Archived thesis/research paper/faculty publication from the University of North Carolina at Asheville’s NC DOCKS Institutional Repository: http://libres.uncg.edu/ir/unca/ “A Wound So Deep and Ragged:” The Vulnerable Body of Appalachia in Ron Rash’s Short Stories Senior Paper Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements For a Degree Bachelor of Arts with A Major in Literature at The University of North Carolina at Asheville Fall 2016 By Chelsea Walker __________________ Thesis Director Evan Gurney __________________ Thesis Advisor Erica Abrams-Locklear Sitting at a table in the corner of the Grey Pheasant, a restaurant depicted in the fictional pages of Ron Rash’s short story “Honesty,” main character Richard watches as his date, Lee Ann McIntyre, pulls her hair back from her neck. Lee Ann, unaware of the fact that Richard is married and was persuaded by his wife to go on the date in order to write an article about it, reveals “A welt long and thick as a cigarette...But it wasn’t a welt. It was a scar, a scar that hadn’t healed right, or maybe covered a wound so deep and ragged it could never heal right” (Chemistry 108, 116). As the rest of the story unravels Lee Ann’s past and focuses on Richard’s understanding of her life, Lee Ann’s scar not only stands out as a defining moment in the plot of “Honesty,” but also as indicative of a recurring, pervasive theme in Rash’s fiction: the traumatized body. A large majority of Rash’s characters are, like Lee Ann, subjects of various manifestations of violence, with their bodies, minds, and histories existing as trauma sites. Though this trend is apparent in Rash’s entire body of work, the condensed nature of the short story form intensifies the significance of these traumatized bodies, inviting a closer analysis of each singular instance of trauma. This in mind, Rash’s short story collections Chemistry and Other Stories (2007) and Burning Bright (2010) provide a rich literary landscape within which to examine Rash’s plethora of psychologically, socially, and physically traumatized characters. Although the contemporary nature of Rash’s fiction has limited the scope of critical attention to his writing, scholars have already began to observe and discuss the role of violence in his work. Rash scholar Thomas Bjerre addresses Rash’s violent themes in his essay “The Rough South of Ron Rash.” In working to classify Rash’s work 2 within a cultural/geographical literary demographic, Bjerre focuses on “Grit Lit” scholar Brian Carpenter’s definition of the “Rough South,” a demographic Carpenter describes as “mostly poor, white, rural, and unquestionably violent” (Bjerre 99). Bjerre then spends the rest of the essay constructing his argument that Rash’s work sits firmly within this tradition, as Rash “fills his work with characters firmly embedded in the Rough South” and “illustrates his concern with working-class characters and their struggles, with poor whites and their violent conflicts” (Bjerre 99,100). When working to determine the function and effect of Rash’s frequent incorporation of traumatized bodies, the notion of a “Rough South” provides a crucial lens through which to consider how bodies, violence, and landscape intersect in Rash’s work. However, Bjerre’s placement of Rash’s “rough” fiction within a vaguely Southern landscape glosses over the fact that Rash’s fiction inhabits and focuses on a very specific southern demographic: rural Appalachia. Born in Boilings Springs, SC, and spending his entire life in the Appalachian foothills and Western North Carolina, Rash rarely, if ever, sets his stories beyond the rural landscape of Western North Carolina and southern portions of the Appalachian mountains. Rash’s personal and literary intimacy with the Appalachian landscape and the hardship the region faces has led many critics to praise his work for its “fierce and primal connection to place, to the land through which he came to know the world, and to his strong ties to family and the ‘blood memory’ of his ancestry” (Wilhelm 1,2). In other words, it may be more appropriate to consider Rash as fitting within a “Rough Appalachia,” rather than “Rough South,” tradition. This distinction is made not to deny the universality of Rash’s work, nor to limit Rash as a strictly “Appalachian author,” but rather to contextualize the intersection of body, violence, and landscape 3 within the framework of a specifically Appalachian brand of trauma. While the Rough South may be a region of violence and poverty, Rash’s themes of violence, trauma, death, loss, loneliness, and separation seem colored with the distinct regional experience of a disadvantaged, exploited, and scarred Appalachian landscape. His stories, and their violence, rotate around the trauma of an area that has been frequently subjected to pervasive stereotyping, media misrepresentation, economic disadvantage, ruthless industrial progressivism, extractive industry, and the vast network of effects these forces carry in their wake. However, Rash’s short stories do not simply exist as a narrative lamentation of the trauma experienced by his landscape. There is a particular function and purpose to the way in which Rash encapsulates and displays this Appalachian brand of trauma, and it lies in the human essence of his work. Rash’s short stories are rife with an array of complex, realistic, vulnerable, yet unquestioningly resilient characters who manage to embody the hardship of an Appalachian rural lifestyle without playing into stereotypes often constructed about those living in this region. Rash then takes the specifically Appalachian brand of trauma- it’s scarred landscape, exploited people, and troubled history - and projects it onto the traumatized bodies of these distinctly Appalachian characters. Rather than simply mentioning the epidemic of substance abuse in Appalachia, he provides us the shivering, sickly bodies of addicts and misplaced parents in “Back of Beyond.” Rather than