The Hillbilly Diaries

Chapter One / Before we begin

            Red neck, white trash, trailer trash, hillbilly, it’s all the same really.  Ha, I bet that statement alone rubs people the wrong way.  But when it comes to our family…  Well, you know what they say about when the shoe fits.  It aint easy putting it all in words.  Specially when you’re raised with the mind set that you don’t tell outsiders your business.  In a lot of ways, we’re just like anyone else, but in a lot of ways we’re not.  I know because I’ve been around.  I’ve spent time in cities like Chicago, Saint Louis, Las Vegas, L.A., and Sacramento.  I’ve seen how the rest of the world moves, how they talk, how they think, how they act.  They think they’re so much different, even a little better.  And some of them are, but usually the ones who think they aren’t are the ones who are, and the ones who think they are, are really the ones who aren’t.  Funny how that kind of works out. 

            Before I get into this sordid tale, I feel it’s important you know who it is telling you.  I aint got no big credentials that are going to convince you that I am an important person or even a superior source of knowledge on the psyche of a hillbilly.  I’m not, so I aint even gonna lie to you. 
          What I am, is descended from a strong line of hillbillies, on both sides of my family, though I don’t associate much with my dad’s side of the tree.  My family hails from the West Virginia and Kentucky area.  My grandma was born and raised in the hollers of Kentucky and her husband, my grandpa, came from West Virginia.  My mama was born and raised in West Virginia and so were my dad and his folks I’m guessin. 
          Interesting fact you might like, my grandma was the granddaughter of Betsy Ann McCoy, and my grandpa was the great nephew of Devilance Hatfield.  That’s right, from the infamous, and completely crazy, Hatfields and McCoys.  My grandpa on my dad’s side was a coal miner in West Virginia and the head of a coal miner union, which was really just a group of hillbillies who fought for their rights as coal miners.  They won some of the very first trials in court when it came to that sorta thing.  I don’t know an awful lot about that all cause like I said, I don’t really talk to that side of the family.  There’s a lot of bad blood between some of us.  It sorta just settled into a silent agreement.  I don’t talk to some of them, and they don’t talk to me.  There are a few of them who I keep minimal contact with. 
           Anyways, before I get lost in that topic, lets get back on track.  The point is, I was raised around people who are full blown hillbillies.  Heck, I am a full blown hillbilly, though I never thought of myself as one.  I was raised in Louisiana instead of the mountains.  Though my grandma once told me that them mountains was in my blood.  I tend to believe her since when I went up there to visit some cousins up there, I loved it so much I was kinda sad to leave.  Something about setting on the front porch of your home in the early morning, when the sky is light, but the sun aint quite up yet, and overlooking the side of the mountain, the tips of the blue-ish green leafy trees that cover the side of the mountain breaking through the morning mist and fog is so hauntingly beautiful it almost hypnotizes you.  I could see myself living there, but my grandma had also warned me about that.  She said it was easy for people to get lost in them mountains.  Not lost as in wandering in and not being able to find your way out.  More like moving up there and never leaving to visit civilization outside of the mountain ever again.  Like a willing decision to disappear from the rest of the world. 
          Being there, I can understand that, but sometimes I wonder why that would be such a bad thing.  See, right there, that’s the hillbilly in me talkin.  I’ve been to college, I earned my degrees, and I can talk with the best of them about business, politics, and socialize without anyone guessing what I am.  Now I know what your thinkin right now after readin that.  If she sounds like she does writing, I’m guessing she is wrong about that.  Not so, you see, I know how to use proper English and if I wanted to I could write this up using proper English, but the fact is, I aint using proper English.  That’s because most of the hillbillies I’ll be telling you about, don’t talk with proper English and if they do, it sounds like they’re trying to reinact an English play and took a Xanax to calm their nerves.  They all have an accent, and I want you to get a feel for it.  When I’m around outsiders, my accent will fade.  But when I’m around family, it seems to resurrect itself just fine. 
          Now when I refer to family, you should know I categorize them into two groups.  One is my “Immediate Family”, which is my mom and all my sibblings.  I have one little brother and three sisters, one older and two younger.  My older sister has four kids, two boys, and two younger daughters.  The other groups is just “Family”, which is basically everyone else related to me.  My grandma had eight kids.  One passed away, but the other seven grew up to have a bunch of kids themselves.  Some of my first cousins are a lot older than me, like around my mom’s age, and have a bunch of kids that are my age.  Even though they’re my second cousins, I feel like they’re first cousins cause we grew up together.  I even call their parents my aunts/uncles instead of cousins because it was a sign of respect since they were my elders.  You’ll read more on them all later.  Right now I guess that’s enough about me.  It’s time to get onto what you’re really here for.

            Now I don’t want there to be any misconception here either.  I aint never said that being a hillbilly is necessarily a bad thing.  Just like anybody else, it’s really about the individual, which leads us further into what I’m gonna be talkin about.  I’m gonna tell you about a great many of individuals.  When I’m finished, you may be horrified, intrigued, disgusted, mortified, angry, sad, amazed, grateful, or maybe laughing at the ridiculousness of all of them.  I guarantee you’ll be something. 
           Just remember, I aint no expert on anything, and it aint easy for me to dish it all because to tell the secrets of the family is taboo.  Like a rat in the Mafia, it aint gonna make you very popular to the people around you.  My own mama would probably kill me for what I’m gonna say, cause with us, you can throw mud all you want if your fightin with each other, but you don’t give outsiders any mud to throw.  Even if you’re so mad at your relative, you wanna kill them, you stand beside them against outsiders cause blood is always thicker than water.  I love my family, and I aint writing this out of malicious intentions.  I just think that after generations of secrecy, the story needs to be told.  It may never be read.  But it needs to be told.