Appalachia and America: Autonomy and Regional Dependence

Appalachia and America Autonomy and Regional Dependence ALLEN BATTEAU, editor The protest by West Virginia parents against the textbooks selected for use in their children's schools was a national news event. But that protest is only a single dramatic example of the countless ways in which residents of ~ Appalachia are confronted each day by assaults upon their traditional values. In this collection of fourteen essays, nearly all published here for the first time, scholars of Appalachian culture and society examine how the people contend with and adapt to the pressures of change thrust upon them. The focus of these essays is not on the economic exploitation of Jhe region by outside interests eager to take what they can get. Instead, it is on the work of newer institutions-the all-encompassing bureaucracies that control health, education, and human services: Although their ostensible purpose is to serve and to help people, these agencies through their impersonal regulations and guidelines seek, in ~ffect, to shape Appalachian society in their own image. Even the definition of Appalachia as a "poverty" area is a critical perception that calls into question the capabilities and aspirations of the region and its people. The studies in this volume are all based upon original research, much of

it carried out in the field by anthropologists with extensive backgrounds in the area. They show the Appalachian people's differences and adaptations in such areas as the family , religion, health, education, and land use. Appalachia and America will appeal to a broad range of persons interested in the southern mountains or in the policy issues of social welfare. It deals cogently with the newest form of conflict affecting not only communities in Appalachia, but urban and rural communities in America at large-the struggle for local values and ways of life in the face of distant and powerful bureaucracies. Allen Batteau is a member of the social science faculty at Michigan State University.

APPALACHIA AND

AMERICA AUTONOMY AND REGIONAL DEPENDENCE

ALLEN BATIEAU, EDITOR

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS OF KENTUCKY

Copyright© 1983 by The University Press of Kentucky Scholarly publisher for the Commonwealth serving Bellarmine College, Berea College, Centre College of Kentucky, Eastern Kentucky University, The Filson Oub, Georgetown College, Kentucky Historical Society, Kentucky State University, Morehead State University, Murray State University, Northern Kentucky University, Transylvania University, University of Kentucky, University of Louisville, and Western Kentucky University.

Editorial and Sales Offices: Lexington, Kentucky 40506-0024

Ubrary of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Main entry under title:

Appalachia and America. 1. Appalachian Region-Social conditions-Addresses, essays, lectures. I. Batteau, Allen, 1946-HN79.A13A75 1983 306' .0974 82-40462 ISBN 0-8131-1480-2

CoNTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

vii

INTRODUCTION: lHE lRANSFORMATION OF DEPENDENCY with Phillip Obenniller DECORATING THE APPALACHIAN HOUSE

Allen Batteau 1

Charles E. Martin

14

FAMILY GROUP ORGANIZATION IN A CUMBERLAND MOUNTAIN NEIGHBORHOOD F. Carlene Bryant

28

STUDYING RELIGIOUS BELIEF SYSTEMS IN lHEIR SOCIAL HISTORICAL CONTEXT Melanie L. Sovine

48

RELIGION AND CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS IN lHE KANAWHA COUNTY SCHOOL TEXTBOOK CONTROVERSY Dwight B. Billings & Robert Goldman

68

THE IMAGE OF APPALACHIAN POVER'IY

86

Walter Precourt

lHE PLACE OF CULTURE AND lHE PROBLEM OF IDENTITY Henry D. Shapiro RITUALS OF DEPENDENCE IN APPALACHIAN KENTUCKY

111 Allen Batteau

142

APPALACHIAN INNOVATION IN HEALTH CARE

Richard A. Couto

168

HEALlH CARE: lHE CITY VERSUS lHE MIGRANT

John Friedl

189

LOWER PRICE HILL'S CHILDREN: FAMILY, SCHOOL, AND NEIGHBORHOOD Kathryn M. Borman with Elaine Mueninghoff 210 EXPERIENCES OF IN-MIGRANfS IN APPALACHIA

Mary Anglin

227

FRONTIER CULTURE, GOVERNMENT AGENTS, AND CITY FOLKS James William Jordan

239

PARTICIPATORY RESEARCH ON LAND OWNERSHIP IN RURAL APPALACHIA Patricia D. Beaver

252

CONFLICT, CONFRONTATION, AND SOCIAL CHANGE IN lHE REGIONAL SETTING Thomas Plaut

267

CONTRIBUTORS

285

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

TI-lls book originated in a symposium on Appalachian Studies that was held at the annual meeting of the Southern Anthropological Association in February 1979 in Memphis, Tennessee. At the conclusion of the symposium the participants decided to seek publication of the papers. Over the next two years several of the papers were substantially revised, and several new papers were added to complete the volume. I would like to express my appreciation to my fellow contributors for their patience in seeing the project through to completion. ALLEN BATTEAU

INTRODUCTION: THE TRANSFORMATION OF DEPENDENCY ALLEN BATTEAU WITH PHILLIP OBERMILLER

IN the hundred years since Appalachia was discovered by the American public as a distinctive entity, the question that has recurrently presented itself is that of the identity of Appalachia and the explanation of a regional culture that was "in but not of" America. In every discovery and rediscovery of Appalachia, the currently fashionable social theories are invoked for the purpose of explaining this identity: Theories of degeneration, "retarded frontiers," racial devolution, environmental determinism, exploitation, cultures of poverty, and internal colonialism have all been used as the "basic" cause of Appalachian "otherness." In some publications one finds an insistence on identifying authors as "100 percent Appalachian," even as other articles acknowledge the difficulty of deciding just what the boundaries of Appalachia are. Seminars and workshops discuss what it "means" to be Appalachian, and controversies in scholarly circles continue over which factions more authentically "speak for Appalachia." Behind these questions of the identity of Appalachia one hears questions of the identity of America. The paradox of Appalachia is that it has always combined opposed images of America's self-definition: The Appalachia of William G. Frost combined Anglo-Saxon pioneer ancestry with devolution and degradation; the Appalachia of the poverty warriors in the 1960s combined the romantic appeal of bucolic self-sufficiency with the indignity of welfare dependence. Every succeeding statement of the identity of Appalachia has posed a challenge for the identity of America: A land of progress containing an entire region of backwardness and poverty, a metropolitan society of rapid mobility and footloose individualism, accommodating a subculture that insists on maintaining strong family ties and a sense of community. The fourteen articles gathered together in this volume examine the latest transformation of this paradox, in the creation of an Appalachia

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ALLEN BATIEAU & PHILLIP OBERMILLER

that is increasingly defined in terms of its "need" for educational, health, and social services. They examine the interplay between community values and structure, the focus of attention on the region by outside groups, and the conflicts and antagonistic relationships that derive from the professionalized efforts to "help Appalachians." Sovine, Bryant, and Martin examine certain core aspects of the local culture of Appalachia, with some interesting notes on how that local culture itself is informed by its relationship to dominant cultural forms in America. Shapiro and Precourt examine two important aspects of the professional definition of Appalachia: The region as a thing-in-itself, and the region as a poverty area. The bulk of the articles examine the conflicts between local and outside groups and values in several domains, and at several levels of experience ranging from a child's search for identity to policy decisions in national councils. The concluding articles, by Pat Beaver and Tom Plaut, while taking note of the conflicts between local and outside, offer an appreciation that the "outside society" is itself differentiated and that Appalachian people can build alliances with outside groups for the purpose of securing local goals. This focus on local values, professional definition, and above all on the conflictual relationships thus resulting, enables us to locate Appalachia within certain prevailing forms of differentiation in America. It enables us to see that the paradox of Appalachia and America is no paradox at all, for in every succeeding epoch Appalachia has presented itself as an exemplar and a critique of the salient forms of political differentiation within American society, a presentation that is paradoxical only to those who insist on seeing America in undifferentiated terms. To understand the historical and political context of this definition, it would do well to examine first the succeeding forms of differentiation that in years past have defined Appalachia, and then to consider briefly the ideology and values of the culture of professionalism which now defines it. In the nineteenth century, when the division between commercial metropoles and agrarian hinterlands was an important issue, the southern interior, particularly the upcountry districts, were hinterlands par excellence. As such, they were the object of considerable land speculation. Lawyers, politicians, and large landholders constituted the dominant class of the region. In the industrial society of the turn of the century, Appalachia was first and foremost an industrial outback, supplying raw material for the fortunes of Morgan and Rockefeller. The images of the region then combined the lack of progress and the ravages of progress. As exemplar, Appalachia contained vivid cases of the dis privileged classes: the most isolated ruralites, the most exploited

THE TRANSFORMATION OF DEPENDENCY

3

proletariat; as critique, Appalachia furnished images for an indictment of the powerful and the urbane, images that range from Sut Lovingood to Mother Jones. These forms of domination have received ample recognition in the scholarly literature of Appalachia. Beginning with the first settlement in the eighteenth century and going through the devastation of the Civil War and the development of timber and mining industries, the political and economic domination by metropolitan elites and the external control of the region's resources have been well documented. This metropolitan domination continues today, in the form of external ownership of land. 1 Previous studies have examined the use of this ownership to support environmental destruction, 2 and the predatory labor relationships existing within the coal industry. 3 Drawing on analogies from areas colonized by European powers in the nineteenth century, many scholars have concluded that these relationships of ownership and industrial control justify characterizing Appalachia as an internal colony or the internal periphery of a capitalist worldsystem.4 In the years since World War II America has emerged out of the classical model of industrial society and into what various authors characterise as a post-industrial society or a late capitalistic society. For our purposes here it is less important how this society is labeled than to recognize some of its dominant characteristics, characteristics agreed upon by conservative and liberal commentators alike. In the industrial society of the nineteenth century one of the major divisions of society was between the owners of industrial enterprises and those who worked in them. In the post-industrial society of today, it is the possession of managerial and professional expertise, rather than ownership of property per se, that entitles one to a commanding position. In the industrial society of the nineteenth century, the middle class was poorly developed and for the most part outside the industrial system; contemporarily, the middle stratum of society is broad, differentiated, and at the heart of the economy. In the late nineteenth century, political power was concentrated in a smaller number of captains of industry, who purchased senators and governors as carefully as they purchased railroads. Today, such captains of industry have faded into the background, and at national and international levels there is a plurality of centers of power. For scholars and activists working within the region, it is essential to recognize that as these forms of stratification in American society change, so too does the identity of Appalachia. In previous years the subordination of Appalachia was related to its abundant land and later

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to its abundant industrial resources; the prevailing images embraced these facts, even as the prevailing modes of domination exploited them. However, in the late twentieth century, land speculation and industrial predation assume an increasingly archaic quality: The gruffmannered coal barons of the 1920s have been replaced by smoothtalking human resource managers and well-tailored community relations experts, working for national and multinational energy corporations, whose polished approach signals the firm and uncontested grip they have on the region's mineral wealth. As the older forms of industrial stratification become firmly entrenched, newer forms quietly emerge, appropriating a new set of human activities and human needs into the national economy. Those who are intent on fighting the battles of fifty years ago often fail to notice this invasion of the latest ascendant class. In the last twenty years a significant ascendant class in Appalachia has been the professionals who control education, health, and social service bureaucracies, replacing the informal structures of family and community control over socialization and mutual support. As with the invasion of Appalachia by coal barons ninety years ago, this has produced its own set of conflicts and controversies, in the clashes between newer and older elites, and the creation of new forms of alienation. Although professions such as the law and medicine are centuries old, the efforts to professionalize a wide variety of occupations, and to secure state protection for professionalization, date back no more than a hundred years. Professionalization is the assertion of a sacred status for an occupational role: It is an effort to remove the rights and obligations of the role, the rewards and costs of performance, from the polluting competition of the marketplace, and to have them controlled by a body of collegial peers bearing many resemblances to a priesthood. This is accomplished through the systems of licensing and certification sanctioned by the state and through elaborate periods of 'training in universities set apart from the mundane world. The autonomy so created is legitimized through an ideal of service: The professional supposedly performs his or her role to serve society and not for personal aggrandizement. However much this ideal of service may be contradicted by the actual behavior of specific professionals, its political sanction and public subscription nevertheless permit professionals to maintain their monopoly on competence: to assert that only they are able to heal the sick, interpret the law, or unravel the mysteries of the universe. This monopoly, however, creates an alienating and dependent relationship between the professional and the client: it divests the client of his or her own competence and ability and substitutes that of the professional.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF DEPENDENCY

5

Three constituent elements of professionalism make up this alienating and dependent relationship: the ideology, the technology, and the system of interpersonal relationships involved in what Bledstein has called the "culture of professionalism." 5 As an ideology, professionalism includes both a set of skills and a set of attitudes toward those skills. Professionalism denotes extensive education and certification, which in turn convey a certain status and distinct prerogatives. However, these prerogatives are contingent upon popular acceptance and acclaim, routine in the middle class, but not always forthcoming from blue collar communities such as those in Appalachia or those of urban Appalachians. Contemporarily, higher education is not a major goal for many rural and urban Appalachians. The ambivalence that many Appalachians feel toward the values and expectations of well-educated professionals is well documented in the articles in this collection; the antagonism and potential conflicts it implies will become increasingly important with the continuing development of professional services in the region. In its technological aspect, professionalism involves the application of various techniques to the solution of personal and social problems. For the professional, technique often becomes an end in itself and is applied in a counterproductive manner. Technique frequently entails adopting a dispassionate stance, as when a nurse gives a child a painful injection. While such objectivity is necessary and has short-term advantages, it builds the image of the unfeeling clinician in the minds of both the professional and the client. Eventually both begin to act out of the expectations built on a stereotype. Stereotyping is a two-way street. Most professionals do not count it important to have among their technical skills the cultural competency to work effectively among different social groups. But those who realize that their work is not carried out in a cultural vacuum are hard put to avoid stereotyping. Even the positive labels found in the literature on Appalachia which is most accessible to professionals are at best epiphenomenal. 6 Cultural competency in working with Appalachians or similar groups means learning the social, political, and historical contexts in which such groups operate. It is based on solid research rather than the glib assumptions and inaccuracies which unfortunately compose many professionals' working knowledge of the social groups they serve. The third dimension of professionalism is its appreciation and use of bureaucracy. Most professions are closely linked to bureaucratic institutions: scholars to their universities, doctors to their hospitals, lawyers to their courts. These institutions are run by hierarchies and guided by regulation, rather than by collectivities guided by consen-

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ALLEN BATIEAU &: PHILLIP OBERMILLER

sus. To be professional, therefore, is to be sensitized to a hierarchical mode and to act accordingly by obeying and enforcing regulations. Form takes precedent over result, and the written word is more important than the spoken. This is alien to working-class groups like Appalachians whose quality of life, if not survival itself, depends on getting results whatever the form, through groups whose cohesion is maintained by face-to-face interaction. The result is a conflict between the values and attitudes of professionals and those of the communities that they serve, a conflict that is built into the very nature of professionalism. Professional groups, whether they be schools, hospitals, or government agencies, have adopted a world view that accepts instrumental rationality as a fundamental assumption: they approach human groups as objects for technical manipulation rather than as subjects for social participation. They view the world analytically, in contrast to the holistic world view of rural communities. The professional looks for utility while popular culture seeks meaning. The professional has a highly refined appreciation for process while the popular culture intuitively values the actual product of the process. In short, the professional attitude, informed by instrumental rationality, often conflicts with the popular ideal; rational technology conflicts with the accumulated wisdom of tradition; formal organizations replace informal networks; and the demands of professionalized bureaucracies conflict with the functional economy of everyday life. Within the middle class, this conflict is either suppressed or displaced, because middle-class Americans subscribe to and attempt to participate in the professional values of instrumental rationality. One can see this in the efforts to professionalize the most diverse occupations (garbage men become sanitary engineers, groundskeepers become turf-management technicians). One can see this in efforts to professionalize consumption, whether in the connoisseurship of imported wines or in an appreciation of the finer points of CB radios. In all of these efforts there is an attempt to acquire social esteem through an aura of expertise and to assert autonomy through the appropriation of skills, in the face of the dependency relations created by the normal operation of a market society. 7 As a form of social relationship, the two faces of professionalism are autonomy and control, both based on expertise: the protection of one's status against the vicissitudes of the market, and the securing of honor through the creation of a dependent clientele. In every epoch, the conficts over the prevailing forms of domination have taken on an especially acute form in Appalachia. Because of a local ethos of autonomy and independence, and the uneven penetration of the diverse

THE TRANSFORMATION OF DEPENDENCY

7

forms of control, efforts to assert control over Appalachian communities, even when under the banner of "helping" them, entail greater conflicts than similar efforts elsewhere. This was observable in the mine wars of fifty, sixty, and seventy years ago; it was observable in the violence over the Charleston, West Virginia schools in 1974. The local culture was, and continues to be, well entrenched within Appalachia. It is not, however, unique to Appalachia, as the many recent local protests against outside control attest. These articles thus provide several approaches to the study of two critical issues in contemporary American life: the ongoing experience of a region as part of a national polity and international economy, and the interaction of professionals and bureaucratic organizations with a rural people. By elaborating on the rural culture, the professional world view, the interaction and conflict between the two, and finally on possible resolutions to the conflict, these articles present a message that is important both to professionals and to the local communities within which they work. An excellent example of the local culture, and the functional economy of everyday life that it contains, is presented in Chip Martin's article, "Decorating the Appalachian House." Martin makes the case for a local culture in an activity usually associated with images of poverty and degradation: papering the walls of one's home with newspaper. From extensive interviewing, he draws out a detailed set of protocols for this process, showing the rules, preferences, styles, and procedures involved. These people, he concludes, were able to take a product of "mainstream" America-the catalog, newspaper, or magazine-and, following their own traditional framework of always putting an object to new and good use instead of discarding it, utilize it to insulate themselves from the cold, to teach and entertain themselves, to define personal space, to welcome the advent of spring, to beautify their surroundings, and to articulate their dreams.

