BLAC Story Map

After I came here, as a pastor at First Baptist Church, everybody that knew me from Atlanta, I would meet at national conventions. They’d say, ‘Where are you?’ ‘I’m in First Baptist.’ ‘Oh, yeah, that’s in Virginia?’ I said, ‘No, that’s in West, by God, Virginia.’ Part of the identity crisis that Black folks have when they travel is being confused with being labeled as part of Virginia. And there is a uniqueness about that.

The other thing—the power of stories, particularly in this area, is one that is unique across the board, in terms of how Appalachian stories just have that kind of unique character because of where it takes place. Why it takes place, and it also reveals three very important things in terms of how social institutions, educational institutions, have shared a common fate. And that is, what is the cause of that initiation? In terms of how they got started? What is the measure of the impact in terms of that intention for getting started? And when you look at Black institutions, like West Virginia State College now, and then other Black institutions that have developed in the West Virginia context, you can really see the connection and how this has been a part of its history. And how the current conversation and focus on it is really saying something that has been known for a long time but had not been exposed in terms of the President of the Charleston branch of the NAACP. And when the NAACP started, it was initiated by the Niagra Movement, which took place in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. One of my predecessors at First Baptist Church in his lineage is from a church founded in a town outside of West Virginia where Booker T. Washington taught high school and also where he was raised. So that was the kind of connection that has been a part of why I have been intrigued with this place.

Part of the reason I decided to stay in this space is that the continuous learning experience has come from being here. When I came here in 1972, the Triangle District was just being destroyed. And I didn’t know the story behind the Triangle District until after I had been here a while. Some people talked about the cultural impact on the development and the destruction of the African American community in Charleston and the extended effects on West Virginia. 

Because I was a pastor in First Baptist, I saw the four-way interstate highway system of 64 and 74 running through the heart of downtown. At first, I thought that that was a great thing because it’s one of the unique spaces and places where I have seen a highway system running through the city’s heart. But then I came to know how that had impacted the community because I had members who had been residents of that community and had talked about how vibrant that community was. From the standpoint of socialization, clubs, and Black entrepreneurship there. Even the relationship between the police and the community. There were police officers who became legends in that community because of how they looked out for that community and how they looked out for them. And that’s the kind of connection we’re trying to get with police officers now.

So many things were going on that intrigued me about the Triangle District. They only became enriched by coming to awareness of the story of that district and the impact in terms of how it destroyed the spirit. But how, in situations like that, there is a spirit that cannot be denied. That cannot be defied but often become resurrected. And succeeding situations where the legacy of that story has a fresh impact.

One of the great lessons of history was how the disruption of the Triangle was preparing the space for the mall. And now you look at the mall’s space and see there’s plenty of space in the mall. And it reminds me of one of the great lessons of history, the mills of God grind slowly yet exceedingly fine. And there is an arc in the moral universe that brings about that kind of illustration of what happens when that process decimates people to expand land that comes from taking land. And we know that, in this country, Malcolm often reminded us that the primary movements that have impacted the American system of enterprise and politics have always been about land. I mean, that’s why we were brought here, to cultivate the land for the production of tobacco and those kinds of things. That’s the first thing that hit me; how biblically that’s grounded in a fundamental truth about the universe. 

Secondly, Reverend Howard Carter, the Shiloh Baptist Church pastor, was walking distance from Charleston. And when he discovered that I came here and where I was from, he was the first pastor I met. We bonded and, as far as our allegiance to social change and those kinds of issues, he was already grounded and became my tutor. When the garbage workers’ strike took place in Charleston, it took root, taking its lineage from the garbage workers’ strike in Memphis. I kind of got drawn into it, not by the NAACP, because they were not active in that struggle, but by the union. And so the leadership of the union got in touch with me, by way of Reverend Carter, so Reverend Carter and I wound up sitting overnight in a movement at the Charleston Mayor’s Office. 

I just remember how much fun we had just participated in that movement that was intended to deal with equal wages, wages for those garbage workers, and that was kind of intended to the movement that Dr. King had led. So that’s how we met. And so it was no surprise to me that he had already had and was kind of standing alone. Because he was not a native of Charleston, he came here to pastor that church. And therefore, he and I were sharing common ground, being new to the city at the time of this particular transition. And so, we became connected by way of that struggle. And I just, I just kind of appreciated how that clips show his commitment. And it also shows how the leadership, ground roots leadership in Charleston, was a part of the Triangle District.

