One night in the mid 90s, my wife and I were watching a PBS documentary series called “With God On Our Side: The Rise of The Religious Right In America.”
It featured a segment about how religious conservatives had tried to get “multicultural” textbooks banned in Kanawha County in the 1970s, back when I was in junior high school there.
The show included a woman named Alice Moore. I remembered her. She was a conservative preacher’s wife who’d led the fight against the books.
I told my wife, “This woman is crazy. Wait until you hear what she thinks.”
Alice shared her views, but to my surprise, what she said didn’t seem as nutty as I’d remembered. I didn’t agree with her assertion that God was being taken out of the public schools. But I felt for her.
The Kanawha textbook struggle happened a little more than a decade after the U.S. Supreme Court banned organized prayer and Bible readings from public schools. Although I support those rulings, I could understand why Alice was troubled. Thinking about this, I had an “Aha” moment:
“Alice believes her core beliefs are under attack. I have core beliefs. What if I truly felt that they were under attack?”
That epiphany would eventually define my work.
In 2009, I produced a radio documentary where I tried to understand what was upsetting my Kanawha neighbors back in 1974. I interviewed Alice Moore for this program, and a funny thing happened. We got to be friends.
Credit Current.org
/
Trey Kay receiving the DuPont Award
Often, I ring her up on the phone and we engage like diplomats from Red and Blue America who’ve exited their echo chambers for a respectful, spirited dialogue. I disagree with Alice’s views on the role of religion in our society, the virtues of Reagan conservatism and whether or not President Obama is a communist Muslim who was born in Kenya.
Sometimes, she really makes me mad. Sometimes, she says I break her heart because she thinks I’m so lost and confused.
But the person I disagree with is truly “Sweet Alice” – a kind person, who has a warm and welcoming family. The first time I visited her home in Tennessee, her 90-year-old mother baked me an apple pie. Alice seems to sincerely care about me and my family and friends. It’s hard to write off someone I have so much affection for as a “conservative Christian nut.”
I imagine that her friends warn her about her Yankee friend, who was indoctrinated in northeast liberal institutions, but I hope Alice sees me as more than a caricature.
I think conversations like Alice’s and mine are important. I don’t think I’ll ever agree with her, but I want to understand why she feels the way she does.
A recent Pew study found that Americans are more polarized than ever ideologically. It found that 36 percent of Republicans and 27 percent of Democrats actually see the other party as a threat to the country’s wellbeing. Reuters recently reported that Republicans see President Obama as a bigger threat than Vladimir Putin or Syrian President Bashar al-Assad.
People on one side of the political divide fear the people on the other side.
Perhaps we would fear each other less if we knew each other better.
My new podcast, “Us & Them,” will feature stories from West Virginia and other parts of the nation about people’s passionate views on either side of the cultural divide.
The idea is not to change anyone’s mind. It’s to find out what might happen if we take the time to listen to each other.
Trey Kay’s “Us & Them” is produced with West Virginia Public Broadcasting, and with support from the West Virginia Humanities Council.
A first listen party for the podcast will be hosted at Kin Ship Goods in Charleston on April 28 at 7 p.m., in advance of the public premiere.
West Virginia Public Broadcasting has teamed up with Charleston native and Peabody Award-winning producer Trey Kay for a new podcast, Us & Them. Slated to launch on May 1, Us & Them explores the issues that create vast cultural divides.
A first listen party for the podcast will be hosted at Kin Ship Goods in Charleston on April 28 at 7 p.m., in advance of the public premiere.
“West Virginia Public Broadcasting is proud to partner with Trey Kay on this new project. Us & Them is our attempt to bridge the divides of the so-called culture wars and find common ground,” said Scott Finn, Executive Director of West Virginia Public Broadcasting.
The first listen party will include an exclusive preview of Us & Them (featuring in-depth discussions about religion, gender and freedom of expression in Appalachia), followed by an intimate Q & A with podcast host/producer Trey Kay and podcast contributors/West Virginia Public Broadcasting reporters Dave Mistich and Roxy Todd. The event marks the debut of West Virginia Public Broadcasting’s partnership with NPR Generation Listen, an initiative to bring young, intellectually curious minds into the public broadcasting community.