This offers a dramatic contrast with the poverty image that Precourt analyzes: From Depression-era photographs, many Americans associate newspapered walls with deprivation and poverty; for those mountaineers, they represent just the opposite. Yet, in a final ironic turn, presenting "the promises of the consumer-oriented and industrial society," these images, arranged for traditional ends, drew Appalachians into admiration of the mass-produced good life. In similar vein, F. Carlene Bryant, in her article on family group organization, gives a cJassic illustration of how one must understand the indigenous conceptions of ancestry, identity, blood relatedness, and love before one can make sense out of the organization of a

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Tennessee hilltop community. Based on extensive field research, her article is convincing proof of the importance of these indigenous conceptions, and hence of a local culture, for understanding the local community. She further illustrates how these meanings are related to relationships involved in religion and neighboring, suggesting the difficulty of separating out kinship, religion, and relationships of propinquity. For many scholars, religion offers one of the most distinctive areas of Appalachian local culture, although the sectarian groupings of the region often are seen through denominational eyes. Melanie Sovine, in her article on Primitive Baptists, demonstrates that religion is not so much an "institution" as it is a matrix for the totality of social life. For church members, religion is simultaneously a way of being in-theworld and a way of being apart-from-the-world, an experience unfamiliar to those who see religion as reserved for Sundays. Understanding religion as a patterning element in the local culture enables one to make sense of some of the more distinctive political episodes of the region. When coalminers in the Kanawha Valley struck over the issue of school textbooks in 1974, large numbers of journalists descended on Charleston to observe the newest episode of urban progress versus rural backwardness. Billings' and Goldman's article demonstrates that the key element in this controversy was a workingclass consciousness filtered through Protestant fundamentalism. For Billings and Goldman, this class consciousness is a form of resistance to the efforts at control entailed in corporate liberalism. These forms of control are the various forms of professional domination to which, in the eyes of the coalminers, the school textbooks lent ideological support (although the miners would not state it in that manner). The view of culture as a filter, through which perceptions are interpreted, similarly informs Walter Precourt's examination of the definition of Appalachia as a poverty region. In a critical examination of the idea of "poverty" as a stigma essential to the commodity structure of American society, Precourt demonstrates how a capitalist society needs a poverty population, and how Appalachian "poverty" derives not from the standards of living within the region, but from certain values of the metropolitan society. To get ahead of our argument for a moment, one can generalize from this analysis of the source of "poverty" to the origin of other sorts of "need" for professional help, particularly the lack of health care and educational services. From the perspective of intellectual history, Henry Shapiro examines how the idea of Appalachia as a region has shaped perceptions of and attitudes toward it. In a basic departure from his previous work, Appalachia on Our Mind, where he examined the idea of Appalachian

THE TRANSFORMATION OF DEPENDENCY

9

"otherness," Shapiro here examines the idea of a region as a bounded combination of people, place, and culture. Such an idea is based upon a pluralist image of America which is comprised of similarly bounded regions, an image that "is consistent with certain American ideals of egalitarianism and localism. This impulse (if one may, with psychological jargon, suggest its pre-rationality) to isolate and classify is at the heart of instrumental rationality, as many (of which Foucault is but the latest) have demonstrated; it is fundamental to the professional world view. Yet in its construction of cultural regions it often obscures the relationships of domination which are national in scope. These relationships supply the point of departure for Allen Batteau' s examination of dependency relationships in eastern Kentucky. In an effort to link theories of economic dependency with theories of psychological dependency, Batteau sees the lower class of Appalachia as being at the bottom rung of these hierarchies; such relationships, Batteau argues, are implied in the nature of a competitive, centralized economy. As experienced in the lives of those on the bottom, they cultivate feelings of inadequacy and helplessness and impulses of dependency, which some have labeled a "culture of poverty." Richard Couto's examination of Appalachian innovations in health care is the first of several case studies in this volume on specific issues in the professional definition of Appalachia. He sees the maldistribution of health services as "related to the political economy of the American health care system" and demonstrates with striking clarity the steps that professionals within the system took to maintain their monopoly on competence. It would require a considerable feat of the imagination to see doctors and medical bureaucrats as exploiters in the same mold as the coal barons; nonetheless, Couto suggests, these maintain their position only at the expense of community control of health care. The analyses of Couto, Batteau, Shapiro, and Precourt all rest on an analysis of American society, seeing it as an integrated and dynamic whole (even when the integration is obscured by constructions of regionalism). For them, America is made up of diverse groups; no one of these groups can be considered "mainstream" except for the fact that it has captured the imagination and control of resources of the society and hence exerts a dominant influence over other groups. For Couto and Batteau, the control of resources in a competitive economy is a prime consideration, although one might conclude from their articles that in a post-industrial society, intangibles such as health and personal identity have become resources, placed on the market, and made into resources for surplus appropriation. For Shapiro and Precourt, the ability of journalists, novelists, and scholars to capture the

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imagination and control the collective representations of the larger society is crucial. These essays see Appalachian "otherness" less as a matter of peculiarity and more related to the control (or lack thereof) of America's collective representations. This is a crucial distinction for students of Appalachia to make. Taking a more ethnographic viewpoint, John Friedl, in "Health Care: The City versus the Migrant," and Kathy Borman, in "Lower Price Hill's Children," demonstrate that the problems of community values clashing with professional imperatives are also played out in urban settings. Friedl examines the problems of providing adequate health care to Appalachian migrants in Columbus, Ohio. He distinguishes between the problems that are structural, due to the economic and demographic realities of urban life, and those that are cultural, stemming from the clash between popular and professional cultures. This professional culture stresses an ongoing relationship between the patient and the health care provider, as in programs of prevention and non-crisis intervention; yet the popular culture, resisting such relationships (as, we would suggest, implying dependence), is largely crisis-oriented in its attitude toward medical services: turning toward physicians when other remedies have failed and overutilizing emergency room facilities. Friedl argues that for professionals to be effective in their professional goals, they must have an appreciation for the popular culture and how it can contribute to or impede the provision of health care. Borman's examination of children's experience in Cincinnati, Ohio, shows how the clash between the cultures of family, neighborhood, and professional socialization agencies (such as schools) can be perplexing for the child who is trying to integrate these into a coherent identity. These children, and their families, are forced to choose between the values of family and community which they brought with them from Appalachia on the one hand, and the values of instrumental rationality taught in schools and necessary for success, on the other. Again, consistent with Friedl's thrust, while some of this dash is structural, much of it stems from differences in popular and professional orientations. Educators who wish to realize their professional goals of providing knowledge and enlightenment to their urban Appalachian pupils should (as one might conclude from Borman's paper) enlist rather than oppose the popular culture. Mary Anglin, in "Experiences of In-Migrants in Appalachia," expands the viewpoint thus far presented to the context of the entire local community. Based on her experiences of living in western North Carolina for five years, she examines the confrontations resulting from the arrival of several streams of migration into western North Carolina:

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young health care professionals, romantic back-to-the-land homesteaders, and a somewhat older category of families looking for land to farm. In every case, the problems and difficulties of acceptance into the rural community, whether in its institutions of church, neighboring, politics, or subsistence patterns, create awkward confrontations for local residents and the outsiders alike. Much of the conflict, she suggests, is focused around land as an "emblem of rural life." While the outsiders diligently work the land, in order to prove themselves as ruralites, for the local residents it is more the attitude toward land that makes for authenticity. In Appalachia, land is a symbol, a matrix for rural life, a resource for re-creation, and a commodity. These conflicting definitions of land provide the bases for the concluding articles by James W. Jordan, Patricia Beaver, and Thomas Plaut. Jordan, in "Frontier Culture, Government Agents, and City Folks," demonstrates how deeply the loss of control of the land they live on affects the lives and behavior of people in eastern Tennessee. He contrasts the world views of Forest Service personnel (professionals), Coker Creek (a traditional community), and Reliance (a more progressive community), describing the sometimes destructive misunderstandings that result. For Jordan, it is the differing cultural orientations of these groups that create and exacerbate their conflict. Other scholars, most notably those on the Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force, have documented the dramatic degree of outside ownership and control, as well as the economic and political problems that develop at the local level as ownership shifts out of the region. The study produced by this task force has received widespread coverage elsewhere and requires only minimal citation in this volume. 8 However, an examination of the study as one episode in an emerging social movement embracing a diversity of political actors may suggest that both cultural orientation and legal ownership are important elements in the continuing controversies over land. Patricia Beaver, a member of the task force, in "Participatory Research on Land Ownership," examines the events that led up to the commissioning of the study by the Appalachian Regional Commission and the working of a team consisting of local activists and university-based scholars (with Washington bureaucrats hovering nervously in the background). For those who may be unfamiliar with them, she gives a brief statement of some of the findings of the study; the primary focus of her article, though, is on how different people, with markedly differing interests and orientations, were able to work together on a common problem. Thomas Plaut's concluding essay is both summarizing and pathfinding. In "Conflict, Confrontation, and Social Change in the Re-

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gional Setting," Plaut contrasts the differing orientations and interests of "formal organizations" and "communities." These "formal organizations" are the institutional setting of the instrumental rationality and professional services that today define Appalachia; the latter are the setting of the "popular" and "folk" cultures that most of the authors in this volume examine. Plaut draws from his experience in a rural clinic, where he was able to mediate between the cultural orientations of local residents and the recently arrived health care professionals. From this, he suggests that an appreciation of organizations and communities as cultural systems, made up of personnel, values and goals, and processes provides a tool "for people seeking a measure of control and self-determination in the processes of planning and change." "By focusing on value orientations," he concludes, cultural systems analysis enables one to see significant differences not only between agency and agency or agency and community, but among subgroups within an organization. Who wins how much in the struggles between factions is ultimately a matter of power, but often power can only be amassed and strategies developed in the light of usefully organized and focused data that conceptual frameworks such as cultural systems analysis can provide.

We thus have not only a new form of dependency and control, but also a new critique and a new way out of it; for the same society that creates the culture of professionalism has also created new forms of pluralism and the tools with which communal groups can build a more equitable relationship with their professional caretakers. As many have noted, the most rapidly growing part of the American economy is the human resource sector of health care, education, and social services. 9 This growth, and the professional class it establishes, threaten new forms of dependency not only for Appalachians, but for working class communities generally. The articles in this volume document the inherent disservice, misservice, and alienating approach of professionalism when confronting working-class and rural communities not as the actions of poorly trained practitioners, but as fundamental to the very nature of the professions. Contemporarily we are witnessing a reemergence, in varyingly conservative and progressive colorings, of ethnicity and cultural regionalism in America. The Moral Majority, La Raza, Black Power, and the American Indian Movement are all groups and slogans of this reemergence. Such phenomena, as the papers in this volume suggest, represent not a recrudescence of tribal sentiments within the working-class and ethnic populations, but rather a use of the tools at hand for resisting newer forms of domination.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF DEPENDENCY

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Such newer forms of class relationship, and the newer forms of resistance, are part of the dynamism of American society. As long as the American economy continues to grow, it will continue to create new dominant groups and new Appalachias--new ethnic and regional minorities that will pursue, with whatever means they have, their economic and communal interests. Should any group, whether a professional elite or a moralistic minority, succeed in imposing its vision upon America, it will mean not the perfection of the society but the end of its history. NOTES 1. Steve Fisher, ed., A Landless People in a Rural Region: A Reader on Land Ownership and Property Taxation in Appalachia (New Market, Tenn.: Highlander Center, 1979). John Egerton, "Appalachia's Absentee Landlords," The Progressive, 45(6) (1981), 42-45. 2. Harry M. Caudill, My Land is Dying (New York: E. P. Dutton, 1973). 3. Harry M. Caudill, Night Comes to the Cumberlands (New York: Little Brown, 1963). 4. David Walls, "Internal Colony or Internal Periphery," in Helen M. Lewis, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins, Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978). 5. Burton Bledstein, The Culture of Professionalism (New York: Norton, 1978). 6. As an example of this, one might note that Jack Weller's Yesterday's People continues to be required reading for those who are preparing to become caretakers to Appalachian communities. 7. " ... a possessive market society necessarily puts in a dependent position not only the wage-earners but also all those without a substantial (and, by the natural operation of the market, an increasing) amount of capital." C. B. MacPherson, The Political Theory of Possessive Individualism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1962), p. 267. 8. See note 1. 9. Daniel Bell, The Coming of Post-Industrial Society (New York: Basic Books, 1976).

DEcORATING THE APPALACHIAN HousE CHARLES E. MARTIN

THE desire for

decoration in folk architecture is frequently expressed by the inclusion of such decorative devices as Gothic trim, Greek revival returns, decorated cornices, beaded siding, and wainscot. None alter the structural strength of the building but they do help add a sense of visual pleasure to the necessity of providing shelter. In parts of Appalachia, particularly eastern Kentucky, these visual reliefs were rarely present in folk housing, perhaps because the aesthetics of a wellshaped hewn log, often two feet high, twenty feet long, and carefully thinned with an axe and adz to a uniform six-inch width, may have supplanted the desire to decorate woodwork. Still, the impulse to individualize, to personalize, to decorate was sometimes woven into the unembellished Appalachian structure. One former log builder living today explained that when he built the chimney in his house he rounded the top of the stack (Figure 1) from its rectangular base because to him, "It was prettier that way, nicer to look at." 1 Logs, by the 1930s, were sometimes covered with vertical boards and battens (Figure 2) because they could make a log house resemble the more fashionable milled board variety. 2 New or freshly painted roof tins were regarded as extremely nice looking by builders who used them. 3 Almost all houses had either day lilies, apple rose (usually planted by the well), tulips, or roses growing somewhere close by. But the most far-reaching decorative method, in terms of wide appeal and individualization, was the papering of interior walls from either newspaper, catalogs, magazines, or any combination of the three. 4 Papering walls was a practice stretching back in the area for at least eighty years5 and was the norm for at least two reasons-there was little cash for paint (commercial wallpaper only became available in parts of eastern Kentucky in the 1940s and helped replace the older decorative methods) and properly applied paper served as insulation against the weather, which invaded the house through small cracks and openings that formed between the logs and mud chinking or

DECORATING THE APP A LACHlAN HOUSE

Figure 1. An aesthetically planned chimney built, as was the attached log house, in the late 1930s.

15

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CHARLES E. MARTIN

Figure 2. A board and batten house. The spaces between the eleven-inch boards are covered from the elements by the four-inch battens.

between the boards and battens. Although these papered walls are often considered, by the outsider, to symbolize the neglect and disorder of Appalachian life, the application and placement of media pages was highly structured, following collectively established patterns but still allowing the possibility for individualized expression. Most important, this practice was based on the Appalachian custom of transforming nonfunctioning machine-made objects into objects fit for everyday use. Worn-out shoes, for example, became hinges, and empty lard buckets were turned into stools, or cut into strips and used for chimney flashing. 6 A log wall first had to be prepared for papering by applying a heavy paper or cardboard to smooth out uneven surfaces and by filling any large holes with wads of rolled paper or burlap, since the wallpaper would split over any open spaces as the paste dried. Proper application of the paper meant no tears or breaks could appear. Children also had a tendency to want to stick their fingers through such places. A board and batten house had straighter walls and needed only a cardboard undercoating, which served as insulation and as a backing for the paper. Paper saved for wallcovering was held on with a paste made from boiled water and flour, which, when mixed to the right consistency, was thin enough to spread evenly but too thick to run down the walls.

