 In Appalachia, long before there were town halls, the front porch served as the community stage. From times of social unrest to moments of celebration, the front porch has played a crucial role in shaping and preserving stories from one generation to the next. It’s been a place of witnessing, for negotiating continuity and change, from which we can gaze out toward the world and our future.
The porch stands between past and future. It connects my home, all that has made me, to the larger world. Likewise, it invites the world to the entrance of my home. It is a liminal space, inviting us to show mutual grace, kindness, and respect. Some of the things we discuss on the porch will repair or polish parts of my home, and some will do this for yours. Over the past few weeks, these are the thoughts I’ve been writing about in preparation for my role as Storyteller in Residence for the upcoming Appalachia Funders Network annual gathering. I’ve been thinking about the stories that inform who I am, what I care about, and how my past has shaped my sense of how to meet this moment. The storyteller’s goal isn’t to impose a story; it’s to create a space for people who care about a better future to explore the stories they wish to harness and cultivate. To imagine our gathering as a front porch conversation, and sort through what we want to bring into the future. There are spaces similar that exist across the world; verandas, tenement hallways, barber shops, stoops, main streets, and living rooms—all places where culture is shaped and shared. A few questions I’ve been thinking about for this gathering:
What I know is this: when someone asks for your story, there is no single account of what you bring to the front porch. Each and every one of us comes from multitudes. Who am I? I am my grandfather, who built a well in the scorching East African sun so workers passing by could drink fresh, clean water. I am my ancestors who come from the rural villages of Northern India, who defied an empire—and won. I am my parents, who escaped genocide, who arrived in a cold country with nothing but the shirts on their backs, who taught that their love and courage is who I am. I am an Appalachian who has a front porch in Johnson City, Tennessee. Today, as you gaze out from your front porch toward the world, ponder with me: what needs honoring, repairing, or disrupting in order to do justice to all the stories that make up our home? Photo: Stories from my front porch – Johnson City, Tennessee. Comments are closed.
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