For starters, I mean absolutely zero offense to
anyone that is from or enjoys West Virginia. This is an assignment I wrote for
my composition class. The prompt was to write about a place that evoked an
emotion about something else. In this case West Virginia causes me to bring up
the negative feelings about my most recent ex-step-mother. As always, positive
critiques are more than welcome.
To the average eye, West
Virginia is beautiful, like the curves of a woman can be beautiful. Her
mountainous bosom is almost comforting. Her dense forests are mysterious and
tempting, but West Virginia isn’t a woman. She is a coal covered, knife
wielding shrew with a crazed look in her eyes daring you to breathe. West
Virginia is a caged animal on display, and those of us with the misfortune of
being forcibly housed within that rusty cage come out marred in one way or
another.
West Virginia was a prison sentence. Upon passing the
cookie cutter state sign I was greeted by the two prison guards in the form of
mountains, and true to West Virginia form, the only way to get past the
Mountain guards was through them, not around. Two long tunnels were carved out
by the mole people that inhabit the not so great state of West Virginia. Those
tunnels should have been a warning. The lights flickered in what I can only
believe to be S.O.S. The radio cut to white noise, and I hoped a voice from the
other side would warn the warden to turn her white land whale around and return
home before the wild woman called West Virginia knew we were there; but, no
voice ever came, or if it did no one heard it.
The natural beauty of the wilderness in West Virginia is
undeniable, but the towns and cities have left pock marks on her flesh. The
mole people cut, carved, and scared West Virginia until she was unrecognizable.
Once the mole people had taken everything they could gut from her insides they
moved on, leaving her to lick her wounds and sink further into her insanity,
letting her wild side take over. The mole people still claim West Virginia as
home. I believe that they only call her home, because they know no one else
will take them in. And while West Virginia isn’t forgiving, she knows her own,
and is willing to accept and punish them as a parent does. The inhabitances of West Virginia, the mole
people, are miners. They are gruff, rough and tumble types with calloused hands
and unfortunate looks. The mole people have suffered a great deal at the hands
of West Virginia, from dying towns to mine explosions. The older generation has
black lunge, while the younger generation is losing body parts in mining
accidents. These poor, ill-fated people I have ironically, and a bit rudely,
dubbed as mole people are serving life sentences within the confines of West
Virginia. That is her punishment for ruining her sound mind and beauty. My
punishment, however, was awarded to me by my third step-mother.
During the first year as a member of my newest family I
learned that we would be visiting my step-mother’s extended family in West
Virginia. I had no idea that my supposed vacation was really a prison sentence
in disguise, or that my step-mother would remain my warden while I served my
time as a member of yet another mismatched family. The warden’s family lived on
one large cow farm. The patriarch had a mild case of black lung, and
occasionally used an oxygen machine. Unlike most oxygen machines, the one he
used had a generous coating of dust and groaned; two things that I believed
were hardly conducive to his good health. The ever subservient matriarch cooked
from sun up until sun down, and always let the men and children before any
woman so much as looked at the food. My daily life consisted of running in
giant circles while being chased by my new group of all male cousins or eating
in the small cramped home of my newest set of great-grandparents. West Virginia
was mocking me. Her wild forests tried to lure me in with promises of escape
from the monotony and adventure. I would stare at the tree line debating
wanting to leave, but remembering the best of the unfortunate looking people I
had the displeasure to meet at the local Walmart made me reconsider exploring
the forest. So, instead, I attempted to patiently count down the days until my
prison sentence would be up.
I was forced to serve one to two week sentences at least
twice a year for seven years. Over those seven years West Virginia and I became
acquaintances, and I began to take on her wild, animalistic nature. For me,
these traits were mental and never physically showed themselves. I grew to
loathe my own jailer, as well as, West Virginia’s captors. I could temporarily
escape my warden, but the wild child, West Virginia was locked away for
eternity, or until she consumed herself. The mole people ruined the beautiful
woman that was West Virginia, just as my warden ruined my family. From that
realization on, I could only associate my old acquaintance with mental and
emotional pain, and the ruin of yet another family. I refused to visit the
penitentiary the warden called home, and so was labeled as the bad child, the
wild child. I fought, just like West Virginia fought, to keep a hold of some semblance
of sanity. I would not loose myself, because West Virginia had not lost
herself, for every foot she lost to progress, she reclaimed an old city, town,
or mine. If she survived, then so would I.
Every time I left the state that I saw as an untamable
woman that I would feel a sense of peace and hope. I hoped that West Virginia,
too, might one day learn what it was like to be free to leave behind the people
that she was forced to accept as her family. Since I quit visiting my
tyrannical step-mother and love blinded father, I have never returned to West
Virginia, nor have I ever wanted to return, but I still hope that the people of
West Virginia will learn to cultivate the beauty of their home state. West
Virginia’s beauty and sanity is still there. I know this, because during the
seven years I was forced to visit, I became West Virginia, and knew her as I
know myself.