17

DECORATING THE APPALACHIAN HOUSE

It was important to remove the lumps either by hand or with a short

broom. One former paperer recalled: You take your hand and get all the lumps out of it. Then you stir it and it will be very smooth, the paste is. If it lumps, it's not very good. It's not good to leave it over either. You usually try to use up what paste you make that day or it's not very good. 7

A paste mixed so that it was smooth and clear would not show through the paper. Red pepper and rat poison were sometimes added to keep the mice from eating it. Sweet anise and arrowroot, which grew along the high ridges and had a licorice taste, were dug up, the roots dried, ground to a fine powder, and added to the paste to give it a sweet aroma. The act of papering itself was thought to give a room a fresh look and smell. The sheets of paper were laid flat on a table and a small brush was used to dab a small amount of paste in the corners, around the edges, and once or twice in the center. It was then applied with the pasted side to the wall, beginning in any corner, either 1, 5, 16, or 20. (Figure 3 represents a papered wall showing the relative positions of the pages. Each page is given a number to show the possible sequences in which it could be pasted.) The next sheet was then applied, with particular attention being paid to keeping the borders straight and overlapping the previous page by about an inch. Straight edges were thought to look correct. If its lines were not uniform, a papered wall could not be

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CHARLES E. MARTIN

considered attractive. Two basic patterns of application, either horizontal or vertical, were followed. If number 1 was the first sheet applied, the rest followed the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 or the 1, 6, 11, 16, 2, 7 sequence. Any paper that overlapped the edge of the wall was carefully trimmed with scissors or pocketknife. Of the three types of paper used, magazine paper was the favorite because of its heavy weight. It lasted longer and coal dust discolored it more slowly. Newspaper and catalog paper were of the same light weight and needed to be papered over as often as every two weeks because of fading and discoloration. One informant told of her father saying he needed to rush home before the dress styles in the paper pasted to the walls changed again. 8 Newspaper did have its advantages: if sheets were chosen without photographs, it approximated a wall painted white. The white background's domination of the black print was the reason newspaper was used on ceilings. Before electricity, newspaper reflected outside light better and made the room seem brighter. Also, stray pages with photographs were thought to upset the visual uniformity of a wall or ceiling covered only with print. Pages with photos, on the other hand, were sometimes consistently chosen so that the wall was awash with what were considered interesting images. 9 This policy of photo versus non-photo was flexible enough to change, though, by the next papering. With newspaper it was important that the print face right side up. (Occasionally, however, the print was purposely applied upside down, since it was regarded by some as a sin to read anything but the Bible.) The older and more illiterate residents could often only tell which way was up by the inclusion of pages with photos; they spaced the photo pages evenly with the non-photo so that an acceptable mixture of both ran along the wall. If no photo pages were available, it was still necessary to have the edges absolutely straight even though the writing was often upside down. A different practice was to cut the pages square and alternate them so that the newsprint columns in square 1 (see Figure 3) were vertical, those in square 6 were horizontal, 11 vertical, 16 horizontal, 2 horizontal, and so forth, so that a checkerboard pattern was formed. Another pattern had the newsprint columns in line 1, 6, 11, and 16 run vertically, and the columns in line 2, 7, 12, and 17 run horizontally so that each column alternated print direction. These were called "crazy quilt" walls. Usually, if not enough of one type of paper was available to go around a room, then two or more types were used, but none could be mixed on the same wall. Newspaper might be used on three walls but even if there was enough to do half of the fourth, catalog paper was

DECORATING THE APPALACHIAN HOUSE

19

substituted instead. It was thought to be too visually disordered to combine the two on one wall. Another use of newsprint was to serve as a bland background for favorite color pictures from magazines which were pasted in the center of a wall or over the fireplace. In this scheme it was important not to use newspaper with photos which could detract from the central focal point. The outline of the wall was like a large frame, the newsprint was the mat, and the magazine picture the painting. Sometimes, to accentuate the central picture even more, one of two devices was used: the newspaper to be used along the wall's edges (boxes 1, 6, 11, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 15, 10, 5, 4, 3, and 2) was folded in a back-and-forth pattern and notched on one end with scissors. When unfolded, the ends opened into a symmetrical cut-out design, which was then pasted on with the scalloped edges nearer the outside perimeter of the wall. The darker colored cardboard underneath accentuated the scalloped edges. This method was even used without benefit of a central picture (Figure 4). The other fashion was to paper the same outside perimeter with magazine pages held in no particular regard except as a contrasting, colorful border to the white, central background and as an accent to the central picture area. Each wall paperer exercised personal preference in her choice of the middle picture. Preferred pictured subjects

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20

CHARLES E. MARTIN

were Christmas, houses, automobiles, and ornately prepared food dishes, for example. One woman recalled: I remember in a farm magazine one time when you opened it, it had a picture in the middle. It was a farm, and that was so pretty I remember putting that over the mantel and then put white around it; that big farm. I remember that, you know, it was all different things, farm horses and cattle in this big barn, and . . . it was pretty. 10

Another informant used pictures of flowers because she thought they approximated the stilllifes that hung on the walls in homes outside the area. 11 Another used Norman Rockwell covers from the Saturday Evening Post because "It kind of told a little story," which her small children, who had not yet learned how to read, could appreciate. 12 Some people placed cartoons and Sunday funnies along the lower walls at about eye level for the smaller children who were then able to move around the room looking at one after the other. Since the walls were repapered as often as every two weeks, there was always a fresh round of new cartoons. Interesting newspaper articles were pasted up which mothers wanted their children to read. Two informants told how they learned to spell "Cincinnati" from the wall, and another said all her children learned the alphabet by playing a game in which one of them would sight a letter on the wall and the others would try to locate that particular letter by following his instructions on whether they were getting closer or farther from it. Variants of this game were played with colors or subjects on the magazine and catalog pages. One informant made a special point to paste newspaper poems in positions where she could read them while she worked. She learned to do this over sixty years ago as she sat at the table eating with her father. As she tells it: I learned a many of a poem right off the wall when I was a little girl. Me and my dad learned poems off the wall when I was nine years old. It was right up over the table where we ate, and he told me, "Let's me and you see which one can remember this the longest"; and he's been dead about ten years. He remembered it the last time I talked to him and I remembered it, too. It tickled me and him. It said, Foxes could talk if you know how to listen, Pa said so. Owls have big eyes that sparkle and glisten, Pa said so. And bears can turn flipflops and climb big elm

DECORATING THE APPALACHIAN HOUSE

21

trees and steal all the honey away from your bees and they don't mind the winter because they never freeze, Pa said so. Girls is scared of a snake, boys ain't, Pa said so. Girls run and holler and sometimes they think, Pa said so. A boy'd be ashamed to be frightened that way when all a snake wants to do is play, You've got to believe every word that I say, Pa said so. They're as fond of a game as they are of a fight, Pa said so. Most all the animals found in the woods ain't all time fierce, most time they're good. The trouble is mostly they're misunderstood because, Pa said so. (laugh) Ain't it funny? One thing that made me remember it so good was me and him was saying let's see which one can remember it the longest. The last time I talked to him not long before he died he asked me if I remembered it and I said yes and he said he did too and he said it to me. 13

Magazine paper was heavier, more durable, and did not need to be changed as often, as this informant remembered: When I could get a Life or a [Saturday Evening] Post or something, why they were the most precious ever was and we'd save them, you know. I'd use them and they'd last maybe a year and they'd stay white, but newspaper you'd have to paper every two weeks because they'd turn yellow. 14

Color pages were also popular. After the wire staples were removed, the pages were dabbed with paste and advantageously arranged on the wall so that the eye would fall on the images to which the paperer was most attracted. In a wall awash with color, the favorite picture, the one neighbors would stop and comment on, was placed in the middle of the wall, the most coveted spot in the house for a favored twodimensional, representational subject. Since these walls were repapered at least once a year, it gave the paperer the opportunity to find new images, reinforcing the same theme, or to change themes entirely, thus showing new personality facets, though sometimes at risk. One woman put a picture of a car in the middle of her wall and recalled that "my sisters laughed at me, made a joke about it because I kept this car in my bedroom on the wall. I don't know why I did it unless it was just

22

CHARLES E. MARTIN

bright and colorful." 15 At a later date she mentioned she used cars because they represented the means to get to all the places, particularly the cities, she wanted to see. 16 With magazines, as well as catalogs, there was some segregation by subject matter. Pictures of food were pasted on the walls where the family ate and recipes were near the stove, visually reinforcing spatial function. Some people arranged the magazine pages across from where they slept, not necessarily by subject matter but by color, so that at night the light of the coal fire would reflect off the glossy colored walls causing those special chosen hues to dance as they fell asleep. The third type of paper used on a large scale were the pages from the old Sears and Montgomery Ward catalogs, called "wish books." 17 The staples were removed and the pages were sometimes pasted up in the order they came from the book. Some people, though, saw that method as breaking esoteric rules. For example, some informants never mixed tools with clothes, or tools with shoes. It was important to keep subjects closely related to each other within the same area (like women's shoes and dresses) or to pick certain motifs corresponding with room use: for example, toys for boys went where the boys slept, girls' dresses and furniture defined the girls' area, and dresses and shoes usually went in the adults' bedroom. As the paper went up, family members were allowed to pick the subjects that, until the next

Figures 5. A Knott County woman on her papered porch, around 1925. Courtesy Alice Lloyd Photographic Archives.

DECORATING THE APPALACHIAN HOUSE

23

papering, would define the limits of their individual living space. One informant remembered that she liked: the pictures with furniture. That is what I would always pick when my mother would be papering mine and my sister's room; that was the bedroom. I'd pick the pages that had the living room couch and chairs to match and an old rocking chair sitting in the background. And then also the bedroom suites, like the bed and the chest and the dresser, and usually you'd see a dog sitting in the background in the corner. I picked things like that. That's what I liked my bedroom to be papered with. 18

The subjects used in the communal living areas were generally chosen at the discretion of the paperer. One informant expressed an additional rule that papered walls did not go well with linoleum floors, but only with wood floors or hooked rugs. 19 Certain types of paper, not so widely utilized as magazines, newspaper, and catalogs, were used on the walls for a different effect. In one instance, the lilac-patterned wrappers of Waldorf toilet tissue were used. Also, before World War II paper flour sacks sold in Appalachia were white on the outside and covered with print, but the inside color was a robin's egg blue. Women were careful then to open the sack by the folds without tearing it. When the flour had been used, the bottom was unfolded, the sack laid flat, and saved until enough sacks had accumulated to cover a wall. All the frayed ends were later trimmed with scissors and the paper applied like other types, with continued care concerning straight edges. Some took red paper from other kinds of sacks and outlined the blue walls with it. This red border could also, at the paperer's option, be scalloped. Newspaper had other decorative uses: instead of pasting scalloped pieces on the walls, paperers often hung them from the mantel, from the cupboards, along the window sills, and from the ceiling joists, if these were visible. One informant, though, when talking about decorations, expressed how taste and values had changed in Appalachia: You could cut that [newspaper] out in all kind of little designs, you know. Fold it together and cut it out. Oh, you just learn a lot of things, when you have to make your own. But now, you know, it wouldn't go good now, but it was really pretty then. And everybody lived alike, you know, that was the thing about it. Nobody, even if somebody had a little more money, they didn't show it. And now everybody wants to live just a little bit more than somebody else. 20

These cutouts, called "lacing," were considered a pretty decoration unto themselves, but if the doors were left open on a warm, windy day they trembled in the breeze-a visual treat usually reserved for springtime.

24

CHARLES E. MARTIN

There were other decorations heralding spring. After the weather warmed enough so that coal was no longer burned in the firebox, the latter was cleaned of its soot and ashes and the grate taken out and scrubbed down to the metal. Orange clay was then rubbed over the front of the grate before setting it back in the firebox. The fireplace arch and jamb rocks were coated with white or blue clay, and willows or garden roses were cut, placed in the grate and allowed to extend out a short distance into the room. Spring cleaning was also considered to be a form of decoration. Children were sent down to the creek bed to pound white sandstone into granules as an ali-day project. The sand was spread over the poplar floor and rubbed in with a hickory scrub broom until the floor looked white. One individual recalled its joys: That good fresh smell of clay. There were clay banks, really, and you'd go and get that and it was already gooey, you know, and it was just white as it could be, and when it would dry, it was as white as snow. A lot of people that didn't want to paper but they had the ceiling, the rough ceiling, and they would put that over the ceiling. It was just like paint, it was beautiful. And when we scrubbed our floorr--we didn't have rugs of any kind-and when we scrubbed our floors, we beat up the whitest sand rocks. That was a day's work for the children to take a hammer and beat up all that sand, if you were going to scrub the next day. After we had rinsed it all off-scrub it and rinse it all off-then we would sprinkle that sand over it and let it lay on there until it dried, then sweep it off and it was just as white and smelled so good and fresh. 21

A well-scrubbed floor was said to look as if it had a coat of wax (and it also kept the spring fleas down). 22 This scrubbing was extended by some people to include the door and window facings, and even the chairs. What is left of all this work and decoration done years ago in Appalachia is the image of a room freshly papered, with edges perfectly straight, the floors and doors white, the green of spring extending out from the once black heat source, and the lacing moving sporadically in the breeze that made its way through the opened doors and windows. One obvious value of these decorations was, of course, thrift. The Appalachian could visually improve his surroundings with a minimum of capital. Another was cleanliness. An informant mentioned that if one walked into a house, however humble, and clean paper was on the walls, the housekeeper was automatically assumed to be a good one. A third value was more inclusive--even if only one medium was spread throughout the interior walls of a house, each family member

DECORATING THE APPALACHIAN HOUSE

25

could relate to its varied images on an individual basis. One member might, at any one time, see an image as artistic, another see it as encompassing dreams, another as educational, and another as a form of entertainment. Many of these decorations allowed a certain degree of individual expression in a culture that had, for generations, placed its weight behind tradition and its predictability. The individual could add small esoteric embellishments to a quilt or chair or the preparation of a certain food which would not threaten older cultural and artistic norms. But when someone cut a picture to which he was strongly attracted from a magazine and placed it in the middle of the wall or over the mantel where all could see, he took a calculated step away from predictability based on tradition and toward symbols conceived of by national advertisers. By the 1930s, with the consumerism based on the coal-related industrial paycheck, these symbols of houses, cars, clothes, Christmas, and carefully arranged foods influenced Appalachians increasingly to change their conceptions of what life was supposed to be like. The wallpaper continually and visually presented the promises of the consumer-oriented and industrial society-a society not of traditional farmers, but of suburban men who carried undented lunch boxes to clean factories in polished workboots and pressed workclothes. Their wives had well-equipped white kitchens and their children every kind of toy. The images of factory-made furniture, lawn chairs, automobile seatcovers, and electric refrigerators constantly beckoned to people in eastern Kentucky as examples of the industrial wonders and conveniences. When family members divided catalogs by subjects to define individual space, it was a prelude to the Appalachians' decision to alter the course of their lives, to pursue not a community-oriented system of survival, but a more economically complex system of industrialism, mobility that promised to spiral steadily upward, and decisions based on personal, not group choices. Media-papered walls were not a symbol of privation but of the conscious acceptance of change, born of the Appalachian's optimism to use industry rather than to let it use him. Residents could state their dreams by using these pages and giving their particular choices of symbolic images prominence in the center of the orderly arranged wall or over the mantel. One informant recalled pasting pictures of cities in the center of her wall and poetically reasoned: "I've never been to a large city in my life, and I'm a little bit like Tom Sawyer. I guess I like to explore. I explore with my mind even if I've never been there." 23 How does the contemporary Appalachian look back upon these no-longer-functional decorative techniques? That depends on age and

26

CHARLES E. MARTIN

experience. Younger people, more industrially oriented, are emotionally and experientially removed from media-papered walls. They would not, under any foreseeable circumstances, decorate that way. "Are you crazy?" was one informant's response. Older people, who used it and understood its aesthetic, functional, and symbolic value, are still drawn toward it. Several informants expressed the desire someday to paper a wall with newspaper. But which wall? Well, it would have to be a wall tucked away out of sight because, as one informant put it, "People would make fun of me." She and many other women are afraid of embarrassing their children and grandchildren, who view Appalachia's past much differently than their elders. Many women feel they would paper the old, emotionally comforting way if it were not for the pressure put upon them by young people not to. Regardless of the present attitude of the young who equate newspapered walls with the bad old days of technical deprivation, the older Appalachians were able to take a product of "mainstream" Americathe catalog, newspaper, or magazine-and, following their own traditional framework of always putting an object to new and good use instead of discarding it, utilize it to insulate themselves from the cold, to teach and entertain themselves, to define personal space, to welcome the advent of spring, to beautify their surroundings, and to articulate their dreams. NOTES This article, in an earlier form, appears in Appalachian ]ourna/10(1) (Autumn 1982):42-52. I wish to thank Katherine R. Martin for her helpful advice and editorial assistance. 1. Interview with Boss Slone, Hindman, Kentucky, 23 July 1979. The chimney and house were built in the late 1930s in Knott County, Kentucky. 2. Interviews with Irene Slone, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 24 October 1979; Oliver Caudill, Lexington, Kentucky, 13 October 1979. 3. Interviews with Austin Slone, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 23 May 1979; Boss Slone, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 23 July 1979; Ellis Slone, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 20 June 1979; Elbert Slone, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 1 April1979. 4. Occasionally houses were papered on the exterior walls underneath porch roofs, as Figure 5 demonstrates. 5. Meredith Slone of Pippa Passes, Kentucky, in an interview conducted 22 October 1979, recalled her mother saying that she began papering walls in about 1900. The practice, however, may be much older. The oldest wallpaper located in the area, in terms of publication date, has been from an 1833 edition of James Fenimore Cooper's The Pioneers. It could have been applied much later than that, of course. Papering may possibly have antecedents in the British Isles. In Scotland, whitewashed newspaper was used to smooth over a roughly finished wooden wall. Occasionally, the newspaper was left unpainted, covering the wall or the headboard of

DECORATING THE APPALACHIAN HOUSE

27

an enclosed box bed in even rows (R. W. Smith, Curator, Auchindrain Museum of Country Life, Argyll, Scotland, to Charles E. Martin, 6 January 1982). 6. Interview with Marcus Slone, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 4 February 1980. 7. Interview with Rilda Watson, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 22 October 1979. 8. Interview with Aorida Slone, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 4 November 1979. 9. Interview with Meredith Slone, 22 October 1979. 10. Interview with Alberta Madden, Hindman, Kentucky, 23 October 1979. 11. Interview with Lou Hattie Hall, Hollybush, Kentucky, 4 October 1979. 12. Interview with Vema Mae Slone, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 23 October 1979. 13. Interview with Meredith Slone, 22 October 1979. 14. Interview with Alberta Madden, 23 October 1979. 15. Interview with Irene Slone, 21 May 1979. 16. Interview with Irene Slone, December 1979. 17. Sears has adopted the term for their own advertizing campaigns. 18. Interview with Irene Slone, 16 November 1979. 19. Interview with Betty Huff, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 6 October 1979. 20. Interview with Mary Sparkman, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 23 November 1979. 21. Interview with Mary Sparkman, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 5 November 1979. 22. Interview with Paul Slone, Hollybush, Kentucky, 17 February 1980. 23. Interview with Irene Slone, Pippa Passes, Kentucky, 16 November 1979.

