I used to live in Massachusetts and spent many a Thanksgiving there wishing my mother’s stuffing was hiding somewhere amidst my husband’s family’s holiday treats, and though I never quite made it to Plimoth Plantation www.plimoth.org , I believed in my bones that Massachusetts was the site of the first Thanksgiving.

That is until I moved to Virginia and my children went to an elementary school that put on a Thanksgiving pageant every year. One year one of my kids recited the line that went something like “Those so and so’s up north are always saying they’re better than us, in particular, taking credit for the first Thanksgiving when in fact, the first Thanksgiving was on Dec. 4th, 1619 at what is now Berkeley Plantation in Virginia.  Na na na NA na!” or something to that effect. 

I was intrigued and willing to go along with the history of my adopted home.  I had long thought that Massachusetts folks often acted as if all of American history happened within their boundaries–really just within the Boston area–so I wasn’t surprised that Virginia had been overlooked again. So at family gatherings I was happy for my children to correct the notion that Plimoth Plantation had dibs on Turkey Day.

That is until my Massachusetts-born husband and I stopped off at Berkeley Plantation www.berkeleyplantation.com and took a tour and wandered the grounds along the James River. Um, guess what, Virginia, but the North wins this one, too. It is true that on Dec. 4th, 1619 Capt. John Woodlief landed his ship at Berkeley, went ashore and with his 38 men knelt down and gave thanks for safe passage and said let’s do this again next year. But I doubt that was the first time somebody got off a sorry, stinking, crowded ship and said, “Thank God I’m off that sorry, stinking, crowded ship. Let’s do this again next year.”  Being thankful and giving thanks are wonderful ideas, but if we were to mark every “Thank God I survived that hellish trip” with a holiday buffet, we’d all weigh 500 lbs. There’s a reason no one outside Virginia has heard of John Woodlief, Berkeley Plantation, and the first Thanksgiving there: it’s a lame anecdote with no Pilgrims, no Indian tribe, and no food.  Nice try, Virginia, but I’m sticking with Squanto and Myles Standish on this one.

It is 2028 and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, posing as Will Armstrong, is alive and composing. The immortal who has survived history’s greatest challenges including its most recent, the asteroid strike called “the Shudder,” now finds his identity at risk. But the science and arts utopia in which he resides, Ipolis or the sapient machine One, favors Mozart above all its citizens and goes to extreme measures to ensure his safety.

What unfolds is a comedic opera with an intricate plot. While Mozart pines for the sexually confused sex-change clinic nurse Katerina, investigative journalist Helen Printo and spy Alex Burton scheme to catch the immortal, Canadian diplomat Lester Parson ponders his role in the North vs. South nuclear war as well as his empty love life, and sadistic art student Bella Gunn searches for the emotion that first drew her to painting, One works to keep the world safe. Each character delivers his/her own song, a story of his/her past, and as the work progresses these distinct threads join to create an unlikely symphony.

Rayner’s novel sets the most timeless themes of love, identity, and art in a technological world endangered by greed and corruption. Individual viewpoints recount personal pasts and solidify Ipolis as the nurturing utopia. But Mozart remains at the center of this humorous story, weighing his secret immortality as the world approaches self-destruction.

Ok seen as I have titled this thing insight of a geordie mind thought after a long weekend I would let you in on some of the thoughts that idly rolled through my mind whilst blocking out the insistent chatting of parental units.

Scene setting: I was wandering along a random road down near London Bridge having passed the delights that are the Thames and activities around the area. Breathe taking sight especially on a night-time.

So I was thinking about this supposed North/South divide being a foreigner in the capital of course one of the many. Maybe it is not the North/South divide your told of, or imagine, especially when mingling on the other side. Maybe these prejudices only exist in the confines of your own home county. Well the exception to that rule being mackems and geordies where rivalry is rife anywhere in the country or world. Anyway I digress, as I wandered my thoughts swung towards the idea of home and how some perceive the Northern of us as simple, slow folk and it got me to thinking. Perhaps it isn’t the derogatory sense of such a label, but… the label itself is true.

I was enjoying the simple beauty of the capital in its reality, atmosphere and architecture. The slowing of ones daily pace to actually absorb what London has to offer as opposed to running through life at ridiculous speed and missing the joys along the way allowed a bit of thought clarity. I was thinking this idea of the ‘simple elements’ and how maybe it is easier for an outsider or a Geordie, used to a slower place of life, to enjoy the elements that make up the bigger picture.