So it wasn’t the President of the Charleston branch of the NAACP or any other predominantly Black organization that took leadership in that movement. The ground roots folk in the neighborhood connected because of that connection in the Triangle District, saying, ‘We are not going to sit down and take this. We know that this is something that we must bind ourselves.’  And when you look at the direction of the city, and how there has been often notions about how Black folks don’t get along, and all that, that was one of those situations where the binding and the bonding in the struggle really reveal the sources of leadership in the community, however, not dependent on outside forces to raise the issue. And raise it in such a way that it got attention; even though it did not get the desired results, it made a significant impact on the leadership of the community that is still present.

First of all, let me say, as Bishop Dinkins said, I was a firefighter for 29 years. I retired as an assistant fire chief. I’ve been in the city of Warren for most of my life, and I’m a pastor and also a part of the clergy. So I wasn’t born here, but I was raised here, and I’ve been here long enough to see how things have evolved and how things are done for the better, and some not so good. 

And if I could just give a brief history about Warren: it started off as an industrial city, to where we had all the factories, the steel mills, the aluminum factories, the old Packard Electric. It was flooded with factories, so many people came here for job opportunities. And I was looking over some statistics. At our highest level—so we’re a small community, but we were flourishing at one time—at our highest level, we reached the population of 63,000, and that was in the 1970s. And once the steel industry took a downward turn, the population has been steadily declining, and the progress that African Americans and others have made in the city of Warren and its neighboring communities, that progress seems to have evaporated now because Warren as a whole doesn’t have very many opportunities. 

I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and things have changed. And I might be all over the place, but as things come to my heart and mind, I just want to be able to share them, and I’m sure a lot of people can relate to them. But I remember growing up and having grocery stores—little, small stores, like three or four stores in the neighborhood, right in the immediate neighborhood, where you could buy eggs and milk. I remember having gardens just decorating our community. We had gardens. Our neighbors had gardens. You could get fresh fruit. Fresh vegetables. We had fruit trees. Neighbors got along with one another. But now, when I look, I see none of that. You have to drive across town to get fruits and vegetables gas stations. I live right next door to a gas station. You have to drive across town to get gas, so you can hardly find jobs. 

There was a time when you could graduate high school and have a job the very next day. You can’t do that anymore. You have to have all the credentials that make you qualified to get jobs. Before, you could get a job with simple high school education. And a lot of times, you didn’t even have to have that. Even within the schools, we had vocational classes; we had so many opportunities here in this city. But once the steel mill died, so did those opportunities.

And now, General Motors has moved out of town. It wasn’t in Warren itself, but it was in a neighboring city called Lordstown, and now they’re gone. But the town of Warren, into Trumbull County and the Mahoning Valley, they’re now looking at clean energy, and that’s what CCC is trying to help out with. Even before we get to the point where we are trying to educate people on clean energy and renewable energy, CCC has been helping underserved people in the community because we are the shepherds of a park called Quimby Park. It was neglected, so some grassroots people in our community decided that this is the only park on our side of town, the southwest side of town, the side of town to get neglected. When they built a high school on the southwest side of town, they built it on swamp ground. And now that high school no longer stands. And that’s typical of you; if you go back and look just at Black communities across the nation, you’ll find out that a lot of times when they gave us an area to “call our own,” they put us in flood zones and things of that sort. But anyways, people have come together, and people were trying to make sure that this underserved part of our community is getting equity. Not just equality but equity. So we have a community garden. We have events at the park; we shepherd the park, keep it clean, and do things of that sort. And we just try to help out any way we can.

I’ll start by saying that I am a millennial, and I’ve always heard stories passed down that shed light on my own family’s Appalachian roots and contributions to Appalachian society, even Appalachian catchphrases from some of my older relatives, like ‘over and down yonder.’ But interestingly enough, you know, I always grew up thinking, you know, I live here, but I don’t consider myself an Appalachian because of those images—growing up—of Appalachia. I felt while growing up that I was here and that my family was rooted in the state, but that at the same time, we were on the periphery. Interestingly enough, I think that the only reference to Black Appalachians that I could remember, growing up in popular culture was through the lyrics of ‘My Old Kentucky Home,’ which talks about a slave story and use the term ‘darkies’ to refer to black people up until 1986.