FAMILY GROUP ORGANIZATION IN A CUMBERLAND MOUNTAIN NEIGHBORHOOD F. CARLENE BRYANT

THE "top of the mountain," 1 a small rural neighborhood in which I conducted research in 1974-75 and the summer of 1976, comprises fifty-one households situated on and about three ledges or "flats" near the summit of one of the Cumberland Mountains in East Tennessee. With the exception of a family of four who recently moved to the mountain from Virginia, all of the neighborhood's 198 residents are related, and people make much of this fact in remarking upon their social world. They are fond of explaining, for example, that "We're all at least a little bit kin," that "We're all one big family here"; and they stress this feature when_ comparing their neighborhood with other American communities-outside-the-mountains. Ties of kinship are evoked in numerous contexts as commentary on diverse facets of the neighborhood's social organization. Thus, a man explaining his landholdings may cite his kin relationships with the owners of adjoining tracts or tell of how his great-grandfather settled the property in the nineteenth century. And he may explain a neighbor's church affiliation with "Well, her daddy was one of the first preachers in that church," or remark of another that "Ever since he married that Cooley girl, he's been going over there to Mountain Baptist." His manner of speaking suggests that relations of kinship, persons' positions in the neighborhood's kin network, are major determinants of social roles and group memberships. All this is reminiscent of the classic kinship societies that have long preoccupied anthropologists, societies that are organized on the basis of one or another of the many ordering possibilities inherent in a genealogy. Yet from another perspective the top of the mountain is anything but a kinship society. In fact, it could even be argued that kinship may play a smaller role in the day-to-day lives of these mountain residents than it commonly does for people in most other parts of

FAMILY GROUP ORGANIZATION

29

the United States. This conclusion is suggested by the logic of the situation. For where everyone (or almost everyone) is kin and where, as in most of American society, the indigenous conception of kinship seemingly neither includes principles for the categorization of kin into discrete and bounded groups nor even clarifies egocentric classifications beyond the range of first cousins, kinship would appear to be relatively meaningless as a basis for social organization. Indeed, although residents frequently use the terminology of kinship in speaking of their social world, the actual memberships of the mountain's major social groupings--even of its four extended families-often seem to be based on principles of organization and recruitment that are radically different from those of kinship. What, then, is the significance of kinship on the top of the mountain? Students of Appalachia have long stressed the importance of kinship and family in the region, writing, for example, that Appalachia "was, and to a considerable extent still is, a familistic society," 2 and that kinship "is the central organizing principle of sociallife." 3 But while these kinds of statements are not untrue of the top of the mountain, they shed little light on the role of kinship there. In what sense is the top of the mountain, or Appalachia generally, a familistic society, and how does kinship organize social life-by what principles and mechanisms and into what patterns? This paper is concerned with an aspect of this problem that appears to be particularly crucial for understanding the social organization of the top of the mountain. Specifically, it explores the indigenous meaning and role of kinship in shaping the four extended family groups of the neighborhood. As will be apparent to readers acquainted with the work of David M. Schneider, my analysis owes much to his seminal study of American kinship, in which he treats kinship as a cultural rather than an exclusively biological and social phenomenon. 4 Not surprisingly, since the top of the mountain is an American neighborhood, many of my findings and conclusions closely parallel those of Schneider for American kinship in general. Yet I also depart from Schneider's analysis and approach in many ways and am throughout considerably less faithful to his account than to the statements of the people of the top of the mountain. This is as it should be, of course, for what kinship is "all about," according to Schneider, is whatever the "natives" say it is all about. 5 FAMILY GROUPS

Although almost all residents of the top of the mountain are related, some are considered to be more closely related than others; and, with

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the exception of a newcomer family, residents speak of themselves as belonging to one or the other (or, in a few cases, two) of four extended family groups. Each of these families is designated by a surname, each is thought to be composed of closely related kin who are the descendants and affines (spouses and their relatives) of the descendants of a founding ancestor bearing the family name, and each is associated with the area of the neighborhood said to have been settled by this ancestor in the nineteenth century. The eighteen members (five households) of the Campbell family trace their family descent from Isaiah Foley Campbell, who moved to the mountain from Foley Bottom, a small community near the southeastern foot of the mountain. Isaiah and his family probably arrived shortly before the Civil War when, it is believed, Isaiah purchased about seventy-five acres of mountain land from the non-resident owner of a large land grant. Most members of the Campbell familypeople who count themselves as the descendants and affines of the descendants of Isaiah Foley Campbell-still reside in the general area in which Isaiah's land is believed to have been located. This is a small community now known as Campbell Flats or Laurel Woods, located at the southern end of a flat south of the county highway which passes through the neighborhood. The second family group, known as the Johnsons of Rocky Gap, is said to have been founded with the arrival of Robert Johnson and his family from Sourwood Grove, another small community at the southeastern foot of the mountain. Probably shortly after the Civil War, Robert Johnson traded his property in Sourwood Grove for about 100 acres of mountain land owned by a resident named Isaiah Wiley. This tract is thought to have been located in an elevated pass now known as Rocky Gap, and most of the mountain's sixty-eight current residents (seventeen households) who are known as "one of themJohnsons," as the descendants and affines of the descendants of Robert Johnson, reside in this area. The ninety-six members (twenty-four households) of the third family group, the Bradleys, date their family's residence on the mountain from 1871. In this year, according to an old deed retained by a member of the family, Abraham Bradley of Sourwood Grove became "the first Bradley on the mountain" when he purchased 200 acres of land from a local settler named Zachary Wiley. This tract is believed to have been located on a second flat north of the county highway and is now known as Bradley Flats or Cherokee Bluff. 6 Most current residents who are considered to be "Bradleys or leastwise married to Bradleys" live there. The twenty members (seven households) of the fourth family, the

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Johnsons of Mine Flats, reside on a third flat known as Mine Flats or Lower Bluff, which is situated beneath Bradley Flats. Mine Flats was settled by Hiram Johnson, the founder of the Johnson family of Mine Flats, who is said by some to have been "some kin" to Robert Johnson, although the precise nature of the genealogical link is not generally known. Most residents also do not know where Hiram lived before his arrival on the mountain, but they think he probably settled there shortly after Abraham Bradley. FAMILIES AND GENEALOGIES

Most mountain residents' closest social relationships-exhibited in frequent visiting, finding work for one another, assisting with house and garden chores, selling, buying, renting, and giving land, and so forth-are within the family group, among people they consider to be their close kin. These close relationships are believed to derive from the close kinship links among family members, and intrafamily kinship relationships come up frequently in daily conversation as commentary on various family members and the social relations prevailing among them. The following excerpt from a tape-recorded conversation illustrates the context in which family relationships are often discussed: You know, Eli and Alice went and got theirselves a lot of new [things]. Yeah, I seen it ... They're always spending money, uh, buying new things, and don't have a cent put away. They've always been that way. Yeah, but it's funny, ain't it, how the others is so different. Now you take Cal-he's so careful and don't hardly spend nothing. Must have a lot saved up by now. Funny how two brothers can be so different. Well, Cal takes after his mother that way. She was old Sam's girl, and that bunch was always tight-fisted. And, 'course, you got to remember that Alice was a Smith [a non-resident family] and that comes into it.

A great deal of genealogical information is exchanged through such conversations, and most adult residents of the mountain can trace the relationships linking the members of their own family group to one another and to their family founder three to five generations ascendant. However, compared with their familiarity with the details of consanguineal and affinal relations among their close kin, or members of their own family group, most people are not highly conversant with the number and precise nature of all the ties through which family groups are related to one another, that is, through which the Campbells are related to the Bradleys, the Bradleys to the Johnsons of Rocky Gap, and so forth, mainly as a result of past interfamily marriages.

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These relationships between families are generally described as being "distant" ones. "We're all at least a little bit kin," as residents say, but some kin-namely, members of one's own family-are "close" kin, while others are "just a little bit kin" to oneself. Most residents are familiar with at least some of these interfamily links, but usually only with those that are recent or genealogically close to themselves. For example, any marriage between resident members of two of the mountain's family groups that had occurred, say, within the last twenty to thirty years would be a matter of common knowledge, and the members of the household concerned would either be spoken of as members of both family groups (as in fact is the case for two households) or would be affiliated with one family with the inmarrying spouse noted to be also, as an individual, a member of the other family group (as occurs in the case of one household). With regard to a long past interfamily marriage, the grandchildren of the alliance will almost certainly be aware of their links to both family groups involved, noting for example that "My grandmother was a Johnson," but many other people may be unaware or only dimly aware of the link. That most residents are not particularly knowledgeable about the details of all interfamily relationships is not to say, however, that these links are not knowable. Consultations with several elderly residents who are reputed to know all about the "old timey" days and who have old family Bibles on hand elicited many connections between family groups. And an elderly former resident of the mountain, now residing in a nearby town, has been engaged for some years in tracing the ancestry of one of the mountain's families. She generously shared her data with me, revealing many more interfamily ties. These inquiries revealed that genealogical relationships among all mountain residents (not just among members of the same family group) are far more complex and closely knit than residents generally suggest to be the case. For example, most people say that Robert Johnson and Hiram Johnson and the two families founded by them are probably distantly related, but through unknown ties. In fact, it was found that both Johnson families are descended from Robert Johnson for, as was recalled by two elderly residents, Hiram Johnson was Robert Johnson's son. Also noteworthy are two second-generation marriages among the children of Robert Johnson, Isaiah Foley Campbell, and Abraham Bradley, through which many mountain residents are descended from two. or more of these men. A number of older people are aware of these links, and they point to them as evidence of the distant interrelatedness of the mountain's families. They do not,

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however, interpret them as suggesting that these family groups are each descended from several family founders or that most people are members of more than one family. Clearly, when residents speak of each family as being composed of "close" kin who are all "Bradleys or leastwise married to Bradleys" (or Campbells or Johnsons, as the case may be), and when they trace its origin to the arrival on the mountain of one and only one putative founder, they are lending each family clearer contours and a more distinct identity than it possesses genealogically. More than this, they are thereby creating these families. For the complex and intricately interwoven kinship diagrams resulting from my research revealed less the genealogical relationships among four families than an "endogamous soup" from which four conceptually distinct family groups had been delineated through a process of selective recall and interpretation of genealogical detail. But what principles and concepts have informed this selection and creation? How, to phrase the problem somewhat differently, does the indigenous image of the neighborhood as composed of four distantly related and distinct "families" come to be? To be sure, the family groups of the top of the mountain are each said to be and are in fact composed of the descendants of a founding ancestor. They are thus apparently similar (except for the promiscuous inclusion of affines) to the ancestor-focused cognatic or nonunilineal descent groups that anthropologists have described for many societies throughout the world. In fact, Ward H. Goodenough illustrates one form of this kind of kinship system with the example of some Appalachian communities: In an endogamous community, the course of time will produce an increasing overlap of membership in such [nonunilineal descent] groups, until eventually everyone is descended from all the founding ancestors and the several descent groups have become coterminous with the community itself.... Approximating this arrangement ... are some of the valley communities of the Kentucky mountains ... in which all persons accounted as members, as distinct from outsiders, must have one parent who was accounted a member, and so on back to the original settlers from whom all members are by now equally descended. 7

Like these Kentucky mountain communities, the neighborhood of the top of the mountain has a history of numerous locally endogamous marriages. As a result, most residents are the descendants or affines of the descendants of more than one of the neighborhood's early settlers. Unlike the overlapping descent groups described by Goodenough, however, the memberships of the mountain's four families are by and

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large discrete. To be sure, almost every resident can, if he wishes, trace some kind of consanguineal or affinal relationship to almost every other person and to all four founding ancestors. Each therefore could theoretically claim memberships in all four family groups, which would create a situation similar to that which Goodenough describes. The point, however, is that residents either do not bother to trace these links or when they do come up-as so often happens in conversations with a visiting anthropologist-do not interpret them as indicating that they are members of more than one family group. A member of the Bradley family, for example, whose mother's father was a son of Abraham Bradley and whose mother's mother was a daughter of Isaiah Foley Campbell, is unlikely to say, "I'm a Bradley through my grandfather and a Campbell through my grandmother." He describes himself, rather, as simply a Bradley and acknowledges his relationship to the Campbells by noting that "My grandmother was a Campbell." Despite, therefore, the existence of a large number of known or knowable genealogical relationships between family groups, most people view themselves and are viewed by others as being members of only one family. But how is it decided that a particular individual or household belongs to one family rather than another? For, as by and large discretely bounded groups, the families of the top of the mountain must incorporate some rule or principle of closure by which it is determined who, among all the descendants of an apical ancestor, are to be counted as family members and which therefore informs the delineation of these four families from the endogamous soup. SOME POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS

It is tempting to posit the operation of a submerged patrilineal princi-

ple. Although here as elsewhere in Western culture kinship is traced through both males and females, it is nonetheless possible that family group membership, like surnames, is inherited patrilineally. Indeed, although all family members do not necessarily bear the same surname, the fact that these families are known by surnames would seem to suggest that this might well be the case. Some of my genealogical data can be construed as providing support for this hypothesis. For example, most of the descendants of the second-generation marriages among the children of Isaiah Foley Campbell, Robert Johnson, and Abraham Bradley are assigned to the family group of the sons of these men, the husbands. Despite these prominent cases, however, the genealogies reveal numerous instances in which family group membership is apparently based on rela-

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tionships through females in preference to equally close links through males. A more arresting potential explanation of the principles underlying the determination of family group membership resides in the possibility that membership may be determined primarily or entirely on the basis of principles other than those of kinship. In other words, these "families" may not be kinship groups at all, or they may be only partly so, combining kinship and some other kind of principle of recruitment or exclusion. Anthropologists have traditionally thought of kinship relationships as being distinct kinds of social relationships, analytically different from those, say, of politics and economics, and they have structured their studies accordingly. Hildred and Clifford Geertz, however, suggest that it may often be misleading to isolate the kinship component of multi-faceted relationships: "What we would like to suggest ... is that to start with the notion that there is an isolable, internally integrated system of 'sentiments,' 'norms,' 'categories,' to which the adjective 'kinship' can be unambiguously appended is not the most profitable way to go about the matter." 8 Starting from a kindred premise-that all natives do not necessarily share the dominant anthropological notions pertaining to the natures and proper categorization of social relationships----David M. Schneider arrives at a conclusion that is similar to that of the Geertz's but stated more radically. He suggests that under these circumstances "kinship" may not exist at all, that it is "an artifact of the anthropologists' analytical apparatus" and that "like totemism, the matrilineal complex, and matriarchy, [it] is a non-subject." 9 It is possible, then, that many of the relationships between kinfolk which anthropologists have discussed in terms of kinship categories and principles are shaped by concepts and rules that do not involve kinship at all. But if this conclusion is true for the top of the mountain, if the four families residing there are not "really" kinship groups, then what are they? One possibility is that they are local or territorial groups. James S. Brown and Allen Batteau have each found that territoriality is an important component in the organization of Kentucky mountain "family groups" or "sets," which appear to be very similar to the family groups of the top of the mountain. According to Brown, "Family groups were typically not only groups of close kin but also territorial groups. Often the families constituting a family group lived in a cluster, each family being closer to the other families in the family group than to any other family-usually because they had inherited parts of the same estate." 10 In Batteau's words, "The elementary unit of the kinship system of the Mountain People of eastern Kentucky is the

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localized, non-unilineal descent group [or set]. This unit ... is constituted by those descendants of an apical ancestor who reside at or near the original homeplace of the ancestor." 11 Brown's and Batteau's findings are in accordance with mine, for most of the mountain's households belonging to the same family are found to reside together in the same neighborhood section, or "community," on "family land" said to have been passed on from the family's founding ancestor. It is clear therefore, that community residence, land ownership, and family group affiliation on the mountain are closely related, a subject I have discussed at length in a previous publication. 12 For the purposes of this more limited discussion, however, it is sufficient to note that residents of the mountain clearly distinguish between residence groups and family groups. The "community" of Mine Flats, for example, is described as being inhabited "mostly" by members of the Johnson "family" of Mine Flats. Thus, although the memberships of communities and families are known often to coincide, they are conceptually distinct groups. Another possibility for characterizing and understanding the family groups of the top of the mountain is brought to mind by a comment made by Schneider with reference to prescriptive alliance systems: "In principle a table of random numbers might be used to allocate new members to groups--and indeed, systems have been reported from New Guinea which work that way." 13 This suggestion, whether seriously intended or not, merits consideration, for the principle of random numbers accords very well with the actualities and "regularities" of family memberships on the mountain. An appropriate "rule" explaining the assignment of individuals and households to family groups, constructed on the basis of observed regularities, might be as follows: All descendants and affines of the descendants of the family founder are members of that family except those who are members of other families. Each of these briefly discussed possibilities--patrilineages, local groups, random clusters--has some merit, for each can account for at least some aspects of the family organization of the top of the mountain. They all, however, share a serious problem. This problem is not that they cannot be used to explain all cases of family membership assignment-although most of them in fact cannot. It is, rather, that they would seek to anchor the family groups of the top of the mountain in the empirical realities of statistical regularities while ignoring the cultural dimension of what they may mean to the people who, after all, have created and live within them. For while it is possible to compose rules such as that suggested above which adequately explain these family groups insofar as they restate their composition and character in

