change. But momentum feels like your heart in your throat when a girl says that now she is going to write a poem about how the fire is not dead here.
Last week my dear friend Riko came back to Boone and helped me start a project that is very dear to me and that I have been thinking about for a long time: Portraits of Queer Appalachia. I met Riko when I was fifteen and all the time I've known him he has been a damn mountain builder, he had to be, it ain't easy to be one of the only openly gay people at Watauga High School. Riko is one of the bravest, most intelligent, and kind humans I have ever known and loved, and I am so happy that he came to visit and gave me that nudge to begin this project. Soon I will be adding his story, in his own words, to go along with the photograph. That is how I would like to format this whole project.
So this is an open call to anyone who identifies as LGBTQIA and lives/has lived/grew up/ passed through Appalachia, I want to hear your stories. Submissions can include a story (fiction/non-fiction), poetry, a sentence, a drawing... anything that has to do with the queer experience in Appalachia, I am especially interested in themes of home. Submissions can be anonymous, but if you are willing to have your photo taken please tell me. Submissions can be made to lnmurrey@gmail.com with the subject line "queer appalachia". The weeks you work so hard your bones protest and every part of you feels heavier and your spirit is absent from the automaton that is your physical body, come these windows of presence when that automaton body of yours recalls its heart, and your muscles have missed your lightness like a front tooth, and dammit something has got to give! There is warmth in good company, there is stillness in the evening hours of spring, and there are mountains to be climbed with your best friend (because you know your spine is made from the same rocks and dirt that built those ridges)... damn, something has got to give.
Last week, after less than a month, I lost my job at the Women's Fund of the Blue Ridge. A reminder that sometimes things don't turn out like you would like them to. This week re-ignighted a passion for photography and the place I am from that I have not felt since I was writing my senior thesis at UNCA. I went to the Appalachian Studies Association Conference at East Tennessee State University, it was wonderful and exhausting. I met so many fantastically intelligent people. I had a chance to meet Roger May and his amazing panel of photographers; Megan King, Pat Jarrett, and Kate Fowler, (If you are not following the Looking at Appalachia Project please check it out). Hearing them speak about the project I came to a glorious and terrifying realization: I want to be in Appalachia, I want to go to grad school to study Appalachian Studies, and I want to be a part of Looking at Appalachia through my own photography. Glorious because my heart quivers and quakes with purpose. Terrifying because my worried mind shivers and shakes with the logistics of making that move. Last week, after less than a month, I lost my job at the Women's Fund of the Blue Ridge. This week I didn't care so much.
On Sunday the whole sky was ready to go dancing... Looking at her reflection in the mirror she asked "Remember how we used to dance all night?" Remember how I look all dressed in Pink? Cain't you see how I can still set fire to all those mountains?
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