Some may see London as grubby, busy and fast-paced. I myself enjoyed in this moment the fresh salty Thames air, the hustle and bustle of people out and about enjoying the multitude of activities on offer. The ability to sit outside and enjoy a refreshing beer in a heated area next to the Thames and watch the skyline fall into the random and differential buildings erected during London’s long history was a simple pleasure. All this is possible everywhere it is taking the time to enjoy similar surroundings whilst not having icicles form on the end of your nose.

Maybe us simple Geordies can break down the big and enjoy the simpler elements of London life by stepping back and taking a breath and truly seeing the little things that make up life and love in general as well as London. So maybe or maybe not we are a little simpler but surely this is not a bad thing?

EL x

What was he doing in our barn? His kind had already taken all our animals. We had nothing left to steal, so why was this Yankee skulking around our barn?

Now he’s coming toward the house. I grab papa’s gun and continue to watch through the window as the man stumbles onto our porch.

I’m shaking so badly, but I refuse to give in to my fear. My papa told me to be brave, so that I could protect the family, and so I hold my head high and clutch the gun even tighter.

I peer back out the window, and for a moment I dare to hope that everything is fine. The man is gone—or so it appears. Then I hear something bumping against the door. The thick wood timbers rattle against the jamb, and I jump, nearly squeezing the trigger and wasting what precious little shot we have. But the latch and wood brace hold, and my shaking hands loosen just a bit on the trigger.

A louder thump now, it sounds like when papa used to stack sacks of grain on the porch. I sneak another glance out the window, but I see nothing. But as I begin to pull back, I catch a glimpse of something dark, piled on the planked porch just outside the door.

Sprawled against the door, the man looks like the rag doll my nanna had made me. Maybe he’s dead? Could I be that lucky? I start to reach for the latch, then stay my hand. What if he’s just foolin’? What if he’s just waitin’ for the chance to get inside?

Again, I go to the window and peer out into the early morning gloom. The mist from the nearby woods swirls out across the meadows and it’s sinewy tendrils snake around the pillars of the porch and obscure the man’s features. All I can tell is that he appears to be older than I am, but papa always said that war aged a fellow early.

The man doesn’t move, and I’m inclined to believe he’s dead. Just then Tad tumbles into the room with all the exuberances that accompanies any ten-year old boy. I shush him harshly, and cast another look outside.

Catching my tension and my look, he rushes to the window and pushes aside the expensive lace curtains that mamma had brought with her all the way from Charleston. Excited now, and wanting to see if the stranger is carrying anything useful, he rushes to the door before I can stop him. However, I manage to stop him before he can unlatch the door and my scolding contains all the fury of my terrified fifteen years.

I have been in charge of the family for months now—ever since mamma died giving birth to our baby brother, who also died. Papa went off to fight the yanks nearly a year ago and left me in charge. It didn’t matter that I was only a girl, he said, I was the oldest and it was my duty to make sure that nothing happened to mamma and the boys.

All my scolding has awakened Jamie—sweet, angelic Jamie. With his thumb still tucked in his mouth, he toddles into the room and snuggles against my knees wanting to be picked up. He’s already six, and too old to be babied, but I can’t stop myself. He’s such a sweetheart. I bend down and heft him onto my hip. With him in one arm, and the gun in my other hand, I again look out at the body on our porch. The sun is starting to pinken the sky and now I can see small movements from the Yank on our porch, and not just the movements of the fog, either.

As I watch, the man’s chest slowly rises and falls—not much, but enough to tell me that he’s still alive.

I hustle the boys toward the kitchen, which is in the back of the house, and away from the man either sleeping or dying on our front porch. There’s not much to eat, some thin, watery grits, and some chicory coffee. Yesterday I had found some partridge eggs in a nest out in the old corn field. But there’s no one here to plow the fields, or plant the corn, although a few sprouts have sprung up here and there, so we might have a small gathering of corn come late summer (that’s if the animals don’t all eat the shoots). I’ve been trying to keep the shoots safe from the rabbits and other pests, but it’s not easy keeping an eye on two rambunctious boys and our meager crop.