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terms of general principles, these principles cannot be said truly to underlie and inform their creation unless they somehow accord with the indigenous understanding that both derives from and shapes these families. THE CULTURAL DELINEATION OF FAMILIES

Residents of the top of the mountain do not call their family groups patrilineages, communities, or random clusters, nor do they describe them as being composed of people who are related to one another through males, or who live close to one another, or who perhaps "just happen" to belong to the same family. Rather they call them "families" and they explain that each family originated with the local settlement of a family founder. Family members are close kin who are "all Johnsons [or Bradleys or Campbells] or leastwise married to Johnsons," descendants and affines of the descendants of the family founder. It is clear from much of what residents say of families, however, that family members are thought to be related to one another and to the family founder in more than a strict genealogical sense. Family members are not only described as the grandchildren or great-grandchildren of the family's founding ancestor; they are also said to "take after" him, to have inherited many of his personal characteristics. For example, the stories told of "old Hiram Johnson," founder of the Johnson family of Mine Flats, depict him as a colorful, rather picaresque character who often ran afoul of the law but who was nonetheless a likeable and good-hearted person. His descendants take after him in these respects, for the Johnsons of Mine Flats are considered by themselves and by others to be a fun-loving people whose high spirits often get them into trouble but who are friendly, loyal, and not at all malicious. In contrast, the Bradleys are characterized as a very industrious family whose members, except for a proneness to occasional sexual misadventure, are upright and respectable, and the stories told of Abraham Bradley and his sons highlight these traits. Having inherited many characteristics from the founder, family members are therefore very similar to one another, and each family group is often spoken of as though its members all shared a common personality or set of family traits. The kinds of traits that may be attributed to different family groups are diverse: generous, quick to take offense, God-fearing, law-abiding, upright, respectable, loyal, friendly, clannish, prone to violence, stuck-up, loud, selfish, untrustworthy, no-account. As might be expected, traits that are positively valued are most often emphasized in describing one's own family group while negatively valued traits are frequently stressed in talking

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about other families. Despite these differences in emphasis, however, there is considerable consensus in the attribution of traits to each family, and each is accordingly depicted as possessing a unique configuration of characteristics which is shared to some extent by all its members. The similarities among family members are said to be "naturally" or genetically determined, based on the shared "flesh and blood" inherited from the family founder. Family traits are said, for example, to "run in the family," and people frequently support such statements by pointing to evidence of the same or similar traits in the family founder. Residents appear to believe, moreover, that the sharing of flesh and blood has important implications for the nature of social relationships among kinfolk. People who share the same blood and are hence very similar to one another are also considered to be naturally close to one another, united by bonds of mutual love, trust, and support. "Blood is thicker than water," and relationships between parents and children, brothers and sisters, uncles, aunts, and cousins are thought to be compelled by blood, by the immutable biological nature of human beings. A mother loves her child, for example, not simply because she chooses or is morally expected to do so, but also because it is in her nature to do so. Likewise, family members in general do not love and support one another simply because it is in their interest to do so or because of some cultural or moral imperative, but also because of a natural and biological imperative, one that derives from the fact that they are all very like one another, that they are all one flesh and blood. Not all family members, of course, are of one flesh and blood for, as residents note, many family members are related to the others through ties of marriage rather than consanguinity. But while affinally related family members are distinguished as in-laws in some contexts, they are also said to share many of the family traits. This is because "like marries like," because people are thought to have a natural tendency to marry those who are most like themselves. (Indeed, many people of the mountain have married relatives, sometimes members of their own family group, which validates for residents the truth of their conceptions.) Thus, affines--spouses of family members and their relatives-tend to be viewed as sharing many of the family characteristics even if they are not known to be related to the family founder. Their likenesses, although not based on biological inheritance from the founding ancestor, are nonetheless natural in the sense that they derive from inborn traits and predilections. In the indigenous view, then, a family is a group of close kinfolk who are very like one another and united by bonds of mutual love and support. These similarities and social bonds are thought to be naturally

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determined and are explained in terms of genealogical relationships, for the closer people are genealogically the more similar and socially and emotionally close they are said in general to be. In the case of consanguines, these relationships are explained through the notion of shared flesh and blood inherited from a common ancestor, the family founder. In the case of affihes who are not also known to be consanguines, they are also thought to be largely natural, residing in the individual's inherent and immutable make-up and resulting from the fact that like marries like. But in the real world genealogical proximity and social and psychological closeness do not always coincide. Kinfolk, however closely related they may be, do not always have similar or even compatible personalities and do not always love or even like one another. How are these facts reconciled with the notion of a family as a group of closely related people who are very like one another and who accordingly love and support one another? Individual differences, far from threatening the concept of family unity, are often cited as proof of the family's essential oneness. Although residents stress the fundamental similarity of all family members, they also pride themselves on their individuality and on the ability of all family members to get along together or at least "put up with" one another's idiosyncrasies. It is said that among kinfolk each person is treated as an individual. While people must conform to social conventions in relationships with non-kin, they can "be themselves" with their close kin, who will love them despite and sometimes even because of their faults. This is implied in the saying that kinfolk "stick together through thick and thin." Thus, while love among family members is founded on an identity, it often endures despite-and even encourages-diversity. Sometimes, however, this individuality threatens the solidarity and amity that is supposed to pervade family relationships. It may then be said of a person that he or she is "not really a Bradley." As this suggests, this kind of difficulty is often resolved by the "distancing" of individual kin through terminological variation or simple denial of kinship. However, the top of the mountain also exhibits a more thoroughgoing resolution of this problem in the organization of the neighborhood into four family groups. For individuals who are not "really" members of one family are, as it often happens, members of other families. The family groups of the top of the mountain, while based on genealogies, are also more than genealogical groups. When people on the mountain talk about someone as being a member of a particular family and not of another and when they trace the origin of each family to a founding ancestor, they are not seeking to provide themselves and

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others with a neighborhood genealogy. They are rather talking about social relationships. But they are not simply employing an idiom of kinship and descent to characterize relationships that are really of some other nature. For it is thought that these relationships are kinshi~they are natural similarities and bonds, believed to result from a common biological heritage or to be expressed through marriage. A family is thus composed of those kinfolk who are both genealogically and socially close and who invest their relationships to one another with cultural significance, tracing their descent and the social bonds that are believed to result from this to a common family founder. Clearly all the descendants of a family founder are not necessarily members of the family group said to be founded by him, for all kinfolk do not behave as family to one another. But, as discussed, genealogical relationships on the mountain are so complex and interwoven that they permit considerable latitude in the interpretation of family group memberships and contours. Indeed, it is this very complexity that, far from constituting a barrier to the demarcation of relatively discrete family groups, actually facilitates the creation of families that confirm and conform to ideas of what a family is. CULTURAL PROCESS

It should not be inferred from this discussion that individuals simply

select those kinship ties they would like to emphasize and in this way affiliate with the family group of their choice. While this undoubtedly captures much of the process through which family contours are shaped, it neglects the indigenous view of families as natural groups rather than voluntary associations. A far more satisfactory and illuminating interpretation is suggested by the circumstance of two cases of dual family membership. As noted earlier, members of two households are considered to belong to two families: the first, that of Fred and Grace Bradley, to the Campbell and Bradley families and the second, that of Jed and Sally Jones, to the Johnson family of Rocky Gap and the Bradley family. Fred Bradley's mother, now residing elsewhere, is a great-granddaughter of Isaiah Foley Campbell; his father, now deceased, was a great-grandson of Abraham Bradley. Fred and his wife Grace are on close terms with both the Campbells and the Bradleys and are considered by themselves and others to belong to both family groups. Similarly, Jed and Sally Jones maintain close ties with many of the Johnsons of Rocky Gap, to whom they are related through Sally, who is the great-greatgranddaughter of Robert Johnson, and with the Bradleys, to whom

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they are related through Jed's paternal grandmother and through several recent affinal links. This household is accordingly spoken of as belonging to both the Bradley family and the Johnson family of Rocky Gap. It is possible that these ambiguities of family contours will eventually be resolved by the children of these two families somehow opting for exclusive membership in one or the other of the family groups to which they are currently considered to belong. But the process through which family groups are created may perhaps be better understood in terms of shifting images rather than shifting people. That is, current images of the family groups of the top of the mountain may undergo gradual alterations that would continually account for and resolve recurring discrepancies and ambiguities. To illustrate, fifty or a hundred years hence residents of the top of the mountain may not conceive of their neighborhood as composed of four families known as the Campbells, the Johnsons of Rocky Gap, the Bradleys, and the Johnsons of Mine Flats. For example, the neighborhood may by then be viewed as consisting of three families--the Bradleys, the Johnsons, and, let us say, the Joneses. Under these hypothetical circumstances, the Bradley family group would be composed of some of the descendants of the people currently considered to be Bradleys and encompass the descendants of the group now known as the Campbells. The children and descendants of Fred and Grace Bradley might belong to this group. The Johnson family would consist of the descendants of the present Johnsons of Mine Flats and the descendants of some but not all of the Johnsons of Rocky Gap. And the Joneses, to which groups the descendants of Jed and Sally Jones might belong, would include the descendants of some of the present members of the Bradley family plus the descendants of some of the people who are now included among the Johnsons of Rocky Gap. This example, while not offered as a prognostication, is neither far fetched nor randomly chosen. Both the Campbell family and the Johnsons of Mine Flats are very small groups that have lost many members through out-migration and are therefore likely to become conceptually united with other families. And families may not only shrink and then disappear through mergers with other groups; they may also grow and, with their memberships inevitably becoming increasingly heterogeneous, eventually be thought of as two or more families. Both the Johnsons of Rocky Gap and the Bradleys have become very large families, each containing two or more identifiable but as yet unnamed subgroups of people who have closer social relations with one another than with other family members, and their future conceptual division is therefore not altogether unlikely.

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From the perspective employed in this illustrative discussion, the processes through which family groups are delineated are best understood not only as boundary shifts resulting in part from the vagaries of individual social alignments, but also as shifting family group identities, cores, or foci through which these vagaries are continually reinterpreted. They are both social processes involving changing affiliations of individuals with family groups and cultural processes involving the changing conceptual definition of these groups. Indeed, from this perspective, family groups as social units become inseparable from the ideas that both inform and are informed by them. FAMILY HISTORY

The notion that indigenous conceptions of the identities of family groups may evolve and change in the manner suggested here is supported by historical data concerning two earlier mountain families, the Wileys and the Wilsons. The Wileys were the contemporaries of the first Campbells, Johnsons, and Bradleys and were their predecessors on the mountain. Yet most people claim to know little of this family beyond the fact that some persons bearing this surname sold land to the Johnsons and the Bradleys. Most who have thought at all about the matter suppose that the Wileys simply moved away shortly after Isaiah Wiley and Zachary Wiley "sold out" to Robert Johnson and Abraham Bradley. There is much evidence, however, that this may not be what actually occurred. The Wiley name appears in many of the records and documents-deeds, cemetery markers, family Bibles-pertaining to all four of the family groups of the top of the mountain, often in contexts that strongly suggest that all of the Wileys may not have left the mountain in the nineteenth century and that many of their descendants may still be living there in the guise of Campbells, Johnsons, and Bradleys. For example, genealogical records contained in family Bibles belonging to some of the descendants of Abraham Bradley identify his wife as Sally Wiley Bradley. Since it is known that Abraham Bradley purchased his land from Zachary Wiley, it seems highly probable that Abraham Bradley's wife was related to Zachary Wiley, possibly as a sister or daughter, and that many of the Bradleys may therefore be descendants or collaterals of Zachary Wiley. Descendants of Abraham and Sally Bradley who were asked about the matter were strikingly ignorant and uninterested, however, noting only that while it was possible that Sally Bradley had been "some kin" to Zachary or Isaiah

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Wiley, they did not know anything of her family background "for a fact." Another example concerns the wife of Hiram Johnson, Bessie Wiley Johnson. Like Sally Wiley Bradley, she was also a Wiley. Many mountain residents are aware of this fact, but most say they know little else about her. A few elderly descendants of Hiram and Bessie Johnson claim to be more knowledgeable, however, and they state with assurance that not only was Bessie Wiley Johnson the daughter of Zachary Wiley but also that the couple acquired their land in Mine Flats through inheritance from Bessie's father. As these examples suggest, it is quite probable that the Wileys who lived on the mountain in the nineteenth century did not all move aw!ly from the mountain as residents commonly suppose. Rather, some of them may have intermarried with other residents, and "the Wileys" may have only disappeared as a separate family group-through their eventual conceptual merger with several of the mountain's present family groups. Other evidence of past alterations of family group contours is provided by the history of what was once known as the "Wilson family." The Wilsons, consisting at one time of five or six households, used to live high above the forebears of the Campbells, Johnsons, and Bradleys, almost on the literal top of the mountain, but according to residents they "moved off" several decades ago. As it happens, however, all the Wilsons did not move far, for a few married with the Johnsons of Rocky Gap and the Johnsons of Mine Flats and only moved off as far as these communities. Yet "the Wilsons" no longer exist as a family group, those Wilsons who still reside on the mountain having become parts of what are now viewed as the Johnson families of Rocky Gap and Mine Flats. The view of the mountain's families as fluid, shifting groups which is suggested by these histories and by the earlier discussion of hypothetical future family changes sheds light on at least one problematic aspect of the history of the Campbells, Johnsons, and Bradleys. As noted earlier, it appears that the descendants of the early marriages among the children of Isaiah Foley Campbell, Robert Johnson, and Abraham Bradley were in each case assigned to the family groups of the sons of these men, an observation that hints of the operation of a patrilineal principle, which is seemingly ignored, however, in many other cases. But this is a retrospective assessment that assumes residents of the mountain have always conceived of their family groups as "the Campbells," "the Johnsons of Rocky Gap," "the Bradleys," and "the Johnsons of Mine Flats." From the perspective suggested here, it

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is more likely that at the time of these marriages and for some time thereafter these groups had not yet emerged as separate families. Under this assumption, any apparently patrilineal bias becomes only an artifact of contemporary family group contours and of a tendency to trace the ancestry of each up through males and male surnames. The continual redefinition of family group identities does not of course occur at random. People do not simply choose their families and ancestors, and processes of family group delineation are always shaped and conditioned by the givens of genealogical history. It is suggested, however, that these processes are also creative of this history. It is in an important way inaccurate to describe the mountain's families as groups composed of the descendants of a family founder, for this firmly embeds these groups in an inalterable genealogical process that began in the nineteenth century. The following would be more satisfactory: each current family group is defined by tracing its origin up to an apical ancestor. For Isaiah Foley Campbell, Robert Johnson, Abraham Bradley, and Hiram Johnson obviously did not begin their careers as family founders. Rather, they became so in retrospect, through the conceptual organization of the past in a manner that lends meaning to the present. CONCLUSION

When I began fieldwork on the top of the mountain in 1974, I was struck by the omnipresence of kinship. Not only was it said that everyone (or at least almost everyone) was related to everyone else, but people seemed to make a great deal of this circumstance in daily conversation. Where one lived, who one's friends were, where one went to church, where one was finally buried-all were a function of one's position in the local kinship network, or so it seemed. Later, when genealogies had been duly collected, the role of kinship-which had initially seemed so clear and straightforwardbecame increasingly problematic. For these genealogies revealed that everyone was indeed related to everyone else (or almost), but in so many complex and overlapping ways as to make kinship in itself appear to be quite useless for the patterning and understanding of interpersonal behavior and the demarcation of social groups. Not only did the genealogies reveal no "natural" basis for the grouping or categorization of kin, residents themselves did not seem to use any cultural categories or distinctions (except the distinction between "close" and "distant" kin, neither of which anyone was able to define or indeed seemed interested in defining with any precision) by which all of these kinfolk might be sorted out into the four families of which

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residents spoke. It appeared that however much people liked to talk about kinship, it had no real significance for the patterning and therefore for the understanding of their daily lives. This initial interpretation was wrong, of course. The difficulty lay in uncritically applying my own idea of kinship (or rather a widely held anthropological conception of kinshi~my own ideas upon reflection would probably be closer to those of the people of the top of the mountain) to the definition and analysis of the problem. This conception holds that kinship pertains exclusively to the facts of consanguinity and affinity. Schneider cites Marion Levy's definition of kinship as providing a particularly lucid illustration of this: "[Kinship structure is] that portion of the total institutionalized structure of a society that, in addition to other orientations, sometimes equally if not even more important, determines the membership of its units and the nature of the solidarity among its members by orientation to the facts of biological relatedness and/or sexual intercourse." 14 This definition suggests that kinship is something that exists out there in the real world in its own right and that is therefore an immutable given that the anthropologist records and analyzes and that the natives, however strangely they may categorize their kinfolk, simply adhere to in their understanding of their relationships with one another. And if they sometimes do not adhere to it very faithfully, then it may be "classificatory" kinship, suggesting that it is necessarily different from real kinship, which pertains to the facts of blood and marriage. But as Schneider has been at some pains to explain, although biological relatedness, copulation, parturition, and so forth certainly exist out there in the real world, kinship as a cultural construct in terms of which people create, understand, and explicate social groupings and relationships is whatever the natives say it is. 15 Now it so happens that the particular natives with which I am here concerned seem to be in agreement with the dominant anthropological view. They say that kinship is primarily a matter of biology, of the shared blood inherited from a common ancestor and of the natural similarities among kinfolk which are attributed to the fact of shared blood. But while biology and blood are sometimes spoken of as though they were the sine qua non of kinship, setting kinship relationships apart from all other kinds of relationships, kinship is also rather more than a simple matter of biology, as the inclusion of many affines as family members clearly suggests. For, when speaking of kinship, residents of the top of the mountain use "blood" to connote-more than a particular red substance-a kind of social relationship between those who share it, a relationship that Schneider has described as one of "love" or "enduring diffuse solidarity" 16 and that residents of the

