By Rebecca Wells

Since the release of Vance’s book, I have grappled with his portrayal of the Appalachian community. His voice, often derogatory and rooted in stereotypes, does not represent the daily life of the people he writes about. Vance only visited Appalachia, as his family left the area for opportunities in Ohio, yet he speaks as if he understands the depth and nuances of our lives.

Vance’s narrative, much like the carpetbaggers of old who sought to exploit rather than understand, does not represent me, my community and I hope he does not represent my country. His story is a disservice to the loving, giving and resilient people who truly define my Appalachian upbringing.

The heart of my hillbilly heritage

Growing up in the hills of Kentucky, my life was shaped by a tapestry of rich traditions, loving family bonds, and the rhythms of nature. The stereotypes that have often been cast upon my community fail to capture the essence of our true spirit, one that is rooted in love, resilience and a deep connection to the land and each other.

Church on Sunday and Wednesday was more than a religious obligation; it was a cornerstone of our community. It was where we gathered to share our joys and sorrows, to find strength in our faith, and to support one another through life’s trials. The melodies of pianos and accordions filled the air, accompanying hymns that spoke of hope and redemption.

Family was at the heart of everything. Mommas, fathers, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins galore formed an unbreakable web of support and love. We celebrated together, mourned together and stood by each other through thick and thin. Our bonds were as strong as the roots of the ancient trees that shaded our homes.

Our days were marked by simple yet profound joys. Lightning bugs and snapping turtles were our companions on warm summer nights, while crossing creeks to get home was an adventure in itself. Our lives were a blend of love, laughter, prayers and tears, each moment a testament to our enduring spirit.

The cycles of nature dictated our work and play. We knew the toil of tobacco planting, smoking, chewing and harvest, and the satisfaction that came from a hard day’s work. We relied on outhouses and carried water from the well, living close to the earth and finding joy in its bounty.

Our faith was expressed in our music, as we sang about the old rugged cross, whiskey and women. These songs told the stories of our lives, capturing the complexity of our experiences and emotions. We honored our grandmothers and grandfathers, both living and past, cherishing their wisdom and keeping their memories alive.

Nature provided for us in countless ways. Briars, gardens and pie pans in cherry trees were part of our everyday landscape, while tomatoes with salt, beans and fat, and fresh cracklins graced our tables. We were raised by the adage “spare the rod, spoil the child,” balancing discipline with tight hugs and kisses on foreheads.

Our gatherings were times of great joy and renewal. Reunions and revivals brought us together, rekindling our sense of community and shared purpose. These events were a celebration of who we were and a reaffirmation of our values.

In all these ways, my hillbilly heritage is a testament to a life rich in tradition, family and faith. It is a story of a community that has thrived through its deep connections to each other and the land, a story that defies the stereotypes and reveals the true heart of our way of life.

Rebecca Wells lives in Salisbury.