Echoes of Appalachia

You ever notice how they want us mad at each other? Not just annoyed—mad. So mad we stop talking. So mad we forget we’ve got more in common than we don’t.

That’s by design.

The folks in charge—the ones with power and money—they know that if we’re too busy arguing over yard signs or who goes to what church, or who uses what bathroom, we won’t pay attention to the real damage they’re doing. They want us shouting at our neighbors while they’re cutting deals behind closed doors. Stripping the land, gutting schools, handing out tax breaks to their friends. They count on us being too distracted to fight back.

And the worst part? It’s working.

Used to be, folks could disagree and still share a meal. Still show up when the well ran dry or the barn needed raising. Didn’t matter who you voted for—what mattered was how you treated people. That’s what counted. That’s what made this place work.

Now, it’s like everyone’s walking on edge. Like there’s a crack running through the middle of town and no one wants to cross it. Some of it’s fear. Some of it’s pride. Most of it’s just noise that got poured into these mountains from the outside—loud, ugly, and hollow.

This ain’t just a culture war. It’s a land grab. A soul grab.

New folks come in and build their dream homes on land their granddaddies never worked. They slap names on cabins like “Rustic Retreat” and pave over the same trails our great-uncles used to haul firewood up. Then they talk about us like we’re part of the scenery—quaint, outdated, in need of fixing. They sell the idea of Appalachia like it’s something they discovered instead of something they moved into.

And if you call it out? They say you’re the problem. Angry. Unwelcoming. Ignorant.

But the truth is, we remember what it was like before they came. Before the gates and the guard dogs. Before the churches had to put up security cameras. Before the coffee shop closed because folks couldn’t agree on whether a rainbow flag meant you hated Jesus.

We remember.

And no matter how hard they try to whitewash the past, the dirt still holds the truth. It remembers who planted it, who bled in it, who prayed over it. This region wasn’t built on hate. It was built on hard work and hand-me-down kindness. It was built by Black coal miners and queer artists, by Native healers and immigrants who picked apples until their fingers split open.

We didn’t always get along. But when things got bad—when the storm came or the fire started—we showed up. For each other. That’s who we are.

That’s what they’re trying to take.

See, if they keep us divided, we won’t notice what they’re stealing. Not just land. Not just jobs. Memory. History. Truth.

They want to sell a version of Appalachia that fits on a bumper sticker. White. Straight. Quiet. Compliant.

But that ain’t the real story. That never was.

So if you feel tired, if you feel like this place is slipping through your fingers—don’t let go. Don’t turn away. Don’t buy into the lie that you’re alone.

Because somewhere out there, a Black farmer is teaching his grandkids how to work the soil. A trans kid is writing poetry in a trailer at the end of a gravel road. An immigrant mother is ladling soup for a neighbor who just lost everything. A Cherokee elder is still calling the mountains by their real names.

They haven’t gone anywhere.

And neither have we.

We don’t need saving. We don’t need rebranding. We need each other. We need the kind of stubborn, quiet love that kept this place alive through every hard winter and every bad year. The kind of love that says, “You don’t have to look like me for me to stand beside you.”

Appalachia ain’t what they say it is.

It’s deeper. It’s messier. And it’s ours.

Let’s keep fighting. Let’s be friends again. Let’s be neighbors again. But most of all, let’s be human again.

-Tim Carmichael