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mountain often speak of as "sticking together through thick and thin." Blood is thus both a substance and a symbol for the kind of social relationship that its sharing is believed to entail. This relationship based on shared blood entails a natural relationship of identity, similarity, or equality. Kinfolk, because most of them share the blood inherited from a common ancestor, are believed to be very like one another, and the more blood they have in common-that is, the closer their genealogical relationship-then the greater their similarities are believed to be. It is because of these similarities, because they are of the "same flesh and blood," that kinfolk "naturally" love and support one another. I have argued here that it is only in the light of these indigenous conceptions that the organization of the top of the mountain into four extended family groups becomes intelligible. Residents speak of their neighborhood in terms of four "families"-the Campbells, the Johnsons of Rocky Gap, the Bradleys, and the Johnsons of Mine Flatswhich are described as groups of dose kin, people related to one another primarily by the bonds of shared blood inherited from a common ancestor. But one often cannot tell who belongs or does not belong to a particular family (and of course residents have never claimed that one could) by consulting a genealogy. For dose kinship entails not only a dose biological or genealogical relationship but also a dose social relationship. Thus, kinfolk who do not get along together, have little to do with one another, or do not stick together through thick and thin, are often spoken of as distant kin, members of separate families, although they may be genealogically dose. On the top of the mountain, blood and genealogies express rather than create family and kinship relationships. The neighborhood's four families are therefore best understood not as groups somewhat akin to species or genera; rather, they are social groupings-that is, human creations-whose members are bound to one another not by the physical facts of genealogical propinquity but by the imports or meanings that people may attach or fail to attach to these facts. NOTES This paper is a revision of portions of my earlier book, We're All Kin: A Cultural Study of a Mountain Neighborhood, used by permission of The University of Tennessee Press, copyright 1981. 1. "The top of the mountain" is the actual phrase residents use to refer to their neighborhood. All other proper names of local people, families, and places are fictitious, however. 2. Harry K. Schwarzweller, "Social Change and the Individual in Rural Appalachia," in Change in Rural Appalachia: Implications for Action Programs, ed. John D. Photiadis and Harry K. Schwarzweller (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1970), p. 53.

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3. George L. Hicks, Appalachian Valley (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1976), p. 35. 4. American Kinship: A Cultural Account (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall. 1968). 5. "What Is Kinship All About?", in Kinship Studies in the Morgan Centennial Year, ed. Priscilla Reining (Washington: Anthropological Society of Washington, 1972). 6. The exact location of Abraham Bradley's property cannot be verified because the deed describes this tract as bounded on the northeast by "too poplars and a hickry," on the northwest by "a shugartree," on the west by "a chesnut," on the south by "a hickry," "a pine," and "a stake and hickry," and on the southeast by "a chesnut." 7. Description and Comparison in Cultural Anthropology (Chicago: Aldine, 1970), pp. 51-52. For his description of the organization of these Kentucky communities, Goodenough cites an unpublished 1960 paper by Kutsche. 8. Kinship in Bali (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975), p. 155. 9. "What Is Kinship All About?", p. 59. 10. "The Conjugal Family and the Extended Family Group," American Sociological Review 17 (1952): 300. 11. "Modernization: Inflections on the Appalachian Kinship System" (unpublished paper) p. 1. 12. We're All Kin, esp. Chapter 3, "Communities." 13. "What Is Kinship All About?", p. 57. 14. Cited in David M. Schneider, "Kinship and Biology," in Aspects of the Analysis of Family Structure, ed. Ainsley J. Coale eta/. (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1965), p. 83. 15. For the fullest exposition of this argument, see "What Is Kinship All About?", pp. 32-63. 16. American Kinship, pp. 50ff.

STUDYING RELIGIOUS BELIEF SYSTEMS IN THEIR SociAL HISTORICAL CONTEXT MELANIE L. SOVINE

STUDENTS of Appalachia primarily have been concerned with the function of religion as a social institution within the greater Appalachian society. These functional interpretations of religion have many dimensions, ranging from descriptions of a socially and/or psychologically functional religion to a socially and/or psychologically dysfunctional one. 1 Considering the numerous contributions to this body of literature, one might assume that substantial insight has been gained into the nature of religion in Appalachia. However, these numerous contributions are narrowly concerned with the role of religion in society, and less is known about religious belief and behavior than one might assume. Following Durkheim, the functional perspective rests on the assumption that the essence of religion consists in its collective expression of community ethics and values. Religious entities are merely collective ideas that are projected outwards. As such, gods and other spiritual beings are symbolic expressions of community morality. Through religion, the solidarity of the community is maintained since, in the Durkheimian thesis, community values are the object of worship. In this view, religion enhances solidarity in society. 2 The unit of analysis considered most appropriate to the functional perspective is the social group or, in this case, the religious-social institution. But focusing on the role of the religious-social institution more often than not deflects one's attention from what I believe to be one of the primary areas of concern in any study of religion: that of religious belief and behavior. And as Spiro3 has suggested, the study of religion solely within the functional perspective tells us more about society itself rather than the intended insight into the realm of religion. In addition, functional interpretations tend to dilute the richness of the

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everyday life experience in which religious beliefs and behaviors find their expression and consequent reality. With the possible exception of Abell, who presents a somewhat disintegrated description of the Pentecostal "system of knowledge," there has been no attempt to systematically delineate the religious belief systems in Appalachia per se. Rather, the studies of religious belief consider only isolated beliefs (i.e., beliefs out of the context of a belief system), correlating them with such sociological variables as education, sex, age, socioeconomic status, social class, and occupationalleve1. 4 Consequently, these studies contribute primarily to the understanding of the role of religious beliefs within the Appalachian society, drawing theoretically from the functional perspective of religion. A more complete analysis of religion could be achieved if religious beliefs and religious behaviors were systematically and meaningfully dealt with in terms of the everyday life contexts in which they occur, and in terms of the ~ocial-historical canvas against which the everyday context of religion may be interpreted. By a systematic approach to the study of religion I am suggesting that particular religious beliefs should be examined within the context of a total belief system. 5 The procedure of the belief systems approach involves eliciting native or indigenous religious beliefs from the believers and identifying and systematizing these beliefs into categories of explanation according to the categorical rules and principles of the believer. The resulting structure of this categorization process is a model of the believer's belief system. The delineation of belief systems is directed toward an understanding of native systems of meaning. Through eliciting and systematizing native beliefs, the explanatory categories and principles employed by the believers begin to take shape, providing an interpretive framework within which the meaning of beliefs and behaviors may be understood. In this view, religion is primarily a system of knowledge rather than a means of promoting social solidarity, as the functional view would have it. Seen in this light, religious interpretations of everyday life and all its complexities represent attempts to explain and thereby understand the world around us. As such, the primary unit of analysis is religious belief itself rather than the social group in which it occurs. It is within the interpretive context of a belief system that religious behaviors should be understood. This is simply to say that religious beliefs and religious behaviors bear an intimate relationship to each other. An analysis of religion solely on the basis of behavior represents a sort of violation of the total religious system. However, a behavioral approach to the study of religion in Appalachia has been a common one. This is especially evident in interpretations of snake-handling

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groups, where the focus is on the snake-handling behavior itself with a barely minimal focus on the system of religious beliefs that make more intelligible the religious behaviors. When the goal is to understand religious meaning from the believer's point of view, the seemingly bizarre or exotic elements of any religion often become intelligible. For example, perhaps most outsiders view the practice of foot-washing in Old Baptist churches as exotic, even revolting. However, when viewed in terms of the Old Baptist belief system, the practice is both rational and reasonable. The Old Baptist can see it to be no other way, and it is the Old Baptist view that the systematic approach to the study of religious meaning attempts to attain. Religious behaviors are not explained in terms of our own perspectives, but rather in terms of the religious beliefs from which they derive. Failure to appropriately grasp an understanding of religious belief and behavior in Appalachia has inevitably produced a lack of appreciation for religious diversity in the region. Functional perspectives have tended to support broad generalizations of an "Appalachian religion" characterized as traditional, fatalistic, or fundamentalist. These reductionistic generalizations fail to acknowledge the shades of religious meaning which are important features of different belief systems. The explication of a broadly defined regional religion in Appalachia can only be achieved by obscuring the empirical reality of religious diversity. Focusing on religious belief systems, on the other hand, makes it possible to show that "grace" for a Primitive Baptist is not at all similar to "grace" for a Holiness-Pentecostal. These seemingly small differences in the shades of religious meaning are, after all, the kinds of differences that the people themselves regard as important and thereby help to account for the varieties of religious groups. Before progressing to a final aspect in outlining an approach to the study of religion in Appalachia, the social-historical context, it will perhaps be helpful to offer an ethnographic example of the belief systems approach. As an illustration, a preliminary analysis of a few aspects of a Primitive Baptist religious belief system will be offered. The analysis is preliminary in that we will actually focus on one major categorical principle in the belief system, the categorizing of the Elect and the non-Elect, and on the implications of being among the categorical Elect. It is preliminary, further, in that these implications will be illuminated largely in terms of one area of religious ritual, the practice of foot-washing in the Primitive Baptist Church. The descriptions and analysis presented below hold for a particular association of Primitive Baptist churches in northern Georgia. This association is of the absolute predestinarian persuasion, believing in the predestination of all things as well as in the predestination of the

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etemal status of the soul, and many of the detailed aspects of belief discussed in this essay would not apply to other types of Primitive Baptists. While the general description of religious ritual behavior presented here would generally hold to Primitive Baptist churches across the country6 there are always particulars of religious behavior which have developed according to local traditions. As suggested, the following discussion is not intended to be exhaustive, but rather illustrative of the belief systems approach. Keeping these qualifications in mind, we may now turn the discussion to Primitive Baptist religious belief and behavior. THE RELIGIOUS BELIEF SYSTEM

The Primitive Baptist belief system divides all people into two major categories, the Elect and the non-Elect. The non-Elect are those people whom the Primitive Baptists believe are to be eternally lost. They are people who have no inclination toward God or religious affairs; the Primitive Baptists describe them as being "of the World," belonging to that segment of humanity which is organized apart from any consideration for the existence and the will of God. The Elect are those people whom God has predestined to be eternally saved. They are inclined toward God and religion; the Primitive Baptists describe them as being "in the World, but not of the World." Elected individuals can be further categorized into the "chosen" Elect and the "unchosen" Elect. The Primitive Baptists distinguish between the chosen and unchosen Elect, but they do not attach labels to this distinction. The terms "chosen" and "unchosen" are my own terms and are used here for explanatory purposes. Elected individuals, at some point in life, are made aware of their elected condition. Those who are among the Elect but have not been made aware of that condition are the "unchosen" Elect, while those who have been given a knowledge of their elected condition are the "chosen" Elect. The chosen Elect are also those people whom God has predestined to be members of the Primitive Baptist Church, thereby gaining knowledge of church order and discipline. In this context, a church member quoted the scripture (Matthew 22:14), "Many are called, few are chosen." As she explained it, the "many called" or the unchosen Elect are those who never have an opportunity to join the Primitive Baptist Church; for example, elected individuals who live in countries where the Primitive Baptist Church, as a religious institution, does not exist or who are made aware of their elected condition just before death. When a person passes from the unchosen Elect to the chosen Elect,

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he undergoes a rite of passage which is called an "experience of grace." The experience of grace is one of the most important rituals in the life of a Primitive Baptist. Defining "grace" as the unmerited favor of God, one can infer that an experience of grace is an encounter with the grace of God. Consistent with Calvinist theology, the encounter with God's grace is considered by the Primitive Baptists to be an "operation" and not an "offer" of grace. To be a child of grace, then, suggests a change in the individual's state or condition that is effected by the workings of the Spirit of God. Primitive Baptists describe it as a passage from the condition of spiritual death to spiritual life. At some predestined point in life, the Primitive Baptists believe that one is made aware of his vile and helpless self. A common phrase used in connection with this awareness is, "I have been made to hate my own life." It is a period during which one can think only of one's worthless, sinful condition. Thus, this period of self-awareness is usually characterized by inward struggle. Elder William R. Welborn offered a typical example when he wrote: "But all my expectations were cut short by the hand of Omnipotence; for I became greatly burdened, my troubles were very great, for I felt myself to be the greatest sinner on Earth. 0, how wretched I felt! I was ashamed of myself." At the point of deepest humiliation and condemnation, one encounters the mercy or the grace of God, extended in this condition by a visitation of the Holy Spirit. During this spirit visitation, one is made aware that one is among the Elect and will be eternally saved. Welborn wrote: One evening I watched the sun go down and as he sank below the horizon I bade him farewell, and never expected to see the sun rise again. 0, how dreadful I felt! For I thought I would soon be dead, and no sooner dead than damned. When night came on and all my father's family were asleep, and I was lying on my pallet in the silent cabin; I arose softly and went out and going a considerable distance from the house, I fell upon my face to pray. I thought I must now sink into eternal woe and misery ... but just at the moment when I thought I was gone, I saw Jesus as it was a bright star descended from heaven, and the next I saw to that superior bright star was a little infant lying in a very shabby-looking stable, and I thought, or it was revealed to me, that this shining light left heaven to become a way for my redemption from death and hell, and became an infant to that end. 7

Having received this call of the Holy Spirit, one not only becomes aware of his elected condition, but at the same time in fact passses from the unchosen to the chosen Elect, from spiritual death to spiritual life. As a result of the experience of grace, a person gains full access to

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the Primitive Baptist religious belief system. Having passed into a condition of spiritual life, this access to the religious belief system is described as being able to "hear with spiritual ears" or "see with spiritual eyes." Again through the workings of Spirit visitation and inspiration, the chosen Elect gain an understanding of what might be called "deep knowledge." 8 Deep knowledge is knowledge that the World cannot understand; it is knowledge that accumulates over a lifetime. Examining the contents of deep knowledge, we find, for example, knowledge about God, the major "causal agency" of the belief system. The theistic model of the Primitive Baptists is a common one in Protestantism. God is the supreme, sovereign, authority; He is omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent. However, further examining the theistic model in the belief system we find that God is one god, yet manifests Himself in three entities: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. Again, the "Three in One" concept is common to Protestantism, and this concept becomes unique to the Primitive Baptists only when the three manifestations are considered in terms of their respective roles within the belief system. God the Father is the predestinator of all things. All things that occur are said to be "the will of God." And, in the case of future happenings, they occur according to the will of God. Everything is, as the Primitive Baptists say, "on time and in time." The Primitive Baptists believe that one is living out one's life exactly as God pre-planned it to be. Understanding the deep knowledge that concerns the Primitive Baptists' theistic model is helpful in understanding that the belief system must explain only one major class of events-that is, predestined events. The Primitive Baptists regard all events as meaningful because, as the events unfold, they represent a fulfillment of the will of God. The Son, Jesus Christ, came to Earth and died the sacrificial death that paid for the sins of the Elect. Had it not been for the death of Christ, grace would be extended to no one. Further, it is through the righteousness of Jesus Christ that the Elect are received into the Heaven of God. While on Earth, Jesus Christ set Himself up as the only true Head of the Church, instituting the Church of God (in a universal sense). The Primitive Baptists refer to this Church as the "Apostolic Church" and consider themselves to be descendants of the Apostolic Church. In terms of church government, the Primitive Baptists claim no other authority but Jesus Christ. This is especially evident in their belief in the complete autonomy of the local church. Each church group is a self-governing body. While local churches are organized into associations, the association is largely an organization for fellowship.