So even when I was alive, we were still singing ‘darkies,’ you know, ‘the darkies are gay,’ in our official state song. But I’m so glad that BLAC is here to invite these stories and to recognize the culture and contributions— it’s made me think of stories, such as that of my great great grandmother, who went by the name of Mammy Kelly. And you know, I remember hearing stories about her. She was a midwife who traveled by horseback. She was located in rural Tennessee and part of the Appalachian region. She delivered both white and Black babies who didn’t have the luxury of doctor-assisted birth. So, you know that that also touches on the fact that we live in close proximity and share the same struggles. And it just happened for her, she was one of the most well-regarded midwives in the region, and white families needed her services out of necessity. But she was vital to Black families, who could only have access to the services of a Black midwife. Yeah, if you were to do a Google search of midwives on horseback, you would not see one single image of a Black midwife during that time.

 When we go back to infrastructure, there are lessons to be carried from her experiences. So many Black midwives’ experiences address the inequities that exist today and Black maternal health and health access in general. And that’s just one aspect of the contributions of Black Kentuckians and Black Appalachians to Appalachian culture. 

The contributions touch every facet of the culture down from, you know, providing these critical services to, you know, the musical contributions. When you see Appalachian musicians, you would never guess that Black Appalachians influenced the downstroke of banjo picking. I’m very, very glad to, you know, start having these conversations and dig deeper, as they like to say. 

I think that I was probably an adult before I realized that the place I lived in was Appalachia and that also I could embrace that aspect for myself. Much of my family came into Kentucky via Tennessee. And at the time, the area that they came into was heavily entrenched in coal mining. And again, it wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned that a great-great-grandfather was a coal miner. And I point those things out because we have this idea based on popular culture and media that the Appalachians are all white. They’re all rednecks. They’re unsavory characters; they are biased, they’re prejudiced, they’re uneducated, they’re misinformed. And I feel like to a certain degree, coming up as a child in an Appalachian community whose family had deep roots in Appalachia, these are things that we did not associate with. And therefore, we did not embrace that aspect of our identity in that you can go to Pulaski County, Kentucky today, and you could ask my grandmother if she’s an Appalachian, and she would tell you no. She would tell you no based on all of those reasons that we have discussed and/or we see every day and that she does not want to be identified or remembered as an uneducated or misinformed person.

I think that is what has driven me to do a lot of the things that I have done in that we can be Black; you can be a person of color, you can be anything outside of the norm or the mainstream, and also be Appalachian. 

I worked for a nonprofit organization that served a significant portion of the Appalachian region. And it’s a joke, but it’s also true in that many days when I would go to those communities to do the work that I was tasked with doing, I was the only person that looked like me there. And one time, I had an individual ask me if I lived in that particular community. And sometimes, as I do, I let my mouth respond before my brain catches up with what my mouth really should say. And I looked at this person with the utmost sincerity and respect and said, ‘Don’t you think it would be on the front page news if a Black family lived in this community?’ Now, it didn’t land necessarily the way that I thought it was going to land, in that maybe they were just trying to publicly save face about me pointing out a very obvious thing, in that this particular community, the last known Black family that lived there, the local story is that he was literally run out of town. So again, they were well aware that people that looked like me did not live in that community. And I was a little younger and maybe a little blunter than I am now. And I felt that that was important to point out that there are people who look like us that exist in the spaces. If we don’t exist in these spaces, there’s a reason why we don’t exist in these spaces. 

So we go back to when we look at Appalachian communities; we do not see ourselves represented in that. There are countless stories of contributions from Black Kentuckians and Black Appalachians in Kentucky. And the notion is that the victor always gets to tell the story, right. And we know many times in many communities where Black individuals have not been the victor. And they have not had control of the narrative or the telling of their story. I learned many things in the instruction of an introductory course I taught in Appalachian Studies at Eastern Kentucky University, in which I learned things about my history. And then I learned things about my own family due to that. And I think that it’s a sad aspect of human nature, in that many individuals that look like Bishop Dinkins and Akisha and myself have been told you have to minimize these aspects of yourself to be able to fit in. I didn’t realize how much of a rural Kentuckian I was until I went to a space in my first two years of college, and I was around other Black people that I was not related to. And many times I heard, ‘Oh, you’re just talking white,’ or ‘You’re acting white,’ because I liked country music. Some of those local sayings, ‘down yonder,’ and things of that nature, were always associated with whiteness; therefore, if I am doing those things, or I am saying those things, I am trying to embrace aspects that are not mine.

