Going Home

I grew up as a coal miner's daughter in a small Kentucky town. A lot of my writing revolves around that time and place, but it centers itself in family. Perhaps my next project should tackle head on the mixed feelings I have about the community.

My memories of school and classmates are painful. I was an awkward child. Many of the residents of the area regarded my family as a little strange. We kept wild animals as pets. We enjoyed playing in the fields and the woods much more than we did participating in sports or band or clubs. We weren't very civilized. We didn't have a lot of social graces. I was extremely shy and I got pushed around a lot. I remember the bullies that moved through my childhood much more vividly than I remember the good people.

I worked for my aunt in her restaurant in town and I have fond memories of the people who frequented her place. I discovered a piece of myself there. I learned how to make conversation with strangers. I learned how to smile even when I wanted to throw things. It was the first time I ever felt like part of the community. I grew up a little. I need to re-connect with that space and the people who passed through those doors. There was more good there than I let myself think about, but my insecurities still control my filter.

I married and moved away from there when I was 21 years old. I felt giddy with the opportunity to figure out who I was, instead of letting those other voices tell me everything they found wrong or laughable about me. My brother died and I went home for the funeral. I had two children. I took them to my parents for holidays. I got divorced. My aunt's restaurant burned. I went back to school. I got a PhD. My parents died. I stopped going back. I have a sister and a brother who still live there. I love them, but we've grown apart.

Now, my sister is urging me to reach out to the community, to let them know about my writing. She wants me to try to connect and schedule a poetry reading and book signing there. She wants them to know that, like my father, I am also a writer. She is proud of that. She is giving me all these numbers of people to contact who might make that engagement happen. I keep making excuses. The truth is, I'm afraid. I was never "good enough" before. I learned a sense of shame and inadequacy in that little town. I spent years trying to rise above it and gain confidence. I only partially succeeded. I don't want to lose the little that I've gained.

I'm much older now. I'm a different person. The members of the community are different, too. This is silly. Isn't it? The worst that can happen is that I'll be told no one is interested in my work or my life. That won't change my work or my life. Will it? I am stronger than this. I am better than this. I have faced and transcended many frightening and devastating life events. This is nothing. Maybe I'll try some of those numbers next week. Maybe.