I sit in Mr. Poore’s Asheville office while he completes my final paperwork. It is a dismal room that strains my enthusiasm to teach at my next post. Everything is coated with nicotine yellow. Even the philodendron with sickly leaves curling in resignation, trailing over the windowsill. Even Mr. Poore, hunched over my paperwork, registering my teaching certificate, transcript, and credentials to my new school district. I pull from my pocket a handkerchief monogrammed RH and hold it to my nose for relief against cigarette smoke. The skinny man scribbles and pushes glasses up the sharp bridge of his nose. His worn jacket hangs from gaunt shoulders. Ichabod Crane comes to mind.
He doesn’t look up when he says, “Last teacher called it godforsaken where you’re going.” Mr. Poore’s raspy voice is ruined from a million puffs. “Couldn’t understand a word they said. Like being in Russia or Africa, she said.”
A hairline crack appears in my shell. I’ve only taught the classics in private schools and have no experience teaching young children. Will I fail miserably? Scare them away? Or will I instinctively know what to do? Outwardly, I stay composed, knowing this appointment is the final step before I climb the mountain before me.
Mr. Poore is one of a dozen worker bees in the Asheville education building, plodding through piles of endless paperwork. Every surface in this office, except the chairs in which we sit, is stacked with papers and folders. A transistor radio is slightly off the dial and plays “Stand by Your Man.” The scratch of Mr. Poore’s pencil nub on my forms is like mice in the walls. My skin itches. My head hurts. I need a bath. Petty annoyances, truly, when compared to the catastrophic poverty in Appalachia where I am going.
In the last decade, two presidents turned the spotlight on the plight of these forgotten people. Phrases such as retarded frontier and hillbillies stymie understanding. Disturbing photos of emaciated people, dismal data on teen pregnancies, incest, and genetic deficiencies point to desperate needs in Appalachia. Humanitarians want to save these scraps of Scotch Irish. I am in line as well, turning my back on privileged school life, looking for a place to matter.
My journey toward Appalachia started with an index card. Wanted: Experienced teacher. It was tacked to a bulletin board in a church I rushed into for shelter from a sudden storm. Some would call it serendipitous, others fate. Whatever the case, the church gave me more than shelter that day; it gave me direction when I was rudderless.
According to the letter from Preacher Eli Perkins sent in response to my inquiry, his mountain settlement called Baines Creek is barely a crossroads, a dot on a map. It’s remote, embraced by natural beauty, and riddled with hardships. He writes that the census, which no one can vouch for, records forty-one children between the ages of six and seventeen in his school district. The preacher’s tiny community has had a string of teachers for the one-room schoolhouse. They came but didn’t stay. He believes youth and inexperience were to blame, and he asks for someone more seasoned. There is purity in his plea. A tenacity to care for his people. If there is a war to be won in Appalachia, Eli Perkins has lived at the front lines all his life and still fights. He seeks an ally.
I’ve fought inequities all my life on a different front but have gained little purchase among those who have too much. I want it all to mean more. I need it to mean more. My hope is that I am able to make those I’m leaving behind understand.
“Yep, the locals scared off the other teachers is what I’m told.” Mr. Poore giggles like a girl. “Said they got no use for book learning.” He mutters, “Dumb suckers,” under his breath, then breaks into a coughing fit.
He looks up. “Why in blue blazes do you think you can do any good in that backward place? They don’t want to do better.”
“Preacher Perkins would disagree.” I clutch the letter I’ve read a dozen times. “He thinks the children on his mountain deserve an education like everyone else.” My controlled voice rises a notch. “And just because injustices never end doesn’t mean they’re not worth fighting against. Women and children have rights. Education is the key.” My cheeks flush with familiar heat.
Mr. Poore plops back in his chair and, for the first time, really looks at me.
“You one of them gall-dang liberals, aren’t you? Trying to bend the laws. Change the natural order of things.” He tap-tap-taps hard with his finger on one of the papers in my stack. “Says right here you were fired. Now I know why.”
I didn’t realize my dismissal was a matter of public record. I lean forward to see the paper, concerned. “Can just anyone access that information?”
He ignores me. “Maybe you and that godforsaken place of losers deserve each other.”
I want to shout You’re rude and wrong! but he’s close to the truth. He strikes another nerve when he adds, “Well, you being”—he squints at a form—“fifty-one and on the hefty side may be more to their liking there. They’ll have to work extra hard to run you off.”
Mr. Poore crossed the line.
I say softly, “You’re not paid much, are you, Mr. Poore?”
“What you say?” His face cocks crooked, and he pinches his thin lips.
I speak louder. “You’re not paid much, are you?”
I could easily strangle Mr. Poore with his skinny tie. Instead I use words. “Apparently, the pay can’t attract a professional who knows proper protocol.”
His eyebrows arch high just as Tammy Wynette belts out, “Keep giving all the love you caaaan,” and Mr. Poore and I stare at each other. I hold strong, and after a half-dozen heartbeats, he looks down and says “Well!” and stamps the required state seal on my paperwork. “May you be happy in Baines Creek hell, Miss Shaw.”
“Proper protocol, Mr. Poore. You really could do with lessons.”
I escape with the smelly documents completed and a modicum of respect, grateful for fresh air. Mr. Poore was unnerving, but he can’t dim the deeper purpose Eli Perkins promised in his letter.
I need an ally to instill hope and possibility in my good people.
We all deserve hope and possibility.
Even me.
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