The boys fed as best I can, I set about trying to do the chores. I go out the back way, the boys in tow, casting fearful glances at the house. I’m afraid that the man may wake up and make his way inside, but I have to do what I can to feed the boys. I set them to fishin’ in the small creek, while I work the small vegetable patch by the barn.

After washing the few items of clothing that we have, we head back to the house. I sneak into the parlor to check on the man, and his eyes open and pin themselves on mine. I step back into the shadows, but he isn’t fooled. He knows I’m here and he tries to call out to me. His voice is weak and gravelly, but I can hear clearly enough. He’s asking for water, medicine. Now, with the sun overhead, I can see that his shirt is covered in blood. Not dried blood, but wet, shiny blood. He must be wounded somehow, and the wound is still seeping.

Part of me says I should help him—after all the Good Book says that we should love our enemies—but I look behind me at the two boys standing wide-eyed in the parlor door and I know I won’t (help him). I can’t take a chance. I pull the expensive lace curtains across the window and hustle the boys towards the back of the house, away from the pitiful cries of the man on the porch.

Hours later, the cries stop, and I again look out. The man seems to have passed out once more. I slip out the back and fill a bucket from the well while the boys are napping. Putting a dipper into the bucket, I lug it around the front. I pause, staring up at the four steps as if they are the highest of mountains. Then, with my legs shaking so badly that I spill great puddles from the bucket, I creep up the stairs. Carefully, I slide my feet—first the right, then the left. Drawing closer and closer to the blue-clad man passed out on the porch.

Standing over him, I see that he’s really not much older than me. Despite the dirt etched into the lines on his face, I realize that he can’t be any older than 20, if that. Setting the bucket down next to him, I start to leave and a hand touches my ankle. I shriek and jump, nearly stumbling over the Yank, who is now awake.

He asks me to please help him, and I fumble my way down the steps and race around the corner of the house and into the kitchen. Slamming shut the door, I latch it and stand against it waiting for my heart to slow. I can still hear the man, bawling like a lost calf.

Angrily I think, he’ll wake the boys, and I start towards the front of the house to tell him to be quiet. Then, I freeze just inside the parlor door. What am I thinking? I race back to the kitchen and grab the gun that papa left for us. Back at the front door, I peer out the window and the man, seeing me, again starts calling for me to help him. Angry now, and knowing that the man is still too weak to be much of a threat, I open the door and brandish the gun at him. I tell him to be quiet or else, but I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t believe I’m much of a threat, he does, however, become still.

Supper consists of several turnips, and the left over grit gruel supplemented with a stringy squirrel. Having no bait, the boys were unable to catch any fish, but Tad did manage to kill a squirrel with his slingshot.

Although we don’t have much, I put a small amount of what we do have on a plate and using a broom handle I slide it up the porch to the Yank from the safety of the doorway. I also toss him a blanket before slamming the door shut and bolting it behind me. The Good Book may say to love our enemies, but papa taught us to be safe. So, he remains outside.

I think sometime in the night, the man caught a fever, because the next day he was shaking and delirious. I did what I could, but having no medical skill and no medicines, that wasn’t much. During one bought of calmness, when he was unconscious, I did open his shirt to check his wound. It was more grievous than I had suspected. His stomach was wrapped in a filthy bandage. When I peeked beneath, I saw that his whole abdomen had been ripped open. No one, except perhaps an experienced doctor, could help him. I knew I couldn’t.

He raged and tossed, shook and shivered for two days. The third day I arose and looked through the window onto the porch and knew that he was dead. The dampness of the night covered him, and his chest no longer rose and fell. I felt badly, but what could I have done? He was, after all, a Yankee, and we knew that they were capable of anything. Therefore, I had to think of my brothers and their safety.

I took one of mamma’s prize linen table cloths and wrapped the man—no, boy—in it. Then I dragged him to the back where I had the vegetable garden. The soil was already loose here, so digging him a grave would be fairly easy.

I started to say a brief word or two and felt tears straggle down my cheeks and pause at my chin, as I stopped halfway through my prayer. I didn’t even know his name.  How could I ask God to watch over him, when I didn’t even know his name. Shoveling the dirt on top of his makeshift grave, I wondered when the fear would stop. I didn’t even understand what the fighting was about, I just knew that I wanted things to be the way the had been when papa was at home.

With a sigh, I dragged the shovel back to the shed. Another day was started, and I needed to find something for the boys to eat.