Now, at 17, I completely shied away from all of that and was like, ‘No, I’m not trying to act white, I’m not trying to sound white. I’m just from the country. This is what we do. This is how we do things.’ And I didn’t understand that those things can exist in the same space, in that I could be who I was, and I could talk how I did. And I wasn’t shunning any aspect of myself. And that Black people helped build and shape the society and culture of Appalachia. And those are not the stories that we tell because there are a lot of stigmas associated with that. 

In my adulthood, I cannot be a part of all of the conversations that exist around Blackness and Appalachia. But I tried my level best to be in all of them. And I tried to initiate those conversations as well. When I was offered the opportunity to teach Appalachian Studies, I thought for a moment; I can’t do that. In that, I understood that most of my students would be white. And then some of them would not necessarily appreciate a Black woman telling them about things they have always been associated with or things that people assume are theirs and not mine. So that took some personal reflection on my part in that this is my home, this is my history. This is my region. This is the impetus for why I do what I do. And yes, on the outside, we are very different. However, if you had to make a list of things that all Appalachians appreciate and value, you would see that being Black does not exclude you from having some of those same values and/or ethical or moral standings. Not to minimize that, we need to pay attention to the differences. But we also need to understand and embrace what we have in common. And that grace is a significant element to our life, no matter where you’re at geographically. 

However, you can take those things and build upon them. And they can be strengths, and they do not have to be weaknesses. And everything that I do and strive to do is to illustrate to people that I can be Black, and I can be an Appalachian and like this, and that these two things can exist in the same space. And I’m 100% comfortable with it because that is who I am. And if people choose to be not comfortable with it, they don’t have to be around me, in that we no longer have to be in a position where we have to minimize ourselves to make someone else comfortable. 

I think that’s just a consistent theme that we’ve all seen across the course of our lives. You know, like Akisha said, You’re not going to find a picture of her relative who was a midwife; you’re most likely not going to find her name noted anywhere. So that’s why it’s critically important for us to have these types of conversations, to collect and document these stories.   We cannot allow ourselves to be erased, so many other entities and groups will try their best to make it seem like we are not here and have not had an impact. And we are tasked with the challenge of making sure that that does not happen.

I’m a jack-of-all-trades. I’ve worked in daycare and had my own day childcare business for years. I was assistant manager at the food stamp-issuing center when they used to issue just books of food stamps, and I’ve done some of everything. But I always had a compassionate heart to help. When I got involved with CCC, and they were doing all kinds of community stuff, it’s like wow, you know? And Quimby Park, that’s where we used to meet. Well, we still do have that meeting, but it was going down. Nobody used Quimby Park, but as kids, when we all grew up that was like a big, you know, sledding point but you know, it’s a great big hill that we had sleigh rides down with the sleds, you know, and it was just all just there, no one used it except us. And so we said, we start pushing for them to try to save it because the roof went bad on it and everything and we kept on, kept on, and they put the roof on. 

Then they just stopped. Then we got a couple of people in to start helping us fight, and they started renovating, then they started seeing how many people were excited to, you know, see Quimby return. It was like, okay. So now they’re doing a lot to Quimby; they’re supposed to, you know, keep on improving it. But, they refuse to put restrooms on the outside. The park has swings and children’s playground equipment; they have picnic tables, we have a pond, they keep fish in there, so they go fishing. But there’s no restaurant in the shelter; the shelter house is not open. Well, 75% of the time, the shelter house is not open because it’s only open if, you know, someone rents it out for we have something.

We’re not there every day. And our fight now is to try to get them to see that it’s not like the other parts where you’re riding a bike through. But if families come to picnic, you know, there are no stores even close to go to the bathroom. So that’s one of our biggest fights right now is to try to get them to see that we need restrooms for people to enjoy the park. 

