I was like most people I suppose. I grew up in a suburban neighborhood surrounded by cookie cutter houses, ruled by home owner association Nazis, and people so anal retentive about landscape perfection that at least once a month someone suffered a hemorrhage when a dog took a shit in their yard .
My father worked in the city, commuting in his Honda Civic to some desk job no one really gave a damn about. He fit into the a-typical American stereotype about as well as a wombat fits into a blender. He'd moved from the coalfields of Southwest Virginia after graduating high school, avoiding the family tradition of a life spent in the coal mines. His idea was to shed as much of his Appalachian identity as possible to give me and my brother a fighting chance at a better life. He knew we'd have to fit in if we were going to make it and so, he found the most "American" life he could find, putting us smack dab in the middle of a suburban hell hole.
Despite my dad's clean cut appearance, complete with a Hamrick's suit and desperate attempts to muzzle his Appalachian accent, bits of Appalachia seeped out of him like sap from a white pine. My brother and I loved to hear him scare away stray animals. He'd step just outside and yell at the top of his lungs "Git awn outta hyur!" Our lawn always seemed to attract more stray animals than anyone else up and down the neighborhood. Perhaps it was because my brother and I would bring them in just to see dad go batshit crazy trying to get rid of them. He never found out that we hid sandwich meat in the bushes near the back door. It made for some side splitting entertainment until mom figured it out and grounded us from playing on the Sega Genesis.
Dad was dad though, and his heart was big. He still believed in whipping us, but he never liked doing it. More often than not we could be set in line with one syllable, "HYUR!" Unlike most fathers, our dad never said, "Stop that!" or "Quit it!", he would simply bark this one, Appalachian slurred derivative of the word "here" and we freeze instantly. When that didn't work we knew what to expect next...the belt. A lot of our friends parents were strong anti-corporal punishment advocates. Me and my brother would have been to had we not damn well deserved it, and knew we did.
Still he and mom raised us right, giving us a quasi Appalachian raising, Our household was built on the belief that giving came before receiving and in loving thy neighbor, even if he was a complete asshole. No matter how much dad tried to sneak us into the normal world, generations of Appalachian genetics came through, making my brother and I more independent than the rest of our friends and less accepting of American Nightmare we'd been forced to survive in.
My father worked in the city, commuting in his Honda Civic to some desk job no one really gave a damn about. He fit into the a-typical American stereotype about as well as a wombat fits into a blender. He'd moved from the coalfields of Southwest Virginia after graduating high school, avoiding the family tradition of a life spent in the coal mines. His idea was to shed as much of his Appalachian identity as possible to give me and my brother a fighting chance at a better life. He knew we'd have to fit in if we were going to make it and so, he found the most "American" life he could find, putting us smack dab in the middle of a suburban hell hole.
Despite my dad's clean cut appearance, complete with a Hamrick's suit and desperate attempts to muzzle his Appalachian accent, bits of Appalachia seeped out of him like sap from a white pine. My brother and I loved to hear him scare away stray animals. He'd step just outside and yell at the top of his lungs "Git awn outta hyur!" Our lawn always seemed to attract more stray animals than anyone else up and down the neighborhood. Perhaps it was because my brother and I would bring them in just to see dad go batshit crazy trying to get rid of them. He never found out that we hid sandwich meat in the bushes near the back door. It made for some side splitting entertainment until mom figured it out and grounded us from playing on the Sega Genesis.
Dad was dad though, and his heart was big. He still believed in whipping us, but he never liked doing it. More often than not we could be set in line with one syllable, "HYUR!" Unlike most fathers, our dad never said, "Stop that!" or "Quit it!", he would simply bark this one, Appalachian slurred derivative of the word "here" and we freeze instantly. When that didn't work we knew what to expect next...the belt. A lot of our friends parents were strong anti-corporal punishment advocates. Me and my brother would have been to had we not damn well deserved it, and knew we did.
Still he and mom raised us right, giving us a quasi Appalachian raising, Our household was built on the belief that giving came before receiving and in loving thy neighbor, even if he was a complete asshole. No matter how much dad tried to sneak us into the normal world, generations of Appalachian genetics came through, making my brother and I more independent than the rest of our friends and less accepting of American Nightmare we'd been forced to survive in.