describing the dangers of the logging industry and the damage it does to the landscape, he has a logger’s leg in “Blackberries in June” sawed into and subsequently amputated: cut off from its body, just like the trees. Rather than stating that Appalachia is vulnerable to threatening exploitation by outsiders, he has Lee 4 Ann sitting at a table in a fancy restaurant, showing her scars and talking about a man trying to kill her to a journalist who wants to use her for his own career. In essence, these characters are vulnerable, and their vulnerability, when considered in combination with their embodiment of Appalachian rural lifestyles, mirrors the distinct vulnerability experienced by the Appalachian region and landscape. In addressing and displaying the trauma faced by the Appalachian region in such a way, Rash’s stories work to capture the realities of the region and those living within it while avoiding the oversentimenalization that has plagued public concern for Appalachia for so long. By projecting the trauma, hardship, and reality of Appalachian experience onto the human bodies of his characters, Rash fashions an Appalachian trauma that, essentially, walks and talks. This is crucial in that it serves to combat the generalization and “othering” of Appalachia and its experience by way of complicating, nuancing, and humanizing its plight. The Appalachian region becomes a bodily, human being, allowing his readers to more intimately understand and empathize with its hardship and struggle. Ultimately, Rash creates a path towards empathy that provides a crucial first step towards healing Appalachian trauma and correcting a public narrative that has for so long forgotten the diversity, nuance, and eclectic richness of the region. Bodily Violence and Personal Injury When we consider Appalachian trauma in all its forms (environmental, cultural, social, economic) through the lens of violence, it is especially important to look to the space where acts of violence most frequently manifest themselves: on the body. Rash’s character’s bodies often exist as sites of violence. Lee Ann in “Honesty” has the thick scar along her neck, the woman in the waiting room in “Not Waving but Drowning” 5 holds her teeth in her hand as blood trickles out of her mouth, Charlton in “Blackberries in June” has to amputate his leg, characters in “Back of Beyond” and “The Ascent” are emaciated and sick from drug abuse, and so on. The violence that each of these characters is subjected to takes many forms. Some of the traumas are accidental (Charlton’s leg), some intentional (Lee Ann’s scar), and the origin of some are left ambiguous (the waiting room woman’s teeth), leaving the reader to speculate about how they occurred. This functions to diversify both cause and intention behind bodily injury, positing it as neither the exclusive result of negligence or aggression, but as a phenomenon with a multiplicity and spectrum of causation. Rash’s depictions of violence upon the body are especially powerful, however, in his illustrations of how bodily violence not only originates from, but subsequently affects, almost every aspect of his characters’ lives. Lee Ann tells Richard in “Honesty” that her scar came from her ex-husband’s attempt to kill her, explaining that he “swore he would kill me when he got out [of prison],” and “that’s why I need a knight in shining armor...to get me away from here, away from North Carolina, someplace where he can’t find me when he gets out” (Chemistry 116). With this revealed information, the scar becomes not only a representation of a singular instance of bodily harm, but also of a physically and psychologically traumatic relationship that still haunts Lee Ann, even after the perpetrator has been imprisoned. Her inability to escape or forget her trauma is emphasized when she later tells Richard that her ex “still sends me pictures he draws...Pictures of me with just my head, no body. My eyes are open in those pictures. My mouth too. I’m screaming” (Chemistry 118). In another example, if we consider the miscarriages that take place in Rash’s story “Not Waving but Drowning” as a type of bodily trauma, then we again see 6 Rash reveal the widespread impact of such trauma, as the narrator contemplates: “Something happens to a couple after a miscarriage, you cry together, you talk to the counselor and preacher...but there’s still a part of that pain you can’t share...You carry that pain inside like a tumor, and though it may shrink with time, it never disappears, and it’s malignant” (Chemistry 81). Similarly, when Charlton loses his leg in “Blackberries in June,” his wife tells her sister-in-law, Linda, that “I got three young ones to feed and buy school clothes for, and a disability check ain’t going to be enough to do that” (Chemistry 66). It is later revealed that Linda will most likely have to give up her and her husband’s dream house that they’ve been working on for years in order to help Charlton’s family survive after the injury. In each of these examples, Rash establishes a connection between bodily harm and other modes of trauma, be it psychological, relational, or economic, in his characters’ lives. In revealing physical violence in this fashion, as a force that reflects upon, causes, and encapsulates such varying aspects of his characters’ inner and outer lives, Rash “shows deep understanding of social and psychological mechanisms leading to the inevitable violence and death and its consequences” (Bjerre 103). This multi-faceted depiction of physical violence not only makes the issue of violence more complex, but this complexity further strengthens the connection between Rash’s characters’ trauma and the rural Appalachian region. In an article analyzing personal injury and trauma statistics in rural vs. urban Appalachia, Dr. Levi Proctor et al posit that “trauma is a disease with identifiable causes and profound financial, social, personal, and psychological impacts (213). We can