Shit Town
Nobody's Locked Up
Life in my hometown is like no other. It’s the best place if you were born to fail. If you’d like to sell your soul to alcohol, drugs or the coal mines this is the place for you. If you were born with a backbone and an ounce of creativity; run for the hills.
See, Hyden is the closest thing to hell on Earth. I promise you that. Life in general is hindered by sharp hills and poor roads. You drive between the mountains and live in carved out nooks on the side. If you don’t have your license be prepared to be a recluse because you’re not going anywhere unless you want to walk 10 miles to town.
It’s okay to be a pregnant teenager here, because that’s all the kids have to aspire to. Being parents or coal miners. I’ve seen so many lives go down in a flaming glory of diapers and coal dust. I want more than that for myself.
I don’t even know what kind of life is normal anymore. I can’t even say this is a life, it’s a disaster waiting to happen. If you’re from here failing is in your blood; it’s why you’re here. If you live here its because your parents, grandparents, hell even your great grandparents, failed, they failed to escape or effectively explain why this place is hell.
Where else in the world can you wear a band shirt and get told that you’re going to hell? Where else in the world can you find a pompous asshole as the head of every church, converting his followers into minions to go and spread the word that your soul is in danger and you didn’t even know it? Where else on earth is every day the morn of the apocalypse?
In winter it feels like someone set of a nuclear bomb. It’s desolate, nothing to live for. You can be trapped at your house for a week straight and it’s like there’s nothing wrong. It’s just normal. During the winter my dad spends his nights awake at odd hours, poking the fire and adding more wood. The two tiny dogs we own sleep inside so they won’t freeze to death. I spend my nights sleeping peacefully underneath three quilts made by my grandmothers.
I work hard to go against the grain, to make something of myself, to not get caught in the undertow and end up like every other adult I know.
My Dad is an alcoholic and it’s normal. My uncle died because he was on heroin, and it’s normal. I can already see myself heading in that direction, a victim of self-medication. At least I won’t be living here.
Saturday nights are spent partying on Lee Co. or John Asher’s. It starts with one lone four-wheeler and a 30 pack, ends with a bonfire and drunken rednecks.
But I’m one of the lucky ones. I was taught that this isn’t right.
Our town is run by corrupted drug dealers. Much like Columbia. For instance, my driveway is filled with ruts if I had a vicodin or xanax I could get it fixed. But we don’t.
Among all those bad people and wretched conditions I have found some of my favorite people. They’re all like me, struggling to make it out with their souls intact.
I always knew that I wanted to escape. Always. It was my life’s goal. Maybe it’s just me wanting to escape all the people who wronged me and the blatant injustice. All I know for sure is I’m not staying here.
See, Hyden is the closest thing to hell on Earth. I promise you that. Life in general is hindered by sharp hills and poor roads. You drive between the mountains and live in carved out nooks on the side. If you don’t have your license be prepared to be a recluse because you’re not going anywhere unless you want to walk 10 miles to town.
It’s okay to be a pregnant teenager here, because that’s all the kids have to aspire to. Being parents or coal miners. I’ve seen so many lives go down in a flaming glory of diapers and coal dust. I want more than that for myself.
I don’t even know what kind of life is normal anymore. I can’t even say this is a life, it’s a disaster waiting to happen. If you’re from here failing is in your blood; it’s why you’re here. If you live here its because your parents, grandparents, hell even your great grandparents, failed, they failed to escape or effectively explain why this place is hell.
Where else in the world can you wear a band shirt and get told that you’re going to hell? Where else in the world can you find a pompous asshole as the head of every church, converting his followers into minions to go and spread the word that your soul is in danger and you didn’t even know it? Where else on earth is every day the morn of the apocalypse?
In winter it feels like someone set of a nuclear bomb. It’s desolate, nothing to live for. You can be trapped at your house for a week straight and it’s like there’s nothing wrong. It’s just normal. During the winter my dad spends his nights awake at odd hours, poking the fire and adding more wood. The two tiny dogs we own sleep inside so they won’t freeze to death. I spend my nights sleeping peacefully underneath three quilts made by my grandmothers.
I work hard to go against the grain, to make something of myself, to not get caught in the undertow and end up like every other adult I know.
My Dad is an alcoholic and it’s normal. My uncle died because he was on heroin, and it’s normal. I can already see myself heading in that direction, a victim of self-medication. At least I won’t be living here.
Saturday nights are spent partying on Lee Co. or John Asher’s. It starts with one lone four-wheeler and a 30 pack, ends with a bonfire and drunken rednecks.
But I’m one of the lucky ones. I was taught that this isn’t right.
Our town is run by corrupted drug dealers. Much like Columbia. For instance, my driveway is filled with ruts if I had a vicodin or xanax I could get it fixed. But we don’t.
Among all those bad people and wretched conditions I have found some of my favorite people. They’re all like me, struggling to make it out with their souls intact.
I always knew that I wanted to escape. Always. It was my life’s goal. Maybe it’s just me wanting to escape all the people who wronged me and the blatant injustice. All I know for sure is I’m not staying here.
♠ ♠ ♠
None of that was made up.