“I can’t tell you how excited I am about this NPR Generation Listen event when audiences will hear the Us & Them podcast for the first time,” says podcast host/producer Trey Kay. “The whole Us & Them project is about finding ways to have different conversations between left and right, liberal and conservative, gay and straight, religious and secular and, equally as important, young and old. As I’ve been working on this project over the past year, older people who know my work ask, “What’s a podcast?” Younger people completely get it. I am hoping that Us & Them is a forum where the generations might come together to figure things out.”
Trey Kay is the recipient of the Peabody Award, Edward R. Murrow Award and Alfred I. duPont-Columbia University Award for his 2009 radio documentary The Great Textbook War, which examined the battle over school textbooks in Kanawha County, West Virginia. He shared in another Peabody Award for his contribution to Studio 360’s American Icons: Moby Dick, and he researched as a Spencer Fellow for Education Reporting at the Columbia School of Journalism as he produced The Long Game: Texas’ Ongoing Battle for the Direction of the Classroom. He has also produced for Marketplace, Weekend America, Day to Day, American RadioWorks, Morning Edition and PBS Frontline.
The event is free and open to the public, but space is limited. For more information on the Us & Them first listen party and to reserve a seat, visit usandthem.splashthat.com.
Us & Them is presented with financial assistance from the West Virginia Humanities Council, a state affiliate of the National Endowment for the Humanities. Any views, findings, conclusions or recommendations do not necessarily represent those of the West Virginia Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.
About West Virginia Public Broadcasting: West Virginia Public Broadcasting tells West Virginia’s story through high-quality programming and services including radio, television, Mountain Stage®, wvpublic.org, WV LearningMedia and Ready To Learn®. West Virginia Public Broadcasting is a trusted resource for education, news, emergency services and community development.
Songwriter Sam Gleaves was inspired by the story of Sam Williams, a former coal miner who was harassed at work for being gay.
Sam Gleaves is a musician who grew up playing old time mountain music in Southwestern Virginia. His songs have a high lonesome, old-time sound. Their roots are deep in Appalachia, and the stories they tell explore some bitter truths about how hard it can be to be different here. I met up with Gleaves at his home in Berea, KY to talk about one song in particular.
Sam Gleaves says he’s been drawn to music since he was kid in Rural Retreat, Virginia. He loved to listen to Bob Dylan and Stevie Nicks. “I was always interested in songs that told stories about real people and real emotion. So I was drawn to folk music.”
Sam Gleaves. Photo by Susi Lawson.
When he was 12, he got a guitar and started playing along with the radio, picking out the chords.“I’d been teaching myself to play the guitar for about a year or so, and my mom said ‘there’s a fella over there in Rural Retreat that teaches music lessons in his barber shop.’ So I went in his barber shop for the first time. There were two young men playing an old time dance tune. And I had never seen that, up close and personal in that way. Just to think it was just two guys it was really amazing to me.”
Sam Gleaves started taking lessons from that barber, an old time musician whose name was Jim Lloyd. Last spring Sam graduated from Berea college in Berea, KY, where he studied oral history and played in the college’s bluegrass band. Now, he’s turning his attention towards something other than traditional old time music. He’s producing an album of original songs called Aint We Brothers. The title song is based on the true story of a coal miner from West Virginia who was harassed and threatened at work after his co-workers discovered he was gay.
I was born here just the same as you/ Another time, another day
I’m sure the good Lord took his time/ Making each of us just this way
I walked beside you step by step/ And it never crossed my mind
That I would grow up one of the different kind
“I wanted to write the song about what it means to be a man. LGBTQ folks in Appalachia have a particularly complex identity because because you have modern queer culture, which is very urban, and very young feeling. And then there’s what we think about Appalachian culture- having deep roots and being rural. But then you have people that belong to both of those identities. Like as a gay man who grew up in southwestern Virginia, I have to claim my whole self,” said Gleaves.
The coal miner who inspired his song recently sent Sam Gleaves an email, letting him know how much he enjoyed hearing the song. The coal miner, also named Sam, used to be known as Sam Hall. He married his partner Burley Williams in D.C. back in 2010, and recently took his husband’s name. Sam and Burley Williams live in a small town a few miles outside of Charleston W.Va.
Sam Williams is 32 years old, tall and muscular, with hands that are chiseled from the seven years they’ve spent cutting coal from these hills. But he’s not a coal miner anymore. He quit Massey energy in 2010 after working as a miner for seven years. I spent an evening at their home. At their kitchen table, I ate a nectarine while Burley Williams cooked burritos. Sam Williams talked about what happened when his coworkers found out he was gay.