I’m all for people organizing and protesting/lobbying their representatives, but I am all against an all-out rebellion of the country. I believe this tactic will make matters completely worse. The South did it before and it looks like people with those values may begin again.

There have been multiple news stories regarding the “Tea Party” and how they are getting mobs of people together to protest. Supposedly they are protesting tax policy and policies in general, blaming the new changes for the ongoing recession. This is a complete perversion of the truth for the simple fact that the problem began under the Bush Administration and[obviously]will not correct itself overnight. They are rallying together in protest of what is going on in the White House, as if Barack Obama had anything to do with the start and/or continuation of this economic mess we find ourselves in today. There is no disagreement when this began and there can be no one arguing, as of now, that Barack Obama had anything to do with it. I point these things out because this “Tea Party” that the right wing has cooked up is doing nothing more than blaming all of their hardships on Barack. They are needing to blame someone and why not someone of the opposite party…well I can tell you why..because it was a Republican that started this mess…not a democrat.

There are some worries amongst homeland security(started under Bush) that the Right Wing organization is trying to “recruit” soldiers with military training as they get back from the war. They are now beginning to purchase guns in record numbers, using the excuse that: “Barack Obama is going to take my guns away!”, even though Barack has never stated he would do that and still has not. Perhaps they speak of the tightening control over military assault weapons? Could be…I can’t seem to figure out their rationale. These people purchasing these guns in record numbers are obviously afraid or they would not rely on these weapons to make themselves feel secure. I am 27..I have never owned a weapon, nor do I have any inclination towards owning one.. When you back a coward into a corner…well…look out ’cause that guy is gonna’ freak out and you may not want to be in the way when he does. We are also seeing a number of Republicans that have begun reading books written by Rush, Sean, and others that preach hate about the “Damned Liberals”, then coincidentally those people are opening fire on mass crowds killing all the “liberals” they can. This has happened a couple of times in the last few months.

All of this stuff ties in to the ideal that this country is definitely headed for a civil war and the Republicans are going to be right on the forefront with their guns in hand trying to assert force to make people do what they tell them to, which is change policy. This would be a wonderful ideal if you were doing it to the people that actually started the whole economic crisis thing, but seeing that this is not the case, then what are they doing? They are just wanting to lash out against anyone and everyone because they are having a bad time, economically, emotionally, and spiritually. As the Republicans always say…”it’s your own fault…pull yourselves up by your own boot-straps and get on with life.” I’ve heard that way too many times to be able to stomache watching them stock up on weapons, put on their sheets and run around the country with fiery torches and rope. This is the same ‘ol song and dance of an ideaology that has never worked in the past and never will work.

I don’t fear this uprising, but I do think that people should be aware of what is happening and do something to ready themselves for what could be a nasty war between, what could be argued, the north and the south……..again…*sigh*

April 12, 1861

The American Civil War (1861-1865) began in Fort Sumter, South Carolina.  That little history fact reminded me of the movie ‘Glory’.  Glory is a 1989 war drama about the 54th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, one of the first formal military units to be made up entirely of African-Americans.

Every time I think of that movie I think of the scene where one of the white Union soldiers breaks protocol, and salutes them by saying “Give ‘em hell 54th!”, as he watches the black soldiers from the 54th march to lead the charge on Ft. Wagner, South Carolina.  That (white) soldier was the very individual who insulted and showed no respect for the black soldiers during a previous encounter in the movie.

William Tecumseh Sherman

In honor and recognition of these soldiers, and the many others who gave life and limb on behalf of the Union, I repeat those very words shouted by that white soldier… “Give ‘em hell 54th!’

Special recognition goes to General Ulysses S. Grant for his total war strategy against the Confederacy  and William Tecumseh Sherman for carrying out the strategy to defeat the Confederacy, as well as burning down many cities during his march through the South.

Storming Fort Wagner

An abstract of a Civil War battle

the 150th anniversaries are just under 2 years away

"They got some crazy little women there..."

Friday morning I’m flying to Kansas City for this cute little music festival. This will be my, um, third? year. In the past, this event was held in Lawrence, with the handful of venues just steps from each other. No lines, cheap-ass wristbands, friends playing, no day shows, nightly afterparty. Very fun. Very relaxing. My brother came down from Minnesota in the past, but he won’t be there this year. Lame.

