inJustice

With the music turned up, I drove down the interstate

from Nashville and headed toward Little Mountain. Once off

the main highway, I exchanged McDonald’s and Starbucks

for double-arched bridges and an occasional appearance of

the Ten Commandments blaring on the billboards.

Eventually, I was alone, with the rolling hills of

Kentucky and heading straight into the Bible Belt. There

was a different church every two miles, and I wondered

how many people actually went to these cute little chapels.

The white steeple from each church against the blue sky was

mesmerizing.

Rolling hills dotted with round bales of hay made by

modern machinery were something I didn’t remember. I

recalled the stories my pop used to tell us about the bales

of hay having been square and done by hand. Things had

changed.

The abandoned barns resembled my heart, barely

standing, as if the next wind could take them down. My

thoughts hit as quickly as the cornrows whisking by. What

was I going to feel going into Little Mountain for the first time?

Would it look the same? Would it feel the same? Would it smell the

same? This place is home in my heart, and it’s enemy territory.

Would I see them? Would they see me and me not see them? Would

they gang up on me? Would they ignore me? Would I ignore them?

Would I freeze in fear or fight in anger? It felt as if a million

questions hit me at once.

Too many thoughts were going through my mind at one

time. Each negative thought felt like a prediction of what

was about to happen, and I really didn’t want to have any

expectations at all, so I turned up the radio even louder to

drown out the noise in my head.

The two hours it took to drive into my hometown felt

like twenty hours, or a lifetime, but the most perfect song

came on the radio as I turned off the two-lane highway,

passing the “Welcome to Little Mountain” sign and onto

Main Street.

Hold on, to me as we go

As we roll down this unfamiliar road

And although this wave is stringing us along

Just know you’re not alone

‘Cause I’m going to make this place your home.

Tears streamed down my face as I soaked up the lyrics,

a small part of me believing them—the other part of me not

so sure but praying they were true.

Regardless of my feelings, I had arrived home.

On the left was Harlan County School, one of two

schools in this town. It had always confused me why there

needed to be two schools in such a small town. The school

Anne and I attended was Little Mountain Independent

Schools, or LMS. They were the Harlan County Cardinals,

and we were the LMS Trojans. The two schools were major

rivals, which always confused me too. Why were we enemies

when we lived in the same town?

Our alma mater’s motto was “Go! Fight! Win!” The

Cardinals wore all red, and we were “the blue and white.”

Memories of the rivalry bombarded me, and surprisingly, the

tears began. It was amazing how far away Harlan County

School felt as a child. Through my child eyes and memory,

the road to Harlan county School was a long road, in reality;

it was a mere two miles away.

My heart started beating faster as I came up on the

center of town where the Doughboy stood. It’s a statue of a

soldier who stands tall right in the middle of the town square.

A boxed area across the bottom of the plaque contains an

inscription:

For when the trumpets sound for Armageddon, only those

deserve undying praise who stand

where the danger is sorest.

—Theodore Roosevelt, 1918

A sense of reverence and awe overcame me, and I felt a

bit like a warrior returning home.