“Not that I ever even told them that I was gay. They just watch, follow, see me come out of a bar, automatically stereotype me. I faced a lot of things in the mines. I’ve been told that they hope all faggots die. There’s a fine line between someone saying that they’re joking and somebody looking you in the eye and saying it and knowing that that’s what they meant. But when it’s your supervisors it’s a whole different ball game.”
Then I asked him about Sam Gleaves’ song. Williams said he thinks it’s a very powerful song, especially the verse that goes:
First things first I’m a Blue-collared man
With scars on my knuckles, dust on my hands
Probably wouldn’t have ever known
I’ve got a man waiting on me at home
“Yes, that relates to me so much because I know that Burley was waiting for me at home. He’d wait for me until I got in and then he’d have dinner waiting on me, even if I got in at 3:00 in the morning,” said Williams.
Burley and Sam Williams were married in D.C. in 2010. Last year when same sex marriage became legally recognized in West Virginia, Sam took his husband’s name.
He and Burley have lived together since 2009. The first years they were dating, Sam Williams was dealing with the worst of the harassment and threats from his co-workers. Burley says there were nights when he feared for Sam’s life.
“And they messed with his vehicle, like scratched ‘Quit Fag’,” says Burley Williams. Sam’s co-workers “took the wheel weights off his tires. It was nerve-wracking because when he didn’t come home, I had to go out drive to the mines and go search for him. I’m thinking someone’s shot him on the side of the road.”
Sam’s co-workers even came to their house late at night to bang on their door. To protect himself and Sam, Burley bought his very first gun. He also got a concealed weapon permit, in case they were ever confronted when they went out in public.
“You always know that there’s hate out there. There’s individually people that never will be accepting of gay individuals. So you do have to take precautions to protect yourself and your family and your loved ones,” said Burley Williams.
Sam Williams relaxing with his two dogs Bella and Lacy.
Sam Williams finally had had enough, and he quit his job in 2010. He sued his former employer, Massey Energy for sexual harassment.
He couldn’t sue for discrimination, because in West Virginia it’s legal to discriminate against people who are gay. State law prohibits discriminating against people on the basis of sex or race – but the law doesn’t include sexual orientation. The same is true of other states in Appalachia, like Kentucky and Virginia.
Andrew Schneider is the Executive Director of Fairness West Virginia, a gay rights advocacy group. The group is trying to pass a law that would make it illegal to discriminate against an employee based on sexual orientation or gender identity.
“It’s particularly, I think, risky now, that we have marriage equality, because you can get married on Sunday and fired on Monday. Marriage, in some ways, makes our relationships in the gay community more visible. You are more prone to having your picture of your loved one on your desk. You’re more likely to wear your wedding ring. You want to talk with your co-workers about what you did with your family over the weekend. We never expected we would get marriage before we got non-discrimination,” said Andrew Schneider.”
Even without that legal protection, Sam Williams was able to get a settlement from his former employer. In 2011, Massey Energy was bought out by Alpha Natural Resources, and the new owners agreed to settle Sam’s case out of court. Alpha declined to comment on the case, but they did send an email saying the company “is committed to a workplace that is free of discrimination and where all employees, no matter their gender identity or sexual orientation, are treated fairly and with respect.”
Still, Sam Williams says he doesn’t think it would be safe to go back to mining. Now he works as a manager at a Dollar General.
“I do miss running good coal. I miss being top dogs on the coal crew- before everything started getting more violent. If there was a perfect world out there I’d love to be a coal miner again. But it’ll never happen again…more than likely. But it was fun.”
But it wasn’t fun once he had to look over his shoulder all the time, worried that somebody he worked with would follow through on their threats to kill him.
Even years later, Sam Williams still seems hurt that the people he thought were his close friends turned against him. In the song about him, the coal miner has a conversation with his co-workers. In the song, the miner tells them he’s still the true West Virginian he always was. That doesn’t change just because he’s gay.
To tell you the truth, I don’t want to fight
I just want to say one thing outright to you:
Ain’t we flesh and blood too?
And ain’t we brothers too?
Sam Gleaves is currently recording his debut album Aint We Brothers in Nashville, TN. The album is being produced by Cathy Fink and will be released this May.
Our story on Sam Gleaves and Sam Williams was reported by Roxy Todd, in collaboration with a new podcast WVPB is working on called Us & Them. Us & Them explores how Americans are divided along cultural fault lines. Listen for new episodes this spring.