It’s right in the neighborhood, right in the smack of the neighborhood. And it’s unusual. It’s almost 100 years old, you know, so it’s historic. They’re doing a beautiful job on getting it together, but it needs to be complete, so one of our fights with them is trying to get it back together. 

We do Juneteenth every year. We’re the only ones in all of Warren that does Juneteenth. We do it every year. And it’s getting bigger and bigger because we want people to know the history. These young people don’t know anything about our history. And we want them to at least come and see and have some of the old things, how things might have been. 

We also do cleanup. We cleaned up Main Street. We went on Main Street and cleaned the bridge this past Saturday with another group. We cleaned the bridge, all that stuff off the bridge and stuff. We do cleanup twice a year, at least. We have different fundraisers and stuff to keep things going. You know, we have, we serve food free sometimes, you know, to the community. And we try to improve more and more. We were doing better until COVID came on and, like, set things back, but we have a lot of ideas, and our biggest thing now is to get some young people. We are all senior citizens. There are probably like three of us that’s not. So we’re seeking new members. So while we still got this going, they can come in, and I know it’s going to be hard, but they need to take over kind of. Don’t forget about us, but, you know, get things moving, you know, while we still have this community group going. So that’s what we’re seeking right now: to get bathrooms back and get young people in, get involved. It’s so, I mean, just so remarkable the minds of these young people, bringing them into action and putting them together. We must work on that.

Why should we have to wait any longer for clean air when we deserve clean air now? We deserved it yesterday. Our children deserve it. My name is Melanie Meade; I live in Clairton, Pennsylvania, Southwestern PA, Mon Valley region. We have USX Clairton Coke Works as our neighbor. I am working to inform and educate the community about our need to stop the air pollution that is causing so much harm to the community, the animals, and nature. The air pollution has caused significant issues and harm to the community, where they make billions of dollars, and the people in the community are barely getting by. And they’re being told that they should leave if they don’t like it. The young men here in this community have always been presented with the NFL as their way out. So they’re told that they need to get out. It’s not a good place. This isn’t a great community. So get out as quickly as you can. And the NFL is usually where they think that they can get out. And right now, what we see happening with COVID-19 is that the NFL is inessential. So please stop sending our children who suffer from environmental injustices to inessential jobs, allowing them to use their brains and minds to find a resolution for issues within their environment. 

We are lying to ourselves when we pretend the workers aren’t afflicted and affected. They are just as afflicted, if not more so. And they are told that they should be loyal to an industry that isn’t loyal to them and will not be loyal to their families. Many of these people in this community would rather this steel mill stay open. And then continue to have these statistics and poor health disparities because they believe they’re contributing to the greater fabric of America, who doesn’t even seem to care about the suffering of our children, or youth, or middle-age, or elders. This is absurd. It is unconscionable that this is taking place in the United States. And it’s disheartening to know that people don’t care enough about our youth and our elderly, that they won’t take action and stick to a plan that will benefit the community in the long term. 

We shouldn’t be written off. We’re powerful, strong people with a lot of love in us. And given the right resources, everyone could succeed. For decades, we have not been able to breathe. And we should be able to say we need decades of clean air. The 50th anniversary of Earth Day is my opportunity to re-establish my honor for my mother, assess whether I’m doing enough, and hold myself accountable to change whatever I need to change to be better for Mother Earth. Not that I might see benefits immediately. But those generations after me will know that I’ve done everything I can to change the course and make this earth livable for them.

Today, as I hold back tears, I cannot breathe. Our little children still walk to school and play football practice right at the base of the mill on poor air quality days. The teachers don’t have a curriculum to discuss climate change and how to connect with individuals like Zabriawn and Aliquippa, who share the same story. We are mirroring cities. 

Listening to Zabriawn, I can remember and recall my father’s talks at this table that I sit at. And you wonder how long it takes before true action is put into motion? We cannot breathe. Our children cannot breathe. Our elders who have worked and dedicated their lives to this community cannot breathe well. And they should have every right to breathe well. We should have a mayor that supports every effort. We should have the city council participating in this event to listen to the stories. Little black boys in this community are performing football where a young black man knelt on a field of the professional status NFL. Because George Floyd couldn’t breathe, and these same little black boys running up and down this field, they can’t breathe like George. But it’s just in a different vise. It’s under a different illusion. And like Zabriawn mentioned, the educational system, because we have such low tax brackets here, the educational system, there’s not care.  That you know enough to leave.  

