Every time I sit down to write, my mind swims with topics. I want something that fires me up so I, in turn, can fire you up – even if that means provocation to the point of commenting. It doesn’t take much to get me fired up, but I want to make sure it’s energizing for you.
Then there are times, like yesterday, that I am full-on embracing my day off and don’t want to get fired up about anything. I spent a couple of hours with a great new friend and my youngest kiddo. The conversation was easy and relevant and didn’t make me want to ram my head through a wall or pump my fist in the air. I was simply Amy Jo. It was a great way to start my weekend.
The problem with that, though, is that it had me chill, and I am, hours later, not able to decide on what to write. I don’t want to think about work. I don’t want to think about money or systems or poverty. Today, I simply want to be out of the house and off the clock because it was a horribly long week.
Monday, we arrived home from our trip. Our flight had been canceled on Saturday night, and what happened next at the airport should have been a movie. Locked in an airplane terminal with nothing to eat or drink, two hours of sleep in an airport chair, four hours for them to locate our luggage, no rental cars available, and still arriving home at 6:30 a.m. in time for the oldest kiddo to be at work by 7:30. I had gotten no sleep and helped to host a paid leave picnic that evening where we discussed paid leave, and the importance of it and had small actions to take on hand. After all, most of us had a paid leave story.
Tuesday was intended to be my catch-up day. I wanted to rest, but the oldest doesn’t drive and had to work, so sleeping in wasn’t possible. I had phone call after phone call for work, and then, when I should have been looking forward to bed, I headed to Charleston so I could participate in some events.
We arrived in Charleston at 1:20 a.m. and headed out at 9 a.m. I grumbled every time I had to pay $4 in tolls because it reminded me of the governor, which reminded me that federal money is probably being spent on this stupid “let’s raffle guns and pickup trucks so people will get vaccinated” thing of his. That reminded me of my friend Jennifer bringing up the fact that her dog probably eats better than hungry children here, which lit me up again.
When we arrived in McDowell County, I was expecting to see run-down houses and … well … I don’t know what I was expecting to see because of all the stories I’ve been told. I know it’s one of the poorest counties in the U.S. I know there are water problems. I noticed that most of the houses on my route looked the same but didn’t know then that it’s because when the mines pulled out, they allowed the families to purchase the company homes. I also didn’t realize that Gary, W.Va., is only 50 years old. In three months, I will be 50 years old.
Imagine the landscape of our state being owned by the coal companies and filled with company homes and company stores up until 1971. That seems so unbelievable to me! The Civil Rights Movement and the end of the coal camps happened at the same time, both incorrectly framed in history as occurring in another generation’s time.
I also didn’t know that at least one community has been under a boil order for 5 years! Imagine having to boil your water for five years. Imagine people in this beloved state living with raw sewage in their yards in 2021 because the coal companies lied and abused them, and our government simply pretends they don’t exist.
We headed back to Charleston for an evening event. We attended a prayer vigil for Faithful Democracy, asking for our faith values to be brought to light in our fight to persuade U.S. Sen. Joe Manchin to support the For The People Act. Five such events took place across the state simultaneously in the morning. And all five events were focused on elevating the voices of black communities because all but a couple of white churches asked wouldn’t participate.
My Reverend friend told me the other day that white churches won’t march because they’ve never had to, and, man, did he hit it on the head.
I also learned that when I’m fired up, 800 words really isn’t a lot.
Onward,
Amy Jo
