Coal Miner's Daughter

Growing up in Eastern Kentucky can be compared to the fairy tale Rapunzel. I spent my childhood in the holler creeks and up in the mountain sides. I don't remember ever seeing a person of color in my hometown until I was in high school. We had one student of color and I immediately wanted to be her friend. Now that I look back on it, I wonder if this was my "internal white savior complex" phase. Granted I'm a young teen who has had no experience with diversity at the time, I realize now at 36 years old how my thought process was kind, yet naïve.

I was blessed to be raised by two parents who centered my upbringing with kindness and equality. There were not many other like minded families in Eastern Kentucky, and I remember political ideas were not shared with others. It reminds me of a saying my Dad used often, "we kinda felt like a turd in a punch bowl." However, I give credit to my parents for teaching me the graceful way to socialize with others even if our ideas didn't align.

At 18, I was off to college to play softball on a full scholarship. I worked so hard to perfect my softball abilities, maintain my studies, and have a social life. I remember thinking that I had the perfect life. Besides the occasional heated arguments my parents had, I have never experienced anything besides a blissful existence. Life was heaven until it was hell.

During the summer following my sophomore year of college, I was working as a mail clerk at the post office. I worked in the morning from 3:30 till 7, and then I would sometimes return for another shift from 3:00 till 6:30. It was the perfect schedule for a college athlete who had a high work drive. On the back side of the post office was the loading ramps where clerks would load/unload trucks of mail. My job as a clerk was to sort the mail for dispatch. Every clerk hated sorting these huge pallets of advertising mail. Sometimes these pallets contained heavy sacks that needed moved around. I remember always volunteering for this job because it served as an extra workout for softball.

I was on the loading dock of the post office on a particularly hot June day when I noticed my boyfriend driving around the back side of the post office. I was surprised because it wasn't planned, and I thought maybe he was going to take me out to dinner since it was nearing the end of my shift. I continued sorting heavy pallets when one of my bosses came out and asked me to come inside. Still, I was not alarmed. I was still living a blissful existence. I walked inside the office and followed behind my boss as we made our way to the exit doors. Right outside of the post office stood my boyfriend on the phone. I stood there confused, waiting on the punch line to the prank. We hugged and he said "you have a phone call."

I took the phone with one of my infamous bewildered faces. I said hello and waited for a few seconds, nobody spoke. I said hello again, with a little more emphasis. It was Chester, the older gentleman who lived across the street. He was a family friend, a safe person, someone my family knew and trusted. He said something to me, and I remember asking him to repeat himself. I honestly didn't hear him the first time he spoke. It was quiet for a few more seconds until I heard something that sounded like a gasp. Chester finally repeated himself with a shaky voice, "Kristi sweetie, your Dad is dead."
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