Reflections on Life in Backwater Kentucky

Reflections on Life in Backwater Kentucky
Jamie Horsley

    I’m not the type to complain. And I’m definitely not the type to sit around and try to make the rest of the world feel sorry for me. But I have to be honest, where I’ve been in life for the past six years or so is anywhere but where I want to be. It isn’t that I can really say that I’m altogether unhappy. But I stand as a dreamer, as a poet, as an artist in my own right; I’m the kind of person who will generally recognize the potential in a situation, and strive to see that potential realized. Unfortunately, my mindset, and the mindset of the culture around me do not quite align.
    Generally speaking the average person in Greenup County will be born, work on a farm, go to church, grow old and die. The ambitious ones may work on the railroad or in logging. I want no mistake to be made here, I don’t harbor any dislike for those who choose to stay here because that’s  what they want from life; it’s the  ones who only stay here because they’re convinced that it’s the only one true way to live that get to me. Those people that are convinced that there are only a few possible career choices, a few recreational choices, and if you happen to be different from them in any way, they’ll remain eternally convinced that you have some sort of mental disorder. In a nutshell, the ones who have no ambition or passion.
    For the past six years or so, throughout which I’ve been focused on finding myself and where I stand, I’ve had to deal with these people. Now it wouldn’t bother me if they were content to live boring, meaningless lives, so long as they kept it at that and let everyone else fulfill their own desires. But that’s not the case; they’ll do everything they can to try and bring you down to their level of thinking. It seems to me that the only coherent thought process these people experience is as follows: slightly curious, confused, and then angry. They see or hear something strange to them, they examine it (such is only human), but rather than trying to further comprehend it, they grow belligerent and lash out at what caused their confusion.
    You don’t really have to look far in this place to find the next poster boy for that mindset, however the model of perfection for said mindset is my own father. Allow me then, to give you some background information on the man who accounts for about a fourth of the reason as to why I am the way I am today.
    My father, Lonnie Horsley, was raised in the backwoods of Greenup County, just like his father before him, and back unto the early beginnings of the Horsley family in the U.S. From the time he was very young, he worked in all of the chores that were common for a backwoods child in that era, and was undoubtedly taught that this would more or less be life for him from then on. As he grew older, he grew wilder, rougher. Fueled by the overly strict “do as I do” philosophy of his father (although my grandfather has calmed down in his later days). By the time he reached adulthood, he had become hardened by a few too many scraps, and excessive amounts of alcohol and parties and basically being on his own throughout his youth. He was made a lonely, self centered man.
    You could guess that this has played a major part in my life. In all truth and honesty the only reason this piece isn’t focused on him exclusively, is because  then it would just be a series of accounts of me and possibly my mother being yelled at and put down by him. It would consist of many accounts of nights when he was drunk and raging. Or when something went wrong and it was entirely his fault, but he found some way to blame it on me, or my mom. I don’t suppose I could ever say he was abusive, although it was on the borderline; but I could in perfectly good conscience say that he was a self centered b*****d, and that he never really cared much about anything I did if it didn’t benefit him in some way.
    I never told him I was a poet. He would have laughed in my face and explained to me why I needed to quit wasting time on such useless things and focus on working at the railroad or something realistic (although his words would not have been nearly that kind). He himself was a railroader, as was half the family, and then it should have been good enough for me. But I’ve never wanted that and I never will. I made that clear to him but avoided being to confrontational about it, that would have been a disaster. I remember  when I told him I was going to learn to play bass, but he wanted me to play guitar. In no time it went from a simple discussion to a full blown yelling contest that ended with the near destruction of one of my guitars and my being grounded from music for a time. My father has never been a supporter of my music, which is unfortunate for both of us because I’m completely steeped in music, it accounts for about half of my life and I refuse to give it up. But the number of times I ever heard, “Hey, that sounds good son. When did you write that?”, is vastly outnumbered by the times he spewed profanity at me and told me I’d never make anything of myself.
    This is an incredibly common theme in Greenup County. But there is another type of person that dwells here, more dangerous than the formerly described people, although the danger is more to themselves than to others. These people are hypocrites; they have painted a picture of what the perfect life is, of how people should behave. But they don’t realize it, it’s a subconscious thing. They think they’re open to new things, that they are in fact tolerant of things alien to them. But they aren’t. Take them outside their comfort zone for  but a minute and watch how quickly they break into a nervous sweat and begin to yell frantically. These are the people that are friendly to my face, but when I tell them I write poetry or that I’m a musician, they furl their noses ever so slightly, that only someone who is  used to being in that situation might notice it. These are the people that look at me angrily when I walk past them in a grocery store, simply because my hair reaches my shoulders.
    These are obstacles I have overcame during my life. I’ve made it through one person after another telling me, “You’ll never make it.” and “These are only dreams, let them go.”  Even the frequent, “You’re on drugs aren’t you?”. When in fact, none of these are true. These things are assumed by the stereotypical rednecks of Greenup County because I am different than them, and that kills them. But I’ve came through with my ambition, my passion for life, and my dreams intact. And I will see these dreams fulfilled.     Maybe I’ll go to school and become a psychologist, or maybe I’ll live off orange juice while I’m broke because I’ve been playing one bar after another and still haven’t got a break yet. Or maybe I’ll do something in writing, possibly teach English. I intend to sample all of these things one way or another.
    Reading this piece, one might assume that I’m bitter about all of this. But I’m not. I’ve learned quite a few worthwhile lessons from it. I’ve learned a lot about how people tend to think. I’ve learned that it’s important to have a close circle of friends that’ll be there for you, and that you can be there for. Because outside of that circle, you’re on your own. Outside that circle, no one cares how many songs you’ve written, nobody cares what your G.P.A. in high school was. No one cares that it’s ten at night and you really need them all to get out of the dining room of the restaurant you’re working at, so you can clean it and go home, because you need to work on a piece of writing for an English class. It all comes down to you, your dreams, and the people that will try and keep you from attaining them. It’s a fight that anyone with any ambition at all will face; but what will determine a man’s measure, is how he chooses to fight that battle, or if he even chooses to fight it at all.
    
 

Reviews

[Tessah]

I share your views. Growing up in the hills of fleming and lewis county were no different.

[Wildfleour]

I think this is a very powerful, honest and raw write. It is amazing how as writers we experience such similar angst, no matter where we grew up and no matter where we live.

[Hedra Helix]

Its cool that you choose to good fight, its cooler that you have a calm and measured head about it.
this sentence, the tone, pace and personality of it, is killer:

My father has never been a supporter of my music, which is unfortunate for both of us because I'm completely steeped in music, it accounts for about half of my life and I refuse to give it up.