In November 2023 I was asked why I love Arkansas, and I’ve been writing this post ever since.
Arkansas seems to be going through a major identity crisis. It’s been rejected by those who claim love and empathy are their values. It’s been denounced by liberal elitists looking down their noses at us while telling us our only hope is to vote for the Democrats, while it’s simultaneously been groomed by alluring fascists who pet our anxious heads and tell us our lives matter to them even if we aren’t the smartest or best kid in the classroom.
No, of course the Republicans don’t walk their talk. Sure, they’ve stripped away our child labor protections, gutted public education, encouraged exploitation of laborers and incarceration of poor people, repealed worker protection laws that guarantee breaks, are trying to repeal the existence of overtime pay, continuously attack our access to healthcare, continue to waste our tax money on frivolous expenses that don’t serve us while quietly ignoring a major water treatment plant that’s about to fail, which would cause irreversible damage to our home state’s and neighbors’ water supply for literally the rest of our lives and our children’s lives….
But that’s not the point. These fascists, like any smart abuser, make us feel important and cared for.
They show us attention, when the people who claim to be the party of moral superiority, better ethics, compassion, and empathy… just can’t be bothered. The Republicans are the old man with his hand down our 11 year-old pants while Mommy and Daddy at the DNC are too busy enjoying the cocktail party to even notice whether we’re alive or not. They have made very clear we aren’t worth their investment or effort, and that they don’t care how our babysitter treats us in their absence, and we feel that.
(Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you, Democrats. You don’t get fruits from what you neglect and abuse. Lowest voter turnout in the nation ain’t a coincidence. Humans need love — and when we can’t get real love from you, most folks settle for just getting some attention instead. The past 8 years of election results and current polls support what I’m saying. Face facts. Do better.)
But here’s the thing: I knew Arkansas before she was in this particular identity crisis. I know Arkansas’ trees and the songs in her roots. I know who she was before she forgot how to love herself.
I know the rhythm of boots in the hills quietly carrying moonshine through Boone County. I know this in my bones like an ancient drum.
I know the steps to the dances in the chicken coop we gathered at on Friday nights, just past the stop sign and down the dirt road to the right in Dur’m, outside Elkins.
I know the fear of the pregnancy tests in middle school.
I know the green stain a walnut’ll leave on your hands in the summer if you don’t leave ’em on the ground.
I know where to find my neighbor with a chainsaw when a tree falls across the driveway.
I know the fog on the walk to school at 7:23 a.m. in the Ozarks — and its secrets.
I know the cosmic hum of Country music before it was commercialized, back when the enslaved African human trafficking survivors and less-abused but still exploited and impoverished not-yet-White folks lived and worked and made music alongside one another together.
I know these Highway 40 Blues. I’ve walked holes in both my shoes.
I know if you wanna get to Heaven, you’ve gotta raise a little hell.
Moses Hogan has a whole performance hall constructed in my heart, and its stage has been filled with Arkansan singers since I was a teen.
I’ve crossed the street in Camden to speak equally to folks who won’t speak to one another from their respective White and Black churches on Sunday morning.
I’ve caught bluegill here and cleaned them for dinner.
The deer come to me for corn.
I’ve been through an identity crisis before. I even forgot my own name for a while. The whole world stopped making any sense. I was alone, and felt abandoned, and the only anybody who gave a crap about me was some stranger in the television who was making my life hell but at least making me feel like someone saw me existing, when everyone I had trusted to love me didn’t know how to love me.
It was love that brought me back from that crisis. Getting healthy attention. Remembering who I am; what I’m capable of being. Love led me back to myself. Love helped me heal.
My great grandma raised me for my first decade of life. I know the work her daddy put into the Missouri & North Arkansas railroad. I know where her brother was buried after his valiant effort to overthrow Hitler and rescue the incarcerated innocent lives being subjected to genocide under fascist reign. I know Project 2025 and those associated with it represent everything he gave his life fighting against, under the firm belief that I could grow up to be healthy and free and live authentically in Arkansas.
I know how to love Arkansas through this identity crisis, because like my own identity crisis, self-hatred doesn’t accurately represent who Arkansas is.
Just because our history is wrought with exploitation doesn’t mean we have to exploit one another.
Just because we’ve been built up around a Plantation economy model doesn’t mean we have to allow it to continue. We could love one another more than money. We could love one another more than anything at all.
We could love ourselves. We’re so worthy of that love. This is why I love Arkansas.
The Front Porch 