see, in the similarities between Proctor et al and Bjerre’s language, that violence both in Rash’s fictional world and in the real Appalachian society is not a 7 spontaneous, random occurrence, but the result of, and contributor to, the psychological and social milieu it is born within. This nuancing of the concept of physical injury, both in relation to the bodies of Rash’s characters and the body of Appalachia, is important in that it resists oversimplification, denying the reader the ability to view the injury in isolation from the web of cause and effect that it exists within. The web of economic, environmental, and social conditions that make rural Appalachia susceptible to injury also play a hand in preventing the region from being able to heal such injuries. When developing Appalachian injury as a regional epidemic, Proctor et al concentrate on the lack of proper healing systems as one of the reasons personal injury and trauma are so rampant in the rural Appalachian area. Low population density, distance and sparsity of trauma centers, insufficient roadways, and dirth of funding contribute to a “lack of [the] resources” needed to create and maintain “successful management of traumatic injuries,” which “requires prompt and efficient transport, evaluation, and treatment of injuries” (Proctor et al. 213). Thus, while the same injuries may occur across the general Appalachian region, “injuries incurred in rural areas are often more severe and have poorer outcomes, including higher mortality rates, than those occurring in urban areas” (Proctor et al. 216). In fact, “smaller rural counties” have a trauma-based mortality rate that is 27% higher than in larger urban counties (Proctor et al. 216). Thus, the specific geographic and social conditions of rural Appalachia cause the region’s trauma to be particularly exacerbated by its inability to heal from said trauma. This aspect of physical injury is also reflected in Rash’s works, considering that what the large majority of Rash’s physically wounded characters have in common is that the violence upon their body does not, and most likely will not, disappear. It is 8 permanent, and the characters are forced to live with their scars, their missing teeth, their amputated leg, and for the rest of their lives carry a reminder of the trauma they faced. Rarely does Rash present an injury that has fully healed. His stories often center around the moment of injury, the waiting period before the injury may or may not be healed, or death. Even wounds that have technically “healed,” such as Lee Ann’s, “hadn’t healed right, or...could never heal right” (Chemistry 116). This reading of Rash’s permanently physically maimed characters, while reflective of the region’s lack of resources to properly heal from physical injuries, can also be broadened to apply to the more general discussion of Appalachian trauma. The permanence of Lee Ann’s scar and Charlton’s amputated leg is not simply a commentary on poor trauma systems, but could also be interpreted as an embodiment of the entire region’s inability to heal from, ignore, or forget the trauma it has been subjected to. Appalachia, just like Rash’s characters, must wear its scars as a reminder of its own vulnerability, past and present. Substance Abuse One particular form of personal and regional trauma that Rash focuses on in his fiction is the use, abuse, and proliferation of drugs in the area, particularly methamphetamine. Many of Rash’s stories, such as “Back of Beyond,” “The Ascent,” and “Deep Gap,” center almost entirely around meth use and its effect on the user, the user’s family, and their community. The issue of substance abuse has been labeled as “a major concern in Appalachia,” and its effects can be seen in the fields of public health, public perception of Appalachia, and in the personal and familial lives of those living with addictions in the region (Dunn et al. 251). In a similar vein to Proctor et al’s explanation of the conditions that lead to poor trauma systems, Dr. Michael Dunn et al, in 9 the essay “Substance Abuse” for the collection Health and Well-Being in Appalachia, write that “In pockets of rural Appalachia, poor economic prospects, high unemployment rates, limited transportation networks, long distances to medical facilities..[have] influenced the community’s ability to cope with the production, distribution, and use of drugs, illicit and otherwise” (Dunn et al. 251). Thus, Dunn proposes substance abuse in the area as a product of societal conditions that make it difficult for the region to resist, or cope with, the influx of drugs into the area.This idea is mirrored by character Danny in “Back of Beyond,” as he states “It ain’t all my fault….There’s no good jobs in this country. You can’t make a living farming no more. If there’d been something for me, a good job I mean” (Burning Bright 38). In both Danny and Dunn’s sentiments, we see substance abuse posed as a trauma that stems from other traumas. The poor economy, loss of jobs, and the disappearance of local farming opportunities have made it all too easy for individuals to turn to meth use, and all too difficult for them to escape that path once they are on it. This outlook on Danny’s addiction is supported by his parents, with his mother repeating three times in a conversation with main character Parson that “It ain’t his fault,” and even shifts the blame onto herself, pondering “Maybe I done something wrong raising him, petted him too much since he was my only boy” (Burning Bright 30, 31). Danny’s father, rather, blames the substance, saying “That stuff, whatever you call it, has done made my boy crazy. He don’t know nothing but a craving” (Burning Bright 29). Regardless, each of the characters seem hesitant to place the blame for the family’s struggles on Danny himself, even though he has forced his parents out of their home, sold most of the items in their house and on the farm, and ultimately ruined their lives. 10