For decades, the Reverend Jim Lewis has been making headlines in Charleston. He’s an outspoken progressive in a conservative state. He’s known for his efforts to help poor people and his fights against racial injustice — and for his support for gay families. This weekend, Lewis received a Faith Leadership Award from Fairness West Virginia, a group that promotes LGBT rights. He spoke with producer Trey Kay.
Trey Kay: Reverend Jim Lewis came to Charleston in 1974, to be rector of St. John’s Episcopal Church. He wanted the church to have an open door policy – to be a sanctuary. And he says gay people began coming to him, looking for that sanctuary:
Jim Lewis: They wanted a place where they could sit and talk. The guy that came to me was a speechwriter for the governor, he was playing the folk mass at the Catholic church, he knew that if he came out, he would lose both those positions. He wouldn’t be playing the guitar anymore at the Catholic church. He wouldn’t be writing speech writing for the governor. That was the 70s, wouldn’t have happened! And they had their own personal problems with one another, way they relate to one another as closeted people and they wanted to talk about that in a safe setting, and so the church provided that safe setting.
Trey Kay: Did you just give them a room, and then they went in there and talked, or did you sit and talk with them?
Jim Lewis: Well, I gave them a room — we were giving the room to everybody. This was my ministry, to open up the church doors to everybody, and so sure, come on in. They asked me if I’d sit in on some of the meetings, and I said well, sure, I need to learn, I’d be glad to sit in and I did. So they trusted me and they came to me and then finally, two couples came to me on their own, two women and two men and said they would like me to bless their relationship.
By the way, God could’ve given me an easier situation. The women, one of them had a child. Oooh! The male couple, one of them was white, one of them was black. Could have been easier! It was a challenge.
Trey Kay: What was the problem with the woman with the child and –
Jim Lewis: Well, the women, in those days, you see, this was in the 70s, gay people weren’t supposed to be trusted around any children. Some of those attitudes are still with us. But remember, in those days, to have a couple, married, two women, and raise a child without a man? This could be very dangerous, and this was not the way God intended. That was the way we were being told by strong religious force in this country.
So I took them in the church, separately, two separate events, and took the service, the marriage service and I revised it in some ways so that it would fit them, and they took the vows, they kissed and then we had a little champagne or something and that was it.
Trey Kay: Lewis says the church’s governing committee was shocked and some of his parishioners were kind of traumatized.
Jim Lewis: “Are we gonna be able to pay the bills and keep the church open, Jim I know you welcome these people in, but you know we may not have a church here with all these people and with this gay stuff, this might be the end of the world, the sky may be falling in on us here at the church.” This is something, you know, it’s better not to talk about it. It’s better – I phrase it this way – it’s better that we keep this in the closet.
Trey Kay: Lewis says the marriages weren’t legal – the state didn’t allow that back then. But the relationships lasted.
Jim Lewis: As far as I know their relationships went on for a number of years after the blessing. It’s amazing they went on at all. They had to hide. I used to think, you know, I’ve been married to a woman for 55 years. What would it be — I used to think this thought to myself. What would it be if I couldn’t take her to a party, if I couldn’t hold her hand, if I couldn’t kiss her in public. And that’s where we were in the 70s. What a hell of a situation that is. Real hell.
Trey Kay: When I first learned of you as Jim Lewis, when I first learned who you were, you were the guy who married the queers. How did that feel? That was my perception. Did that sting a little bit? How does that feel?
Jim Lewis: Well, whenever you’re called a name, the Christian tradition teaches me this – again, it’s something I had to learn, my feet planted in it – count it as a blessing. You want to call me a lover of queers, I do love queers. Thank you. Thank you. But count it a blessing and understand that they’re calling me that because they don’t understand me. They may not even understand the gospel message if they’re yelling it from the pulpit.
I think there’s a friendly attitude here now about gay people in West Virginia. We certainly have our demons to fight, this is not a progressive battle that it’s over with and now we can celebrate. It’s going to – racism and sexism and classism and militarism they continue to bounce up like demons and we have to fight them when they come up. And so the battle’s not over, but I tell you when I see a headline in the paper that the first gay couple have been married here in this state, the size of that print on the Daily Mail newspaper here which is a fairly conservative paper, is the same size that you see when a war is over. I mean, the war is over! And you see these big, bold, black letters. I said, “Oh, my God, I never thought I’d see this in my lifetime.” They were ready to hang me back in the 70s, and now I never thought I’d see this kind of change. It’s been remarkable, remarkable social change.