And I’m so thankful for the Black Appalachian Coalition; I’m so thankful for this opportunity to know that I have a story worth telling. Because it wasn’t until I sat and watched your launch that I realized my story was worth telling. I am the last living relative of Maxine and Thomas Meade. I am a descendant of Thelma Louise Randolph and James Meade. Thelma Lee Louise Randolph had a large family plot, and they had land called Randolph Hollow. They owned it; long before the steel mills came. But my grandpa came into what Zabriawn mentioned, that hollow, that shanty side of the hill. That’s where my grandfather’s family came in, and they bought up a lot of land. 

The city of Clairton is currently selling it under redevelopment. When we stand here, we are not just standing here and asking for a seat at the table. We are asking for the return of what is ours. As well as the opportunity for our youth to understand what took place, reposition themselves, reframe, and reimagine their futures. And I’m so very thankful for all of the effort and work that you’ve put forth to bring this opportunity to us. And hopefully, Zabriawn and I will continue to commit to work and bring these stories together throughout those efforts downwind. Upwind. Backwind. It’s time that we come together as a vital force with stories to share. 

Children are dying sooner than they need to. Parents are dying before they’re even able to raise their children. I can think of five women under the age of 55 who have passed to autoimmune or cancer within the last ten years. Our communities are severely affected. And giving them jobs in the industry where they’re working higher than minimum wage, but putting their health and their children’s health at risk, cannot in any way serve them. So let’s stop pretending, and let’s change, change what we can while we can.

The story of Aliquippa Green really starts with a partnership I attended. I participated in Public Allies, a program that helps people find their place in nonprofit organizations. I began to learn the nonprofit world in that sector and what demands of you as far as an individual looking to do good and still find a way to build sustainable systems.

I feel it was a common issue in many other nonprofit organizations that they were trying to develop but were in a difficult place with growing administrative costs and things of that nature. I think I noticed that, and then my partner Alexandra Jones, also a co-founder of Aliquippa Green, noticed a similar pattern. I think one of the things that have made the work that we do important is just the understanding of making sure that it’s more about the impact of the work than the sustainability of the organization or the system or anything of that nature. So about two years back, we began discussing things that were necessary to see in the nonprofit work in communities. I am from Aliquippa, born and raised in Aliquippa. So I spoke a lot of Aliquippa in the conversation, and it comes through our work towards Aliquippa in just saying, ‘Well, what if we just focus just here and use this as a way to model successful economic development, if we are able to achieve so?’ 

The first place that we’ve looked was trying to close or reduce the disparity in the educational gaps that exist, just due to this odd system where property taxes inform the quality of the education. We’re all aware of it; we’re all aware of the short followings of that type of thinking and that system, but, you know, no one’s addressed any of it. And so, what we do is look for ways to empower students. Still, we are looking to get into adult education eventually, but empowering residents to be the solution they need for themselves. One of the things that are mostly absent in many of these conversations is, well, the people we’re helping are capable of helping themselves? And I believe the answer is yes, as long as we provide them with the correct educational resources and educational opportunities to design their path and pursuit of happiness.

I think that a lot of predominantly African American communities have school systems that are not forward-thinking—through no fault of their own—because, again, you go back to that negative feedback loop that happens with how we fund schools, public schools in this country. And because of that lack of forward-thinking, even when we try to remediate the situation, there’s always a growing disparity, because as we’re looking to get someone to point, you know, to the second step, there are other communities that are already on the fourth and fifth step. Part of this cycle is that we are always in this space where it’s always three steps behind those who have the opportunity to go on and innovate and become entrepreneurs and create these billion-dollar companies because they’ve had access to—and a platform to—grow and build themselves from day one. So we are trying to establish that type of foundation in a community such as this and to see if that produces a better result than what we’ve had over the decades worth of disincentivized educational work in communities such as this.

