The rich white men of my hometown met to judge me.
I thought it was an interview, but it was a hazing.
The stakes were high. Being paid to go to college
or work every summer in a textile mill. They asked
me what my father did and how I learned to read, how
I could possibly have gotten an adequate education
in my little elementary school at the other end of
the county, and how I intended to better myself if
I stole such an award from the state university.
This was 1971, and no women were allowed to apply.
Apparently redneck crackers were discouraged too.
I didn’t even know enough to be mad. I had read my
Camus and written publishable essays, volunteered
with my church and even played on the football team
though I hated almost every minute of it. I came
prepared to talk about politics, literature (my specialty)
my God who impelled me, my good loving family if
need be but I never expected the lens of class to be
thrust at me like fire to an anthill. Their final speech:
We haven’t fielded a Morehead for years. Here’s the
deal: Get rid of that mountain accent. We mean it.
We don’t want, can’t stand for you to go to
Chapel Hill and embarrass us with that hick talk.
I spent a whole summer imitating the broad vowels
of midwestern commentators and newsmen, trimming
my Appalachian dialect with a broadax, murdering for
such little gain my ancient good grandmother tongue.
