This letter was is inspired by a post from the very talented Ethel Cain
Dear Neighbors,
I’m not writing this from some fancy office in the city or behind the gates of a wealthy neighborhood. I’m writing this from the same America you know, the dirt roads, the fields of corn and cotton, the roadside diners where the coffee’s strong and the conversations are honest. I grew up running through those fields, same as many of you. Some of the kindest, hardest-working folks I’ve ever met live where the pavement ends, and their word is their bond. You’d share your last biscuit with a stranger because it’s just the right thing to do.
We’re more alike than we are different.
I know that might be hard to believe, but it’s true. Rednecks and hippies, at our best, we both just want to take care of the ones we love, make a decent living, and live our lives in peace without someone breathing down our necks. The way we dress, the music we listen to, or who we pray to (or don’t) doesn’t change that.
I know somewhere along the line, we stopped seeing eye to eye. Maybe it was all the shouting on TV or the politicians pointing fingers and telling us who to hate. Maybe it was fear. Fear that someone else was getting ahead while you were falling behind. Fear that someone different from you might get what you’ve been struggling to hold onto.
The truth is, that fear was planted. Folks who sit in marble offices and fly on private jets don’t give a damn about me or you. They don’t know what it’s like to haul hay all day, to fix your own truck because you can’t afford the mechanic, or to stretch a paycheck until it snaps. But they do know how to keep us fighting each other so we don’t turn our eyes to them.
Think about it: What good does it do to hate the immigrant working in the fields or the couple down the street who loves a little differently than you do? Are they the ones deciding that you can’t afford to see a doctor? Are they the ones gutting your kid’s school budget while sending their own to private academies? No, but they’re the ones getting blamed for it.
Once upon a time, being a redneck meant standing up to bullies. Your granddaddy’s generation fought coal barons who sent thugs to break up union strikes. They were farmers and bootleggers who didn’t trust big government or big money. Somewhere along the way, though, they tricked you into thinking that helping each other was “socialism” and that billionaires were the “real” Americans. They made you believe that stomping on someone else’s fingers as they tried to climb the ladder would somehow get you higher.
But it hasn’t, has it? Life’s just as hard. The bills keep piling up. The factory jobs are gone, and the folks in D.C. send their kids to law school while yours are stuck in debt.
We hippies don’t hate you. We’re not sitting here thinking you’re stupid or hopeless. We’re heartbroken. Heartbroken because we know how much better life could be if we just stopped fighting each other and started climbing together. Heartbroken because we’ve seen friends and family cut off people they love, not because they wanted to, but because they couldn’t keep standing in front of someone who hated a core part of who they are.
We don’t want to take your guns or your faith. We don’t want to make you change who you are. We want you to be free to live your life, just like we want to live ours. But freedom doesn’t mean stepping on someone else’s neck. Freedom doesn’t mean voting for the folks who send your tax dollars to billionaires while your neighbors can’t afford insulin.
Johnny Cash wore black for the poor and beaten down. Hank sang about surviving because country folks stick together. Willie said, “If you really want to get along with someone, let them be themselves.” That’s all we’re asking. Let’s stop listening to the folks who make their money keeping us divided. Let’s stop punching down and start looking up at the ones keeping us all at the bottom.
Whether you call us comrade or pardner, we’re ready to work together. Are you?
With hope,
R.L. Lawrence
Addendum: I’m no performer, so I must let my words sing for me. I’m sure it’s barely playable, but I’ve written a song, inspired by the real country men of old, to summarizes my feelings:
“When the Dust Was Black and the Men Were Steel”
(A Rowdy Country Western Song in the fashion of Charlie Daniels)
(Verse 1)
Well, there was a time when a man was measured
By the calloused hands and the weight he weathered.
Didn’t need no truck jacked up to the sky,
Didn’t puff his chest just to prove his pride.
He’d stand in the pit with a shovel or a plow,
Put food on the table, no matter how.
Wasn’t for showin’, wasn’t for flash,
Didn’t lick the boot while he kissed its ass.
(Chorus)
When the dust was black, and the men were steel,
You worked for your neighbor, not the boss’s deal.
Didn’t matter your skin if you dug that coal,
The same dirt stains every heart and soul.
Ain’t no gold-toilet king gonna take your pride,
We’d fight the sheriff ‘fore we’d run and hide.
(Verse 2)
Now the company towns, they were hell on Earth,
The boss man took more than your labor’s worth.
But the men rose up with a pickaxe in hand,
Said, “You won’t take my home or this hallowed land.”
We’d lock arms with brothers, no matter their shade,
And stand up for the workers who earned their pay.
Now some of y’all forget what the fight was for,
Instead of the sheriff, you’re guarding his door.
(Chorus)
When the dust was black, and the men were steel,
You fought for your kin, not the boss’s meal.
Didn’t care if a boy kissed a boy or not,
But you wouldn’t bow to the man with the golden yacht.
Ain’t no billionaire king gonna rule our land,
We’d break the chains with our working hands.
(Bridge)
What happened to the pride of the outlaw heart?
When we lived off the land and played our part?
Now you let a man in a suit and tie
Turn your neighbor into the “enemy” with a lie.
They keep you scared so you don’t see the game,
Keep you fightin’ each other while they light the flame.
(Chorus)
When the dust was black, and the men were steel,
You worked for your neighbor, not the boss’s deal.
Didn’t matter your skin if you dug that coal,
The same dirt stains every heart and soul.
Ain’t no gold-toilet king gonna take your pride,
We’d fight the sheriff ‘”˜’fore we’d run and hide.
(Outro)
So, pull off the blinders and take a stand,
Remember the roots that built this land.
We ain’t red or blue, we’re all just dust,
And it’s time to bring back that outlaw trust.
When the dust was black, and the men were steel,
We stood for each other, and that was real.