A month ago the city of Parkersburg posted signs around town asking the public not to give to panhandlers. But some people still do. And some panhandlers say the signs aren’t just ineffective. They’re insulting. Even defamatory.
On Sundays, you’re likely to find Charles Kelly perched on a stool at the intersection in front of the Wal-Mart in South Parkersburg. He’s wearing headphones and theres a sign pinned to a backpack in front of him that reads ‘Disabled Veteran. Please Help. God Bless You.’
“The main reason I actually started panhandling two years ago was, basically, this right here. You see what that says there? Disconnect notice,” said Kelley, referring to a letter he received from the electric company.
He served in Japan during the Vietnam War. He receives benefits but, still, he says it’s not enough.
“I get $1,055 dollars a month,” he said. “Out of that comes rent, electric, food. I get $16 in food stamps. How’s a person to live on $16 worth of food? That’s impossible!”
Kelly said he can’t work because he injured his hip while he was in the service.
Within 20 feet of him is another sign on a metal pole sticking out of the ground right in that same median where he sits.
Until recently, the city prohibited panhandling in some areas, and Kelly got a ticket for $137. The ACLU took up his case and, in August, Kelly took a drug test at Marietta Memorial Hospital to prove he wasn’t abusing drugs or alcohol.
As a result of the ACLU’s case on behalf of Kelly, the United States District Court in the Southern District of West Virginia issued a preliminary injunction, which stopped the city from giving out the tickets to panhandlers.
“The city had an ordinance which required individuals to get a permit. The city only gave those permits to organizations and not individuals who were panhandling on behalf of themselves, even if they sought one,” said Jennifer Meinig, executive director of the ACLU of West Virginia.
In early October, the city posted signs asking the public not to give to panhandlers and then, about a week later, the city council repealed the panhandling ordinance.
Credit Parkersburg City Council
/
Just two weeks later, the city passed a different ordinance, one outlawing what they deem “aggressive” solicitations. Mayor Robert Newell says it’s a matter of public safety.
“These people up here are so stupid that when the light is green, they will stop and dig through their purse–backing up traffic at the Memorial Bridge to give them a buck,” said Newell. “To give some guy who’s wacked out, half laying in the grass a dollar. We thought, ‘well maybe we can educate the public with these signs.’ People really do believe they’re helping and they’re not.”
Mayor Newell says there’s better ways of helping the poor. He also says the problem panhandlers are not homeless people.
“Some of them even drive to the location. They’re not homeless at all,” he said.” You can follow them to their houses and we know where they live. They are doing this purely for alcohol and drugs and everything else. But certainly alcohol.”
But the ACLU says not all panhandlers are addicts — and it’s defamatory to claim they are. Charles Kelly says it’s certainly not true in his case – and he says he’s not an aggressive panhandler.
While Kelly panhandles, he sits calmly perched on a fold-out stool. He doesn’t approach anyone or knock on windows of cars. Cars stop at the stoplight and many people glare over at him. But a few passersby hand Kelly some sort of groceries–like a bag of pepperoni rolls from the Wal-Mart deli. James Workman of nearby Rockport rolled down his window and hands Kelly a few dollar bills.
Kelly believes he has a right to do what he’s doing.
“It’s just like, look here. Burger King sign up there,” he said, pointing to signs in the shopping plaza adjacent to where he was sitting. “That’s basically advertising, just like my sign. Wal-Mart, Bob Evans, Lowes—all advertising. I’m advertising. I’m advertising my situation, they’re advertising their businesses. Basically, that’s all it is.”
Kelly said the sign he’s sitting under hasn’t reduced the amount of money he gets from passersby. The ACLU hasn’t made a decision yet about whether to challenge the signs in court.
Just a few hours after Attorney General Patrick Morrisey announced he would no longer fight a challenge to West Virginia’s gay marriage ban in court and Governor Tomblin directed state agencies to begin taking steps toward allowing the practice, Chris Bostic and David Epp of Charleston were the first couple to apply for a marriage license in Kanawha County.
Moments before, Justin Murdock and William Glavaris, as well as Casie McGee and Sarah Adkins received their licenses to marry in Cabell County.
Counties across West Virginia are issuing the licenses after orders from the state saying not to turn couples away.
