I was born in Lexington, Kentucky, but Lexington was never the whole story. My childhood was split in two: weekdays in the city, and weekends and summers in Hindman, deep in the mountains of eastern Kentucky. Lexington had malls, sidewalks, and a sense of bustle. Hindman had winding country roads, front porches that sagged under the weight of family gatherings, and hills that seemed to fold in on themselves. Those summers at my grandparents’ place were more than just vacations-they were lessons in what it meant to live where poverty wasn’t the exception but the rule.
My grandparents lived modestly, in a small house that always smelled faintly of fried potatoes and laundry soap. They weren’t wealthy by any stretch, but compared to many of their neighbors, they were doing okay. They had steady food on the table, a car that (mostly) ran, and a roof that didn’t leak too badly. In Hindman, that put them ahead of the curve. Poverty wasn’t hidden there-it was the water everyone swam in, the landscape as familiar as the mountains themselves.
And yet, poverty wasn’t just about money. It was about power. The people who had money were often the same ones ensuring everyone else stayed without it. Sometimes it was landlords charging more than homes were worth. Sometimes it was local businesses paying wages that never stretched far enough. As a child, I couldn’t name it as systemic injustice, but I could feel it. You could see who got to breathe easier, and who was constantly scraping by.
Liz’s House of Clothes
One of the most vivid pieces of that world was Liz. My mom would take us to her house almost every time we visited. Calling it a “shop” would be generous-it was just Liz’s old house, cluttered with piles of used clothes and shoes, scattered across the floor. There were no racks, no cash register, no dressing rooms. You simply stepped inside, dug through the stacks until you found something that fit, and then Liz would size you up and name her price.
It wasn’t charity. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was survival. For a lot of families, Liz’s place was the only source of clothes they could reasonably access. The nearest “real” clothing store was a K-Mart thirty miles away, down narrow country roads that twisted like a snake through the hills. Gas wasn’t cheap, cars weren’t always reliable, and once you got there, the prices inside were still out of reach for most. So Liz filled the gap. In her house, hand-me-downs were recycled into lifelines.
I remember the smell of that place-stale fabric, dust, sometimes the faint trace of mildew. I remember holding up jeans that were too long or shoes that pinched, and Mom telling me, “They’ll do.” That phrase-they’ll do-was the anthem of Hindman. Clothes didn’t have to be stylish, meals didn’t have to be fancy, houses didn’t have to be new. They just had to be enough.
Why Don’t People Just Leave?
People who’ve never lived in a place like Hindman often ask the same question: Why don’t they just move? As if escape were as easy as packing a suitcase. But the truth is, nobody there hardly had two nickels to rub together. Moving takes money-first month’s rent, deposits, gas, maybe a U-Haul-and nobody had that kind of cushion. Even borrowing was impossible. Who would you borrow from? Family that was just as strapped? Friends living in the same cycle?
And then there’s the land itself. Eastern Kentucky is beautiful-dense forests, rolling mountains, creeks that glitter in the summer sun-but it’s isolating. In cities, you might find buses or trains to carry you across town. In Hindman, you had two options: your car, or your feet. And when the nearest job, grocery store, or hospital is miles away down mountain roads, walking isn’t much of an option. Without a car, you’re stuck. Without money, you can’t get a car. And so the cycle spins on.
Life Between Two Worlds
As a kid, I lived in the space between two Kentuckys. In Lexington, I saw department stores, movie theaters, and neighborhoods where lawns were mowed in perfect rows. In Hindman, I saw clothes bought from Liz’s floor, families stretching food stamps to the end of the month, and kids whose school lunches might be their only reliable meal of the day.
The contrast was jarring, even then. In the city, poverty was present but hidden. In Hindman, it was everywhere, inescapable, woven into the rhythm of life. I didn’t fully grasp the politics of it until I was older, but as a child, I could sense the weight of it-the way it pressed on people’s shoulders, the way it shaped their choices, the way it limited their dreams.
Lessons From Hindman
Those summers didn’t just give me memories-they gave me perspective. They taught me that resilience is born out of necessity, that community often means survival, and that poverty is not a reflection of laziness or failure. It’s a reflection of systems designed to keep people where they are.
I think of Liz’s house often. I think of how something as simple as a pile of secondhand clothes could become a cornerstone of a community. I think of my grandparents, holding on to what little they had and still managing to give. I think of the hills that seemed endless, both beautiful and confining.
Eastern Kentucky is a place of deep struggle, yes-but also deep strength. It shaped me in ways I’m still discovering. And whenever I hear someone say, “Why don’t they just leave?” I can’t help but think back to those summers in Hindman, to the mountains, the poverty, and the resilience that made staying not just a reality, but, for many, the only choice. So when you hear certain politicians tell you about eastern Kentucky,