I think that the allocation of resources—on a county level, on a state level, on a federal level—has always been skewed. I think that you know, more importantly, Aliquippa is symptomatic of something that’s often found in Black communities where there is an incentive to leave the community, even for those who would have valuable resources that they could provide to the community. And so there’s this ultimate goal in a place like Aliquippa, where everyone is kind of conditioned to say, ‘Oh, I can’t wait to get out of here,’ not recognizing that, if everyone stayed, everyone contributed; it would be a lot easier to build this up. So I don’t think it’s solely a matter of capital resources. I like to tell the story and just say that my family was one of the first black families that came up—actually, both sides of my family. I was one of the earlier black families who came up to work at J&L (Jones and Laughlin Steel Corporation), right at the riverfront. Black people primarily lived in what was called the holler, which is a hillside. It was a shanty town hillside not far from the plant. The rest of Aliquippa was pretty much split up into different white ethnicities. So that was the original makeup. And then, as the city grew increasingly black, you had this kind of like a smaller version of white flight where the further that black families made it over to different areas where, you know, they were historically Italian, historically Ukrainian, historically Serbian. Those communities moved further towards where we currently have I-376 and Aliquippa meets I-376. So you can almost track the disinvestment of the community almost parallel to the ‘white flight’ that happened within the city.

I think it’s important to remember that it’s not just about allocating capital resources in the form of currency. Still, it’s about the allocation of, you know, human capital and the resources that are there and finding a way to retain high-quality individuals who are interested in doing community development. You know, some people can graduate from Aliquippa, go to college, graduate from college, and then end up doing community work, social work, things of that nature, in a completely different city. Right? And I understand that, and I’m not saying everyone has to live here and stay here forever. I didn’t do that. But it is a matter of, you know, who better to know how to address these issues than someone who can go out into the world, learn all of these things about the world and how everything works, you know, so you understand these problems aren’t just an Aliquippa problem. And then you can come back and apply some of that knowledge and some of that learning to Aliquippa and in a way that will be more responsive than someone who’s not from the area coming into here.

You know, before I attended a BLAC Listening Session, I was getting my hair cut. I spoke to my barber. He asked, ‘Well, how do I build my credit?’ So we talked about secured credit cards and the process that goes into that. Being able to have those relevant conversations with the actual people that make up the city. It’s important. And then, right before I walked in there, there were two vacant commercial buildings nearby. One of them was a bar that was shut down as a nuisance. The other was a corner store that was also shut down as a nuisance. And I was speaking with two young men, probably both in their 30s. And we were just discussing real estate and understanding there’s always this conversation of ‘Oh, they have a plan, they have a plan,’ not fully understanding the agency that you as an individual, you as a resident of the city, have and just saying, ‘Well, I have a plan,’ and being able to implement that plan. And that kind of goes back to the educational gap, right? That educational disparity. Understanding self-sufficiency, that hey, you can make a plan. And it might not work the next day. Still, understanding that you can see it to completion is challenging to teach at an older age, but when you have these opportunities for the youth, they can do these project-based learning things. They can work with other people or their relationships with other resources.

So being able to have those agency conversations and the amount of control that you have just by being a resident is significant. And I think it’s almost always missing from these conversations where we have organizations that come in, and, you know, they essentially land a large silo into communities like this. So if you come in and you accept a certain doctrine, or you choose a certain lifestyle, then you can reap the benefits of what they have to offer. But that’s not very responsive to the actual community as a whole. And it’s siloed because you very rarely have an opportunity to know what’s going on there. Because, you know, sometimes people don’t even live within the city limits, and they just drive-in, they go into their building, they drive out, right out of their building. You know, none of them are walking up and down the streets. None of them are stopping to talk to the people that are there. Some of them are, but I’m saying it’s, it’s a common thing that you find where they have these siloed organizations that are more interested in self-sustaining and sustaining themselves as an organization, as opposed to doing impactful work, and going out and kind of just getting their hands dirty, and saying, ‘Hey, whatever you’re going through, we’re going through it as well.’ And for that reason, I think that it makes more sense to encourage self-empowerment and that understanding that you can do things on your own and bring people back that have relevant resources and have that familial connection to the community. It makes it a lot easier to do the type of work that’s necessary when it’s your cousin, or when it’s your niece, or when it’s, you know, your uncle. Right? And you’re able to help them.

