Tryon, 1943

Abstract

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• Tryon, 1943
• Leah Hampton (bio)

for all we knowback then there were apples, offerings of bright fruit—fine horses bent their necks, hills played her sonatasas she walked by the white houses to piano lessons;perhaps all the church eaves echoed her strange humuntil the whole town sighed, swooned; maybeour unwritten histories breathed her in;it could be we held her, knew precisely what she was—a holy growl, a perfect scale, our sharpest knife soakedin sourwood honey. But then again listen, recall:Nina never spared a good word for the Blue Ridge,plus we don't make it easy for a Black girl to riseout of Appalachia and sing. Would I have earneda note, would my neighbors do right by her these days,or do the white houses still only watch good music go—for did we not tear down her school and pavethe lot; did we not hide her true name, put up no plaques,pretend afterwards to have no record? I wonder now,mourning home from a distant cedar grove: orchard-richhighlands incapable of jazz, I ask you, I beg youto say what we did to deserve her, lift her high,because when did the holler everhelp a voice so fine to soar? [End Page 117]

Leah Hampton

LEAH HAMPTON is the author of F*ckface and Other Stories (Henry Holt). An Appalachian native, she currently lives in the Pacific Northwest and teaches creative writing at the University of Idaho.

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