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Although the association can make suggestions and recommendations to local churches, it holds no jurisdiction over the churches that constitute its membership. The Holy Spirit manifests Itself in three roles: the call, regeneration, and sanctification of the Elect. The call is what has previously been discussed in connection with the "experience of grace," whereby the unchosen Elect become the chosen Elect. Regeneration is concerned with the inner character; it is God's provision for correcting man's depravity or the strong tendency to do wrong. For the Primitive Baptists, the Holy Spirit regenerates or completely overhauls a person's nature, so that his values, motivations, and endeavors correspond to what he believes is the will of God. As it is said, "You don't want to do the things you used to do." As a result of the call and the regeneration by the Holy Spirit, one is sanctified, or set apart from the world. As previously stated, the Primitive Baptists refer to themselves as being "in the World, but not of the World." In addition to the call, regeneration, and sanctification of the Elect, the belief system holds that the Holy Spirit has other roles. Spirit visitations continue throughout the lifetime of a chosen Elect. As stated, the call of the Holy Spirit results in one's first realization of an elected condition. However, when the Spirit leaves, one is left with only a "hope" of salvation. As one member explained it: "There have been times when I could say that I was one of the Elect, but this is only for a short time. The Spirit does not linger and then you have only a hope left." A Primitive Baptist remains in this hopeful condition most of the time, for the assurance of election is realized only during Spirit visitations. Spirit visitations are never continuous. They are usually brief. Therefore, subsequent visitations after the call help to encourage or maintain the Primitive Baptist's hope of salvation. Further, Spirit visitations often result in revealed knowledge, specifically the previously mentioned "deep knowledge" of the belief system. For example, one can read and understand the Bible only when "God gives you a mind" to understand. Spirit visitations are of importance to the Elders of the Church, for without Spirit visitation and inspiration, the Elders cannot preach, and preaching is another method by which deep knowledge is revealed for those who "have a mind to hear it." Initiation into the Primitive Baptist Church is by the workings of the Holy Spirit upon the chosen Elect only. Primitive Baptists make no attempt at proselytizing members for the Church. Only those who come the "old school" Baptist way are desired. The membership consists of those who have had an experience of grace. One who desires to join comes to the front of the congregation and tells of his experience of

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grace, which is carefully evaluated and voted upon by the present members. In turn, the experience of grace and subsequent church membership are requisite for participating in church rituals, such as baptism, communion, and foot-washing: and during this same winter I borrowed some clothing and went to Rock Springs meetinghouse and heard Elder B. E. Caudle preach, which was the first sermon I ever heard preached in my life. So time passed on with me in many ups and downs, doubts and fears, until the 18th day of May, 1878, when I went to the church and told some of the great things the Lord had done for me. And in June following, I borrowed clothing of Brother C. W. York to be baptized in, and walked to Mitchell's River meetinghouse, about eighteen miles, and was baptized by Elder B. E. Caudle. 9

The significance of the categories of election and the experience of grace can be further illustrated by the anomalous situation of G. Matthew Amston. Mr. Amston was frequently inspired by Spirit visitations, during which he wrote prolifically on religious subjects of the Primitive Baptist Church. Although Mr. Amston died some years ago, his articles are still being published in Zion's Landmark, a principal publication of the Absolute Predestinarian Primitive Baptists. One would certainly think that Mr. Amston could testify to an experience of grace. As Mrs. Amston related it to me, "Matthew kept waiting and waiting on a big experience so he could join the church, but it never came." Thus, Mr. Amston anomalously bore the characteristics of a chosen Elect, yet because he could not relate an experience of grace, he also bore the essential characteristic of an unchosen Elect who had yet to receive revelations of his elected condition. Had his writings not been so supportive of Primitive Baptist religion, perhaps their propriety could have been successfully questioned and Mr. Amston categorized as a non-Elect who could never receive Spirit visitations, let alone spiritual revelations of deep knowledge. From the beginning, however, his letters and articles received wide circulation through the Zion's Landmark. More troublesome than Mr. Amston's personal fate was the fact that his situation posed a serious challenge to the belief system itself. Essentially, here was a case that the belief system could not explain, thereby placing its explanatory capacity in question. Elder Howard Leffonts solved the problem of this anomaly with the interpretation that Mr. Amston "leapt in his mother's womb," like John the Baptist, who was said to have been "filled with the Spirit" before birth (Luke 1:15). That is to say, Mr. Amston received his first visitation of the Spirit and the experience of grace before birth and thus could not testify to any experience during his lifetime. It was an

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interpretation that served to maintain the integrity of the belief system, while allowing Mr. Amston membership, and later a Deaconship, in the Primitive Baptist Church. The Primitive Baptist experience of grace should not be thought of in terms of a "single, dramatic, conversion performance" that is often considered to characterize the southern religious experience. Nor is it the result of an evangelistic or revivalistic appeal. Rather, it is a period during which one achieves a view of life and the universe; an experience of grace is the period during which the individual personality experiences and subsequently internalizes the notions of the belief system. This system of meaning makes sense out of all that has confronted one in the past and is a means of explanation for the confrontations that are yet to come. For the Primitive Baptists, the very heart of the experience of grace is man's confrontation with himself and with the Supreme Being: So finally I concluded that I was going to die and sink down into a lake of fire unquenchable and everlasting, and that because of my sinfulness. I viewed myself as nothing but a great mass of corrupted wickedness, and that the Good Man, as I knew, was going to sink me into irretrievable woe and misery on account of my sin. Then I began to examine myself to see why it was that I must sink down into hell, and why it was that I was the worst being on earth and could not solve the mystery; for I had never been as wicked as I had heard of some being. I had never acted the thief, neither had I been a liar, nor had I been guilty of any big crime. Then what is the matter? I could not tell why I was so guilty. But when I had view [sic) sin in all its deformity, then I could solve the mystery; for then I saw that it was that original guilt and my total aepravity in nature that condemned me. But all my reasoning about not having been guilty of any great crime did me no good, and finally sleep fled from me. Then I heard a voice say, "Fear no longer, for this [the blood ofJesus Christ) will overshield and overspread you from all harm, from the thunder storms," etc. This voice was the sweetest melody to me; my whole being was filled with sweet and holy melody, and I felt as innocent as a little new-born infant; for all my load of sin and guilt was gone. Now it was right here I saw, or it was revealed to me, just how Jesus came into the world; for I viewed that He lived for me a perfect life of obedience in the flesh, and that He died for me, or died in my stead, and arose for me a victorious conqueror over death, hell and the grave; and then ascended to heaven for me. I also had the same view in regard to the whole church in her triumphant state. Now this heavenly view and divine revelation was so great to me that in after years, when I had gotten in possession of the New Testament and began to read it, it seemed I had always been acquainted with its readings. 10

Thus, entering into right relationship with God involves an admission of one's sinfulness, helplessness, and worthlessness, and an acknowl-

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edgement of the supreme, sovereign authority of God, who extends grace to the Elect only because of His mercy. When referring to this experience, the Primitive Baptists say, "He carried me down." Through the experience of grace, one achieves a ritual condition of humility. However, this condition of humility is not a temporary condition, for it continues far beyond the ritual context of an experience of grace. Humility is an attitude, a value that is central to the Primitive Baptist religion. The notion that one should be humble is so important to them that it is given ritual significance in the church. Above all, it is expressed in the foot-washing ritual, their most important means of intensifying the attitude of humility. The Primitive Baptists are "fundamentalists": they believe that the Bible was directly inspired (word for word) by God and, therefore, that interpretation of the Scriptures should be a literal interpretation. This fundamentalism bears directly on the practice of foot-washing, for the Primitive Baptists derive foot-washing from the Bible (John 13:1-16). Paraphrasing, the Biblical account of foot-washing goes something like this: At one of the last meals the Disciples and Jesus were to have together, the Disciples began to quarrel among themselves as to whom should be seated in the places of honor. Jesus rose from the table, took off his outer cloak, tied a towel around his waist, poured water into a basin, and began to wash the Disciples' feet. In order to understand why Jesus did this, we must examine the customs of His day. In the Middle East, the climate is hot, and in Jesus' lifetime the roads were quite dusty. Any venture outside resulted in dusty feet, as only sandals were worn. Should a guest come to one's home, it was commonplace to provide water for the washing of his feet, this being a mark of hospitality and respect toward strangers. The act was sometimes performed by servants, whose duties included many humble tasks. Therefore, in addition to being a token of regard, it was also a sign of humility. Jesus was well aware of this practice and its implications for, as we have said, it was the custom of His day. When Jesus had finished washing their feet, he said, "Know ye what I have done to you? Ye call me Master and Lord: and ye say well; for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet; ye also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have given you an example, that ye should do as I have done to you. Verily, verily, I say unto you, the servant is not greater than his Lord, neither he that is sent greater than he that sent him. If ye know these things, happy are ye if you do them Gohn 13: :l--17).

So Jesus was teaching a spiritual truth, the important lesson of humility. We are not to seek to be served, but to serve our fellow Christians. And the Primitive Baptists agree with this interpretation, for they say,

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"it shows our humility." Looking to the verse, "For I have given you an example, that ye should do as I have done to you," foot-washing is literally observed by the Primitive Baptists, for they believe it was literally instituted. However, this exegetical interpretation of "showing humility" toward fellow Christians does not cover the full symbolic value of the ritual in the Primitive Baptist Church. Foot-washing can be said to be a symbol of humility, a symbol of religious thought for the Primitive Baptists. The Primitive Baptists strive for and react out of the attitude of humility in all areas of church life. The foot-washing ritual is an isolated event that occurs only twice a year in the church's calendar. As such, the ritual is an intensification or a perfection of the concept of humility which is so important in the Primitive Baptist religion. Many months pass without the occurrence of foot-washing, but its implications are in the minds of the believers at all seasons. Twice a year these implications are condensed and symbolized by the foot-washing ritual. The communion and foot-washing Sunday begins with a regular meeting to "sing, pray, and preach." At the close of the worship service, all are invited to share a meal together which the women of the host church prepare. The communion and foot-washing service is said, simply, to "follow lunch." There is no set time to begin, no formal call to worship. A few will gather in the church house and begin to sing a hymn. Hearing the singing invites others to come and begin the afternoon service. Those who are to take communion and wash feet assume designated positions in the church (see Figure 1). The Elder (1) is seated just in front of the stand (2) and behind the conference table (3), which is being used for the "communion table" during this service. The Deacons (4) of the Church sit at the conference table, facing the Elder. The men have taken positions in the pews (5) to the right of the stand. The women are seated facing each other to the left of the stand (6). A pew (7) has been pulled over to separate the women from the men. Those who are not participants in the communion and foot-washing services are seated in the pews (8 and 9) that run horizontally from midway to the back of the church house. When all people have gathered in the church house and taken seats, a hymn is selected which speaks to the occasion. At the close of the hymn, the Elder stands and offers a brief explanation about communion in general and about "the bread" in particular. The bread is specially prepared; that is, it is "unleavened bread" and is symbolic of the body ofJesus Christ. After a prayer, the Elder breaks the bread into edible pieces, placing the pieces on two dishes. The bread is not cut, but purposely broken with the hands, just as the body of Jesus Christ was broken by man. The Elder calls for the Deacons to come forward;

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Figure 1

Positions for the Communion and Foot-washing Ritual

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2

• 6 •

•1

5.

GJ • •

•

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h

7

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10

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8

9

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1. Position of Elder

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

The stand Communion table Position of Deacons Male participants Female participants Separating pew Seated positions for non-participants Seated positions for non-participants Chair

one Deacon serves the men, the other the women. The men and women are served simultaneously, yet each one individually, eating the piece of bread as they are served. One Deacon then serves the Elder, who is seated, and the Deacons serve each other. The server always stands, while the one being served is always seated. Following the partaking of bread, the Elder stands and offers a brief explanation about "the cup." As one Elder stated, "It is an emblem of

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His blood to remind us of His sacrifice." The Primitive Baptists use wine for their communion service. One Elder stated, "The reasons why our forefathers used 'ferminated wine' was because the blood of Jesus had power. It [the blood] stimulates us; it brings us to life." (Recall that through the death of Jesus Christ, a "limited atonement" was provided for the Elect.) Wine is poured into two common cups. A prayer is said and, again, one Deacon serves the men, the other the women. A Deacon serves the Elder and then the Deacons serve each other. The remaining wine (the believers only sip from the cup) is poured back into the wine flask, and all communion elements are taken from the table and placed behind the stand. The cloth is folded and put aside. After communion, the service progresses to the foot-washing ritual. The Deacons put aside the communion articles and bring forward the foot-washing articles: wash basins, buckets, and towels. Those articles used by the men are placed on the conference table. The women have theirs placed under the pews where they are sitting. Also, at this point, a chair is moved in front and between the two aisles where the women are sitting (see Figure 1, no. 10). The men and women wash feet in the same room; therefore caution is taken to see that all things are done "in order." The Elder offers a brief explanation of the ritual, which is, in essence, the exegetical interpretation of humility. At this point, the Elder removes his suit coat, as do the other men, and then their shoes and socks. The women have prepared (removing hosiery) before the service. The Elder ties a towel around his waist, dips water into the basin with a dipper, and begins to wash another man's feet; the others, men and women, follow suit, women washing women's feet and men washing men's feet. The participants are seated adjacent to each other, so that one side washes the feet of those seated on the other side. And then, the action is repeated in the reverse. The pattern is always the same: a participant ties a towel about his waist, stoops down and places the basin of water at the adjacent, seated participant's feet. Then the washer places both feet, one at a time, in the basin, splashing water on the foot and then drying it. After both feet have been washed and dried, the two participants embrace and have a personal conversation. As one member said, "you thank the person for letting you wash their feet." Both men and women continue at their own pace until all are finished. When finished, all stand and sing a hymn of dismissal. An integral question to the complete understanding of the symbolic value of the foot-washing ritual is, "Who are the participants?" In the first place, the participants are those people who have had a witness by the Holy Spirit that they are among the Elect and have thus had an

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experience of grace. In addition, the participants are those who have come into the Church by "water baptism." "Water baptism," to the Primitive Baptists, refers to a mode of baptism-that is, immersion. Immersion, to them, is the only proper mode of baptism. Baptism, to the Primitive Baptists, is symbolic of the death of an old life of sin and rebirth or resurrection to a new life in Jesus Christ. Thus, immersion is preferred because it symbolizes going down into a watery grave of death after a life of sin and then rising again to a new life. Immersion is preferred on other accounts as well, however. For one thing, Jesus Christ was baptized in the River Jordan by John the Baptist. His mode of baptizing was thought to have been by immersion and, true to their fundamentalist nature, the Primitive Baptists thus follow that mode. In addition, the Primitive Baptists prefer to be baptized in flowing water because Jesus was baptized in the river. Only those people who have testified to an experience of grace are to be baptized. This testimonial to the Church is the time at which one joins a particular church and he must then follow (usually on the same day) in water baptism. Therefore, referring again to the question "Who are the participants?", we see that the participants are members of a church through testimony of an experience of grace and through water baptism. However, there are other diacritics that mark the participant. Churches are organized into associations. If a church in the association is having a foot-washing, all other members of churches in the same association may participate. In addition, the member's church must be at peace and in fellowship with the other churches in the association. Likewise, associations can be in or out of fellowship with one another. Members from visiting associations may also participate. A believer who desires to be in fellowship, whose church or association is out of fellowship, must be rebaptized into a church that is in fellowship. Only a baptized believer in fellowship may partake of communion, and only the believer who partakes of communion can participate in foot-washing. The communion and foot-washing are described as "closed" by the Primitive Baptists, and this closure is reflected in who is allowed to participate. The closed order of communion and foot-washing is the result of a genuine concern for the spiritual order and discipline of the church, and in the minds and hearts of the Primitive Baptists is not merely a mechanism for exclusion. Closure is symbolically represented in another way. Recall that men and women are not radically separated during the ritual; they are separated only so that all things can be said to have been done "in order." The symbolic separation is seen in the fact that all participants, male and female, are situated in the immediate front of the church house, and the nonparticipants are all sitting midway and to the rear of

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the church house. A nonparticipant simply would not be sitting among the participants. Summarizing, then, when considered as a part of the Baptism/ Communion/Foot-washing trilogy, foot-washing becomes a ritual of closure. Participants in any one of the three--baptism, communion, or foot-washing-are clearly defined. Closure is even symbolically represented in the physical separation of participants and nonparticipants in the rituals, for only a believer who is a "fellowshipped" believer may sit among the participants in communion and foot-washing. Closure is symbolically enacted in the Primitive Baptist Church because the Primitive Baptists consider themselves to be a closed society. While some have characterized this behavior as strictly exclusive, the Primitive Baptists would say that it actually reflects inclusiveness. Those participating are those chosen Elect who have been included within the spiritual kingdom of God. These are God's "little ones," as the Primitive Baptists would say, and they participate in the rituals with feelings of unworthiness to do so. Closure, then, is symbolically directed toward and exclusive of "the World" and is a symbolic behavioral statement of their perception of being "in the World, but not of the World." The relationship between believing and behaving in the Primitive Baptist religion has been illustrated above through the example of believing in and the ritualization of the attitude of humility. However, the behavioral implications derived from a belief system certainly reach beyond the ritual enactment of any particular belief. Drawing again from the Primitive Baptist religion, we may note that the foot-washing ritual is held in conjunction with the communion service; both are preceded by a regular worship service. For example, at Heines Creek Primitive Baptist Church, all services are held on the "third Sunday and Saturday before." On the weekend designated as "Communion and Footwashing," the "Saturday before" service has an interesting relationship to the following day's events, for it suggests that footwashing is a ritual means of resolving conflict in the church. People who attend church together regularly are participating in a type of social action. Conflict seems to appear inevitably during social action, and we may well anticipate conflict appearing in the Primitive Baptist Church. On the "Saturday before," however, all members of the church must be "declared at peace," or else the communion and foot-washing service cannot be held on the following Sunday. Consider this story related by a church member: There were two men in the community that had been quarreling over a property boundary for nearly a year. Everyone knew that these two men