While I may not currently live in Appalachia, my Appalachian identity and roots also run deep. Having grandparents and great grandparents from Appalachia and spending time with them brought about the tiredness and fatigue that we still experience today. We were finding ourselves living on a land with valuable natural resources and the reminder that the Black body was also a resource for the economic gain and greed for the institution of capitalism and white supremacy. We mustn’t forget that being a black woman in Appalachia was met with desire and despair. The despair of knowing the quality of life wanted for our family was always at risk, and the desire for a quality of life, clean water, clean air, and economic mobility. Unfortunately, the desire and despair haven’t changed much as those same disparities are still in grave existence today. Poor air quality, lead in the water and pipes, and environmental hazards kill us softly reduce our mortality while increasing infant and maternal mortality. 

I know this all too well; living in a home that had extreme hazards caused three children to be prematurely born and created a well of mental and financial anguish for my family and me.

This birth of my children and why they were born prematurely is a constant reminder that illuminates the health indicators and daily health risks black mothers and women are faced with daily. Poor air quality exacerbated the health conditions of my children, who had to be placed on oxygen machines for the first couple of years of their lives. My son could not go to school until the physicians released him due to the toxins in the air and the health risks associated with those toxins that contributed to severe asthma, whole facial infections, and shots that cost over $10,000.00 per shot. This hurt me as a mother as I felt as though I failed my children and as a mother.

Today I find myself faced with the reality that while my son likes to drink tap water, it is a risk for him due to the lead in the water. Something as simple as wanting clean drinking water is also monumental when I think of the long-term health of my children. To continue to erase and exclude the black lived experience only diminishes our voices while constantly extracting resources to broker power arrangements that create more community trauma due to black suffering from adverse pollutants, toxins, and denial of preventative resources and access to healthcare and other human infrastructure.

Someone sent me a message on Twitter yesterday and asked if this was who I was. If I had always been, since I was a little girl, trying to amplify the voices of Black people in West Virginia. And I had to think about it. And I thought, my goodness, I really have been curious and trying to understand, because, you know, when you’re a child, and you look around, you question things differently. You wonder what’s missing, right? And so I think from a very early age, I understood the sort of, you know, the flying WV’s, the West Virginia ‘rah rah’ that so many people have. Where was that for Black people? And that’s when I started to discover history. The more I discovered history, the more I understood that Black people in West Virginia had had a powerful presence. But that history is not always front and center in our textbooks. It’s not front and center in the way that the media frames West Virginia. And, you know, when I say West Virginia, I mean the greater Appalachia, too, right? And so, as far as my work, you know, my work is to be me. And to keep exploring who I am in the context of how to help other people and help myself.

And I don’t want to carry this sort of narrative of, ‘I speak for the voiceless people,’ which so many people say when they talk about Appalachia. I think that’s sort of like ridiculous, in a sense. Just pass the mic. Let the people who don’t have a voice you think don’t speak if you have the microphone. But, you know, I think that where we are today is in a narrative that centers on white Appalachia. We can see it most commonly in the opioid crisis, right? And so one of the things that I’m doing with Black By God is that you know when people think of the opioid crisis in Appalachia, and in West Virginia, it impacts white people, it impacts poor white people. And that’s always the story. And very rarely, anywhere, is the story being told of how the opioid crisis has impacted Black West Virginians and Black families. That’s all the way from the prison system to addiction to the children. And so, you know, not to tell the sad story, but it’s just the truth: anything that’s happening to poor white people in Appalachia is two times worse for Black folks. And that’s from infant mortality rate to drug addiction; you name it.

Yesterday, I was in the water in front of Joe Manchin’s houseboat, reminding him to build back better. And one of the things is that with this infrastructure bill, and with anything—if you help the least, you help the most, right? When I think of West Virginia and how people think of poor, poor white poverty, I recognize that, inside that, not everybody is white, and that that ‘poverty’ impacts those people greater. So what we have to do is be visible because we’re invisible in this narrative. I mean, how many years have we had of people telling the opioid story, and not once have you heard the stories that I live with: of grandmothers and mothers who got addicted to pain pills, and that are gone now. Because, you know, nobody’s asking the question. Because really, as a poet and storyteller, and in creating Black By God, I just want to elevate the stories for visibility. And then let the people speak for themselves.