V. H. King's Ink

For a long time, I never knew how to describe the geographic region(s) that felt like home. My early memories and formative years were scattered across map and culture—from Flint, Michigan to Central Mexico.  And how could places like Akron and Cincinnati and Detroit and Chicago feel like home when I’d never lived there and barely visited? Why did I feel so connected to these places?

At some point in the last decade, I learned about the Rust Belt—primarily through Belt Publishing, which aims “to tell overlooked stories, particularly those written by writers from underrepresented backgrounds and flown-over places”.  As I browsed their place-anthologies (and inevitably added them to my cart) I discovered a feast for a hunger I hadn’t been able to name.  With so many shifts in my life the past few years, I find myself looking forward to the opportunity to sit with these narratives and learn more about the land that calls to me.

My feelings about genealogy services are mixed at best; I have more than my fair share of distrust for any company that markets “finding your history” while conveniently leaving out all the forces that erase, destroy, and otherwise fragment the lives and cultures of others.  I can’t trace my formal history back more than a few generations, and what little I do know is primarily because of my great-uncle’s work.

I’m not sure how to pick up from where I left off, but I think part of what I feel when crossing county lines across hundreds of miles on the interstate is a connection to all those people and places that are invisible but not forgotten. Displaced Ancestry is a term I have adopted as part of my attempt to understand my sense of place by (re)connecting with histories that resonate with my spirit. Although not every story is my own, I feel a responsibility to honor the historical and contemporary narratives I encounter.

Just because I can’t see what used to be there doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I certainly still feel it, like a harsh pang that goes through me when I happen to touch a brick building. I can learn from it through resources like Segregation By Design, which “reveal[s] the extent to which the American city was methodically hollowed out based on race.” Erasure is only one part of the story, however; there are ways communities still survive and thrive across time and space.

Empowerment is another part of the story. As I explore where my sense of connection to nameless places comes from, I’ve been able to approach my writing and art with a clearer understanding of purpose. My own insecurities take a back seat as I center the stories and spirits I hope to honor with my work; it’s a practical thing, and it is also a highly spiritual thing for me.

One recurring theme of this empowerment shows itself in the concept of reach. In what ways do I extend myself across place and time? How do I focus my efforts? Where and who and what am I trying to connect with—and who, what, where, is trying to connect with me?

I am also convinced of the critical importance of the ordinary; it is one of the many ideas that I think would make for a good dissertation, but I know I can live in ways that honor that importance without proving it to an audience first. All of that is wrapped up in the following art piece. In the manuscript for LitMiH, it’s paired with Dandelions & Discarded Cigarettes. 

This piece also connects with Between Cracks in the Concrete—a collection of short stories featuring ordinary people who find themselves drawn to the hint of something deeper, grander, than what’s on the surface. Although it might have the flaws of an early work, I carry forward the lessons I learned from that project.

In the same way, I don’t expect LitMiH to be perfect. I am still learning my own place and time. I am growing into my own sense of belonging. I am building a creative home from which I can best honor legacy and lineage. Sharing my writing and art is part of my commitment to honoring my own reach. I don’t know who all that might be, but I believe in not just the importance but also the power of the ordinary. May we honor what is sacred to us, regardless of what others see.

Blooming Where They Say I Got No Business Being
Brush Pen on 9x12 Marker Paper
October 2024