The Record Bar, KCMO

This year the fest is in KC proper. We’ll see how that goes. I’m hooking up with the usual posse, so there’ll likely be some Ethiopian food and some burnt ends on my plate. Gimme a holler if there’s something you think I should do while I’m in KC!

The Meat Purveyors al fresco encore, North vs. South, 2007

I get home Sunday night, hang around the ATX for a couple of days, then head out to San Francisco for a conference (Weds-Sun). I’ve never been to the Bay Area, so gimme some tips for there, too, will ya? So far, I know I’m gonna go here & hopefully here. Oh, and to some conference shit, too, of course.

And I plan to wear a sweater the whole time I’m there. Yay! Sweater weather!

No, that’s not a typo. I really typed “north” instead of “fourth”. Why did I do it? Well, for one it rhymes. But more importantly that’s the name by which I’ll be celebrating this very American (and sometimes Puerto Rican) holiday today.

So why am I changing the name of the holiday I’ve celebrated and loved for so many years? I’m doing it because I can’t stand the hypocrisy any more! Today is supposed to be a day to make sweet love to this country with fireworks, hot dogs, tacos, roller coasters, American Flags, and (American) beer from Maine (the pine tree state) all the way to California (the natural disaster state). All 50 states celebrate the holiday and most people have the day off. It couldn’t be any more wonderful… or could it?

This might cause a little bit of a controversy here, but I think it could be more wonderful. So how am I going to make it more wonderful? Well, I already started by changing the name. The next part might be a bit more complex and anger some people, but I want to pass a law through Congress that only Americans in the North (above the Mason-Dixon line) should be allowed to celebrate this holiday while the rest of this country (the South) should use this day to shower and read a book… trust me people of the South, it’s for your own good… so gitttery git er dun.

So where does they hypocrisy fit in? Well, if today is supposed to be a day to make love to America, I can say on pretty good authority that people of the South are probably not making love to this country, they are probably too busy drunkenly groping their first cousins. And if today is a day to salute the American flag, you can pretty much bet the only flag they’ll be saluting is in the form of Confederacy.

I have a feeling that this law won’t get through Congress, but in an ideal world, it really how it should be. Why do I think the law won’t get passed?

1. I lost my School House Rock video on “How A Bill Becomes A Law”.
2. My local congressman won’t return my calls since the last law I tried to pass nearly got him impeached.
3. People might get confused by the name of the holiday since technically you can’t really be north of a month.
4. Southern people vote too. I don’t know this for a fact, but they probably have lots of free time between truck mudding and picking up welfare checks.

But even if I can’t celebrate this not new, only revised, holiday of mine on a national level, I’ll be celebrating it on a personal level. And what am I going to do to celebrate the first ever “North of July”? I’ll probably eat about 14 hot dogs, watch some fireworks AND I’m definitely going to salute the greatest American that ever lived. Harry Caray!

What makes him the greatest American that ever lived? Well, July 4th is both the date of his birth and his death (he also lived about 74 years in between the two). Most of the 74 years of his life were spent at Wrigley Field (Wrigley being the greatest American gum company) where he announced Cubs (greatest American baseball team) games. Not only did he announce the games, but before he was an announcer he invented the sport of baseball which would later go on to be called “America’s pass time”. Mr. Caray is also very famous for singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” during each baseball game, coincidentally this song is the only other song he wrote besides “The Star Spangled Banner”, both being the two best songs to ever come out of this great country.

So, Happy Birthday America! But more importantly, Happy Birthday Geraldo Rivera!

Clay you say… yes, well there’s an apparent difference between what Northerners refer to as clay, and what a Newfoundlander, such as myself, means when we refer to “clay”.  The best way to preface all this would be to give what I deem to be an explanation of “clay”.  Most of my life I have seen, dealt with, shoveled, shifted, cursed on, and even spread golden rain upon what I refer to as clay.  Plain old dirt really.  Nothing fancy… nothing out of the ordinary.  What most would refer to as the dirt of the earth… not topsoil quality but not “fill” quality (or lack thereof) either.  The in-between I guess you could say.  An intermediate filler that you could use to level a garden, prior to dressing it with topsoil.

So, on to my story…  (I know you can’t wait!). 

