“You can use those big words and live in the city, but you’ll always be a hillbilly.” I laughed so hard I almost wet myself. My second oldest brother, Brian, said these words to me several years ago. I look back fondly on this statement and still smirk, though my body has mercifully lost its urge to pee.
Yes, I will always be a hillbilly. I cannot change where I come from, nor have I ever wanted to. I often say I come from a place where people sometimes say don’t in place of doesn’t and ain’t instead of isn’t. They also use words like barrellassin’, as in, “he came barrellassin’ down the road and almost tipped the whole truck over rounding the curve. Thank God the snow plow wasn’t on its way up the road too. What a dumbass!”
I’m not from the American South, but I am from one of the northernmost counties of Appalachia, so I suppose some cultural similarities abound. My county of origin is poor, mostly white, and rural. Stereotypes also abound. That the county is a place full of hillbillies is one of them. And as stereotypes go, there are likely numerous examples one could find to “prove” them true. It’s not hard to find the faults you seek in others. But this piece isn’t about stereotypes. It’s about home.
I pedal my bike up the street and stop. If I’m still, I can hear it. The oceanic rustle of a soft breeze through maple leaves. I can smell the mixed scent of lilac, fresh rain, and mud. Sometimes, if the wind shifts just right, a catch of manure sneaks into the mix. I can feel the surge of excitement and endless possibility swell in my chest. It’s springtime in upstate New York, afterall. Summer will soon follow, and if you haven’t seen summer in the Catskills or Finger Lakes, you’re missing a whole vocabulary of ways to describe beauty.
I can feel cold wind and a blazing sun, both boring into my skin. I, too, can be two opposing things at the same time.
I pedal toward home, and when I turn the corner, I see a line of cars. It’s Sunday. Mom made dinner and invited my older siblings, their spouses, and my nieces and nephews. My feet pick up the pace. I want to get home.
When I enter the house, I can feel it. So. Much. Love. “Here comes Wilma!” my sister says. My brother bops my head and pulls me into a warm bear hug. Nieces and nephews are excited to play. No judgment and So. Much. Love. If that’s a hillbilly, I don’t mind always being one.
A hillbilly with a predilection for the city. I can be two opposite things at the same time.
the daily periphery 