The low rumble of rolling bags scaling concrete marked the homeward migration of more than 500 tired feet moving through campus late last Saturday night. “Country Roads” by John Denver played like a broken record in our heads, and our tennis shoes were still caked with an earthy reminder of the Appalachian Mountains.
As I swiped back into my quiet dorm, an instinctive action that marked my admittance back into the normalcy of life as “Katie, Notre Dame Student”, I heard the basilica bells ringing behind me. It seemed on the exterior as if nothing had changed. But on the inside, everything felt different.
Our service-learning immersion within the Appalachian region, spread out between 18+ different work sites and involving a myriad of prevalent issues from food sustainability to rural healthcare, lasted about a week. My group’s caravan of vans left way too early on Sunday, October 18, and arrived back in our obnoxiously matching Big Creek t-shirts on the 25th. But looking back on our brief stint in War, West Virginia, it seems as if it lasted for months.
It’s difficult to put into words, this alternate universe of Appalachia. A twilight zone of days changed to months. Of a group of strangers turned almost immediately into a weird little family (emphasis on the “weird”). Of a once-booming coal community denigrated into a forgotten ghost town, 1/5 of its population still intact. Of a rural poverty that reminded me more of a developing Guatemalan town thousands of miles away than my own American backyard.
My experience in Appalachia was “incredible” and dare I say life-changing, but it wasn’t an easy stroll in the valley; it was much more like our uphill trek into the mountains. We scaled complex questions of poverty that made us sweat and encountered an avalanche of stories from the people we served that left us shocked and gasping for words. My socks were filled with dirt, and my heart was filled with a collection of thoughts and feelings that no classroom discussion could have prepared me for.
I was sweaty.
Under the extremely patient supervision of our site leaders (God bless), we were introduced into the world of manual labor and housing repair. I became a master at the power drill and temporarily conquered my fear of the circle saw, or so I’d like to think.
Every day was distinct, yet every night ended with a new film of perspiration that covered our skin and showed off where we’d been and what we’d done that day. Minimal blood, lots of sweat, and a few tears here or there.
It was the sum of our failures and our success; for every stripped nail and crooked board, our sweat also marked a brand new gutter we’d installed or sturdy porch we’d repaired. It was a grimy badge of honor, representing much more than just a need to shower.
I was exhausted.
Blame it on the manual labor, the 10 hour drive, or the consecutive nights we stayed up yelling and passing around Catchphrase until single-digit hours, but, man, was I tired. Naps became my body’s best friend.
However, it was the week’s sheer volume of emotion that even the best power nap couldn’t fix. Half the week I found myself doubled over in laughter from the inside jokes and crazy antics of my group members, all the while humming along to “Downtown” by Macklemore and taking in all the joy they radiated. The tight-knit, welcoming community of War took us in with open arms and gave us a new sense of home in the mountains.
The other half of the week, however, fell on the opposite side of the emotional spectrum. Our community site leaders would crack a joke, and not even two minutes later recount the story of a recent drug overdose or a family member’s deteriorating health as if it were an everyday occurrence. We worked on houses that caved in on themselves and buildings still reeling from the devastating effects of floods from decades past.
My head and heart were constantly on an emotional teeter totter, taking in the highest highs and the saddest lows like the rolling West Virginia terrain.
I was frustrated, but I was speechless.
Perhaps the toughest aspect of my experience in Appalachia is attempting to describe it in words. Each time my friends and family ask me, “how was it?” or “did you have a good time?” I spend a few seconds grasping for something that might even come close to actually being there in that little town of War, West Virginia, seeing the optimistic faces behind the hardship.
I try to tell them about when we realized that 28-year-old Buster couldn’t read, or the sinking in my heart when we glimpsed the sign in front of the church in Coalwood, “In God we still trust.” I try to explain the web of interconnected factors – lack of education, nonexistent healthcare, drug abuse, crime, and dying industry – that make Appalachian poverty so hard to combat.
I also try to describe the wonderful, beautiful faces of the people we encountered and their wonderful, beautiful connection to one another. How, in the floods of 2001-2002, no one found themselves homeless because there was always a neighbor’s hand reaching out to pull them back in.
But no matter how many syllables I use, it’s not the same. Poverty and suffering and hope aren’t just words; they’re real things that tear at your heart and make the gears in your mind turn into overdrive. They’re what makes this immersion seminar so valuable.
For, when we finally scaled that mountain, wiped off our brows, and looked out over the immaculate landscape before us, it was the challenge that lifted us up to that grassy overlook. It made us want to keep pushing, keep hiking toward that goal.
But, ultimately, just as the people of War, West Virginia stick in our minds, it was the sight we saw at the peak that made us want to stay.
Their struggle may have drawn us in, but their splendor and joy kept us wanting to come back.
Visit the Center for Social Concerns website to learn more about the Spring 2016 Appalachia seminar! Application will be online soon.
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