Last week I call up this company here in Yellowknife, known as Arctic Farmers.  They are the most popular flower, trees and general landscaping supply company here in Yellowknife.  So I’m looking for a load of clay (i.e. a dump truck full) along with some good old “pea gravel” to use around the new swing set.  So I proceed to explain the guy that I need a load of dirt (i.e. clay) that I could spread with a wheel barrow and use as a base before dressing with some topsoil.  Sure thing they say… we’ll have it over to you on Wednesday.

So the delivery guy (i.e. dump truck driver) calls me up on Wednesday and asks for me to meet him at the house.  I go there, meet the guy, direct him to the back garden, and watch the dump begin to lift and start emptying it’s contents in my garden.  After the first “globs” fall out, I’m thinking to myself…. this is not clay… so I start to kick at it to see if the “globs” break apart into clay.  No sir… they were globs of MUD… not clay.  I yell to the driver to stop tipping the truck.  He gets out, comes back, and asks what the problem is.  I explain that this is not “clay” and that I have no means or method to spread clumps of mud across my garden.  He tells me to call Darwin.  I assume he is the owner, but am not quite certain.

I call Darwin, and explain my dilemna and ask that he send a backhoe back over to clean this MUD from my garden.  I go back to work, and hope that he has someone come back to clean it up.  In the meantime I left the driver there, trying to get the back of the dump truck to close.  The remaining clay (i.e. MUD) was stuck in the opening of the dump, and he could not get the back of it closed!  Now that should tell you something.  If the dump truck can’t close on this MUD, there’s no way in hell I could spread it in the garden!  LOL

Luckily the mess was cleaned up when I returned home, however, the tractor they came with obviously did a number on the next door neighbour’s lawn.  Hopefully he is not too in love with his grass!

Until next time…

As a northerner living in the south for school, I have experienced a bit of a culture shock.

I’m not that used to how friendly everyone is down in the south. For example, I walked into a store the other day, and someone asked, “Hey how are you?” and I was like “I don’t even know you!”

Everybody says “y’all” in the south…but they say it all the time, no matter the situation. Someone from the university called me once and asked, “How y’all doing?” I thought, “Umm…we’re good? Am I on a conference call or something?”

“White power y’all”

It’s easy to spot the southerners by how effortlessly they say “y’all.” When I tried it, I exaggerated the “y’all” and winked as if I was communicating a secret code that told people I’m part of the underground railroad.

So I guess the main differences between the North and South are the friendliness and the use of the phrase “y’all.” Not to mention all the lynchings.

The Red Numbers of World Economy. Driven by profit, investors take more than their rightful share of world resources, refine them in unsustainable ways and sell the results to ignorant consumers, who throw half of what they buy away unused because they can, providing the planet with unnecessary waste. When issues such as climate change surface in the media, polluting manufacture is outsourced to countries that can’t afford to say no.

Wired has a story on the fact that almost all the mice used in laboratory research today are descended from a few inbred mice about a hundred years ago. It seems like there are advantages to having inbred mice in terms of experimental control, which may have been part of the original motivation. The fewer factors that change from experiment to experiment the better you can isolate /attribute causality. But of course, the criticism here is that the lack of diversity in test-mouse genetics may be the reason that problems with certain drugs didn’t become apparent until after the drugs hit the market.

All this interesting stuff about mice aside, we are then given a quote by the illustrious Fernando Pardo-Manuel de Villena:

“To make an analogy between mice and humans, using the classical inbred strains is like doing studies on 10 people selected from one small town in Appalachia.”

This is very reminiscent of a quote given by Peter Gordon of Columbia University in the New Yorker. He was checking up on work by Dan Everett, who has been creating waves in the linguistics community lately by challenging recursion, a fundamental notion of Chomskyan linguistics (the Minimalist Program). Defending the Piraha people against accusations of inbreeding, Gordon said:

“Besides, if there was some kind of Appalachian inbreeding or retardation going on, you’d see it in hairlines, facial features, motor ability. It bleeds over. They don’t show any of that.”

Gordon later apologized for his remarks, calling them “humbling”. Indeed. But here, I’m amazed to hear a professor of genetics from the University of North Carolina parroting it. Isn’t it funny how some racist comments are socially acceptable and some aren’t? (Granted, Appalachians aren’t a separate race, but not really sure what you’d call this. Regionalism? Just plain stereotyping?)

Full disclosure: One of my grandfathers’ family is from West Virginia (but of predominantly German descent) and one of my grandmothers is from Kentucky.