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belonged to the Primitive Baptist Church, and that for the oncoming footashing to take place, that everyone in the church must be declared at peace. ;ey wondered what these two men were going to say, or, how they were going to react, because one had to give in, or both had to give in ... something had to be done. So, when the time came and the minister asked, "Is this church now at peace so that we can have communion and foot-washing?" ... Well, the members said, "No" ... the pastor got up and said, "I believe we have a little trouble in our congregation. And we would like for these two brethern to see if they are at peace now or if we can or cannot have communion and footwashing tomorrow." All these neighbors and people who had come in to see what was going to happen ... people all over the community knew about the quarrel and they knew the custom of the Primitive Baptist Church. They knew these two men had to be peaceful else there couldn't be any foot-washing. So, up gets this Bro. Johnson and up gets this Bro. Jones and they just come "Zip!" right to the middle of the Church. And he says, "Bro. Jones, "I'll cut down the tree." And Bro. Johnson says, "No, I'll move the fence on the other side of the tree." And, they embraced each other. And, they had been fussing almost a solid year over the boundary line. And, they had fussed . . . and they had threatened to go to court to make them move. They embraced and were in tears. Everybody in the church was in tears. And everybody rejoiced to see how strict the Primitive Baptist Church was. 11

At another level of interpretation, then, the foot-washing ritual serves as a way of resolving personal conflict in the church community. Through the ritualization and subsequent intensification of the attitude of humility, the persistence of conflict between individuals and the consequences of this persistence for all church members becomes a matter of immediate concern. And, as in the case described above, the problem of personal conflict often becomes a matter of public concern. Ideological commitments that are reflected in ritual enactments have wider implications for appropriate church behavior in general. And, inasmuch as the conflicts are within the awareness of a larger community, the implications of religious beliefs extend well beyond the boundary of church-related behavior. The relationship of religious beliefs and behaviors to the broader concerns of everyday life brings us to another consideration in the proposed approach to the study of religion, that is, the social-historical context of religion. THE SOCIAL-HISTORICAL CONTEXT OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF

The understanding of any religion depends not only on a grasp of religious meaning, but also on the insight one is able to gain into the

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place of any religious group within its everyday and social historical context. By the place of religion within the context of everyday life, I am simply suggesting that we must contend with the fact that religious groups do not exist in a vacuum but are interrelated with other facets of everyday life. Religion, as a system of knowledge, does not exist to explain religious behavior and religious events alone, but rather is part and parcel of the total explanatory system that gives meaning to all of life. The view of religion as permeating the whole of life is a different view from that common to the Appalachian community studies which, again, draw on the functional, social-institutional model of society. The focus on religion as a social institution creates a false image of boundaries within everyday life. It is as if one stepped in or out of the religious realm like stepping in and out of the church-house door. Thus, many community monographs have a photograph album"now here we all are at church"-flavor; i.e., religion is described as though it were a divisible sector of community life operating in isolated fashion. The predominance of the geographical and cultural isolation theme as an explanatory concept for the greater Appalachian experience has predisposed students of the region toward using the community as the geographical unit of analysis, and the kinship group as the sociological unit of analysis. In fact, all of Appalachia has been described as an area of scattered, isolated communities socially organized by kinship principles. These organizational schemes were largely imposed on the study of Appalachia with little regard for indigenous principles of geographical or cultural organization. It may be that the use of geographical communities and sociological kin groups as units of analysis represent quite arbitrary and inappropriate impositions on the study of religion in Appalachia as well. This would certainly be true of the Primitive Baptists, whose associations, for example, cut across the community and kin group. Many associations include churches from several communities across county and state lines, this being a historical as well as contemporary pattern. Bars of fellowship against other associations have been known to create divisions within a particular community of kin groups. Some Primitive Baptists have often remarked to me that the "brethern" are closer to them than their own family members. These examples from the Primitive Baptists are simply to suggest that in order to understand everyday life as believers' view it, we must be prepared to work with principles of organization which divide up the real world in ways that are different from our own. This is particularly true in the case of religious groups, whose principles of organization may be ostensibly different from those of "the

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World." As such, patterns of organization can have meaningful implications that obtain from the religious belief system itself which interacts with the context of every day life. The experience of life today, with its constituent religious element, is, in turn, shaped by numerous social-historical processes. The kin group-community studies are largely synchronic and fail to address the significance of historical dynamics. The proposed approach differs additionally from community studies by insisting that the study of religion is necessarily diachronic. It is the diachronic perspective that allows one to understand the ever-emerging present of any religious group. Considering religion in Appalachia, it is clear that attending to the influence of social-historical processes requires that the socialhistorical development of any religious group be interpreted against a wider context than the immediate geographical locale. This is to say that while we are concerned with the religious belief system in the everyday context, we are also concerned with the relatively short and the much broader social-historical trends against which the religious group resonates. Insofar as these trends are American in breadth, so is the development of a religious group in Appalachia. No religious group may be understood simply in terms of its "Appalachianess." And the notion that a religious group may be understood only in terms of itself-in isolation from other influences-is not empirically sound. These comments call for an explication of what is empirically observed when one is studying religion during a period of primary fieldwork, for example, or when one visits a church in any geographical region. We are observing the empirical manifestations of the "interpretive face" of a religious group. The "interpretive face" of religion is the sum total of what is observable, both behaviorally and symbolically, for any religious group. 12 This face is most apparent, of course, in specifically church-related settings, although, as stated, any portrayal of the face must include its non-church-related settings as well. In addition, the interpretive face of a religious group can be thought of as something like a point of culmination for the living interface of the religious belief system, the everyday life context in which the belief system occurs and to which the belief system gives meaning, and the social-historical processes that give the interpretive face of any religious group its own peculiar shape. To the extent that variation occurs in religious belief systems (for example, intradenominational variations in theology, doctrines, etc.), in the contexts of everyday life (for example, varieties of agricultural communities or industrial communities), or in the social-historical processes (for example, differential effects of the coal industrialization

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process within central Appalachia), one would anticipate degrees of variation among the interpretive faces of any religion within one region or certainly across geographical regions. To the extent that there are similarities within the three areas above, one would anticipate similarity among the interpretive faces of any religion. This is simply to say that one may always recognize oneself to be in a Primitive Baptist worship service, for example, but it is also to say that the Primitive Baptists along Brownies Creek, Kentucky, appear somewhat different from the Primitive Baptists in the Wiregrass section of southern Alabama. The continuities may not be accounted for simply in terms of rurality or "southernness"; nor may the differences be accounted for simply in terms of a "regional religion" in Appalachia (or a "regional culture" that determines the difference) or merely in terms of adapting to a social and economic situation. Rather, the interpretive face of any religious group may only be understood in terms of the complex and dynamic interfacing of belief, everyday life, and social history. NOTES 1. John D. Photiadis, ed., Religion in Appalachia: Theological, Social, and Psychological Dimensions and Correlates (Morgantown: Center for Extension and Continuing Education, West Virginia University, 1978); Robert Coles, "God and the Rural Poor," Psychology Today 5 (3) (1972): 33-40; Joseph C. Finney, "Introduction," in Joseph C. Finney, ed., Culture Change, Mental Health, and Poverty (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1969), pp. xi-xxiii; Jack E. Weller, "How Religion Mirrors and Meets Appalachian Culture," in Max Glenn, ed., Appalachia in Transition, (St. Louis: Bethany Press, 1970), pp. 132-37; Weston LaBarre, They Shall Take Up Serpents, (New York: Schocken Books, 1976). 2. Emile Durkheim, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life (New York: Collier Paperback Edition, 1961). 3. Melford E. Spiro, "Religion: Problems of Definition and Explanation," in Michael Banton, ed., Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Religion (New York: Praeger, 1966), pp. 85-126. 4. Earl D. Brewer, "Religion and the Churches," in Thomas R. Ford, ed., The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1962), pp. 201-18; Berton Kaplan, "The Structure of Adaptive Sentiments in a Lower Class Religious Group in Appalachia," Journal of Sociallssues 21 (1965): 126-41; James S. Brown, "Social Class, Intermarriage, and Church Membership in a Kentucky Community," American Journal of Sociology 57 (1951): 232-92; Thomas R. Ford, "Status, Residence, and Fundamentalist Religious Beliefs in the Southern Appalachian Region," Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 5 (3) (1960): 52-65; Allen Keith Jackson, "Religious Beliefs and Social Status: A Study of the Relationship between Religious Beliefs and Social Status Levels in Sixty-One Churches of the Southern Appalachian Mountains" (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Emory University, 1960); John D. Photiadis and J. Schnobel, "Religion, a Persistent Institution in a Changing Appalachia," Review of Religious Research 19 (1) (1977): 32-42; Lorin A. Baumhover, "Value Orientations of Clergy in Appalachia" (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Colorado State University, 1976); Byong-Suh Kim,

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"Religiosity as Related to Social Factors and Modes of Social Institutional Behavior in the Southern Appalachian Region" (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Emory University, 1968); Loyde H. Hartley, "Sectarianism and Social Participation: A Study of the Relationship between Religious Attitudes and Involvement in Voluntary Organizations in Seventy-Two Churches in the Southern Appalachian Mountains" (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Emory University, 1968). 5. For an example of this cf. Charles Hudson, "The Structure of a Fundamentalist Christian Belief-System," in SamuelS. Hill, ed., Religion and the Solid South (Nashville, Tenn.: Abingdon Press, 1972), pp. 122-42; Charles Hudson, The Southeastern Indians (Knoxville, Tenn.: University of Tennessee Press, 1976). 6. Arthur Carl Piepkorn, "The Primitive Baptists of North America," Concordia Theological Monthly 42 (1971): 297-314. 7. William R. Welborn, "Experience," The Christian Baptist 11 (9) (1977): 125 (originally published in The Gospel Messenger, 1880). 8. Hudson, "The Structure of a Fundamentalist Christian Belief-System," op. cit., p. 135. 9. Welborn, "Experience," op. cit., p. 11. 10. Ibid., p. 11. 11. Carolyn P. Alston, interview, Decatur Georgia, June 22, 1977. 12. Clifford Geertz, "Ethos, World-View, and the Analysis of Sacred Symbols" Antioch Reviw 17 (1958): 421-27; Clifford Geertz, "Religion as a Cultural System," in Michael Banton, ed., Anthropological Approaches to the Study of Religion (New York: Praeger, 1966), pp. 1-46.

RELIGION AND CLASS CONSCIOUSNESS IN THE KANAWHA CouNTY ScHooL TEXTBOOK CoNTROVERSY DWIGHT B. BILLINGS & ROBERT GOLDMAN

A SERIES of bitter, divisive, and persistent local conflicts concerning textbooks and school curricula have erupted throughout the Appalachian region over the last decade. Because these confrontations have sometimes escalated beyond the angry rhetoric of school board meetings into the frenzied behavior of book burnings and physical violence, they have attracted substantial media attention. Indeed, because the focus of these disputes has involved fundamental questions of what is moral, a supercharged emotional atmosphere has accompanied the textbook controversies. Consequently, the textbook controversies have been characterized as battles between the forces of enlightenment and modernity on the one hand, and the obstructing forces of backward, reactionary, or folk traditions on the other. On the surface it appears as if this is simply another instance of the kind of behavior that can be anticipated from that strange people known as Appalachianspoor, uneducated "hillbillies" who resist all forms of progress in an irrational and authoritarian fashion. However, we contend in this essay that such accounts of the textbook controversies are partial (one-sided) and ahistorical. We seek instead to recast an understanding of these within the framework of broader American class structures and ideologies. In this essay we shall address ourselves primarily to the textbook controversy which took place in Kanawha County, West Virginia, in 1974. Though the events surrounding the Kanawha County textbook controversy became muddied and complicated by the intervention of various extra-local right-wing organizations that sought to exploit the protest, we contend that the movement against the liberalization of textbooks was first and foremost a fundamentalist working-class movement.

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Kanawha County is a large urban-industrial complex in southern West Virginia. Charleston, its principal city, is the state capital. In Kanawha County, opposition to the textbooks centered in portions of the county which have long traditions of working-class resistance. The hotbed of opposition was the Paint Creek and Cabin Creek sections of the county-sites of some of America's most violent labor conflicts when the United Mine Workers struggled to organize these mining communities early in this century and still the most militant miners' district in America. Industrialization, over-expansion of the coal industry, cut-throat competition among coal operators, and opposition to unionization produced not a backwater of rural traditionalism but working-class communities with a heightened sense of occupational consciousness and a tradition of activism not shared by the chemical workers in the urban sections of Kanawha County. This tradition of dissent and working-class resistance was expressed as a defense of fundamentalist religion and of seemingly conservative values. We seek to understand why this was so. We will approach this question first by critically examining interpretations of the textbook conflict advanced in the scholarly press and popular media. We believe their superficial plausibility depends upon a widespread misunderstanding of Appalachian culture and an inadequate understanding of mountain historical experience, including especially the regional pattern of social class relations. Our reinterpretation follows a two-fold approach: on the one hand we offer a rereading of Kanawha County events in light of new Appalachian historiography; on the other hand, we probe the contradictions between affirmative and oppositional elements in American Protestantism. First, however, we will recount the course of the Kanawha County protest. "EVEN HILLBILLIES HAVE CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS"

Although certainly it was much more than this, the Kanawha County textbook controversy has been characterized as "a struggle over words. " 1 During one of the demonstrations, a protest sign proclaimed: "Even Hillbillies Have Constitutional Rights." 2 Such words suggest the contradictory loyalties and group identities that characterized opposition to textbook choices in Kanawha County. For the signbearer, ethnic defensiveness seems mingled with subcultural pride, democratic faith with the fatalism of the powerless. Such contradictions have perplexed interpreters. Numerous commentators have hypothesized diverse explanations for the protest. Some attribute the protest to the antics of "cultural Luddites" deter-

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mined to "cling to yesterday." 3 From this point of view the textbook crusade was an instance of symbolic politics in defense of threatened traditionalist lifestyles. The Charleston NAACP interpreted the whole affair as a racist ploy to "get Negroes out of the schools," yet others compared the conflict with the struggles of black community control advocates in the late 1960s. 4 Curiously, a liberal New Yorker reporter interpreted the conflict as "class war,' 15 though a Marxist sociologist teaching in the county perceived only the machinations of right-wing infiltrators (as did the liberal National Educational Association). The Methodist bishop of West Virginia discerned "a trumpet for powerless people" amidst the clamour of dissent while others feared religious warfare or the resurgence of McCarthyism. From a technocratic point of view, professional educators pointed to the failure of school officials "to find ways to contain and manage conflict, to negotiate and win compromise." Most observers agree that mounting rural dissatisfaction with decisions made by the Charleston-dominated school board was in the background of the textbook battle. Closed meetings of the school board, consolidation of rural neighborhood schools, and experimental programs in sex education have been identified as sources of discontent in the early 1970s. The precipitating cause of the controversy, however, was a unanimous decision by the school board in April1974 to adopt 325 language arts textbooks and supplementary readings selected by a teachers' committee to comply with a "multicultural" and "multiethnic" mandate in state law. School board member Alice Moore, the wife of a fundamentalist minister who had been elected to the school board in opposition to sex education, approved the books but managed to delay the purchase orders. In June she began speaking to church groups, charging that the proposed texts were "dirty, antiChristian, and anti-American." At the end of June a committee of twenty-seven ministers publically demanded that the school board reject the books and on June 27 an overflow crowd of 1,000 protestors attended a school board meeting. Many of the protesters watched the meeting from hallways with closed-circuit television and loudspeakers. Opposition to the books intensified over the summer months as copies and passages were displayed in rural churches. By the end of August protesters had organized a massive school boycott. When the school term opened on September 3, 20 percent of the expected enrollment was missing; protesters held a rally on the same day which was attended by 2,000 dissidents. Sociologists Ann Page and Donald Clelland have analyzed the published statements and pamphlets of protest leaders and letters to

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the editor written throughout the summer and early fall of 1974 in opposition to textbook adoption. They identify four basic thematic complaints voiced in this literature: "(1) disrespect for traditional orthodox conceptions of God and the Bible; (2) use of profanity and vulgar language; (3) disrespect for authority; and (4) advocacy of moral relativism." Interpreting these statements as expressions of concern about the destruction of a "style of life," the researchers suggest other subsidiary themes including: "concerns about lack of patriotism, leftist political values, neutral treatment of immoral sex, drinking and violence, violations of privacy, and evolutionism." 6 Protesters objected to the moral implications of many readings which explicitly advocated "situation ethics." One exercise requiring students to compare the fable of "Androcles and the Lion" with the biblical story of Daniel in the lion's den drew particular wrath. School board official Alice Moore objected to it saying: "That's putting the Bible right on the level of fables. Several things imply that God is make-believe and that prayer is a pretend thing." One teenage protester wrote: "We're not asking that they teach Christianity in the schools. We're just asking that they don't insult our faith." 7 Since a central objective of the textbook series was to convey multicultural and multiethnic perspectives, many of the readings contained language that was viewed by local community standards as inappropriate for youth. "Profane" or "crude" language using "the name of God in vain" was particularly objectionable. Examples included expressions such as "by God," "good Lord," "for Chris sake" as well as usages such as "ass-whipping" and "poor bastards." A reference to pubic hair as "electric fuzz" in an e.e. cummings poem was not appreciated either. 8 Since much of the objectionable language came from black writers such as Dick Gregory, Eldridge Cleaver, and Malcolm X, protesters were condemned as racist. Perhaps closer to the protesters' true concern, however, was one protester's succinct remark that the textbook adoption was felt to be "an insidious attempt to replace our periods with their question marks." 9 One day after the school boycott began, the protest was given further impetus by a wildcat support strike by Kanawha County coal miners. Roughly 3,500 miners stayed off the job for several weeks after a few antitext women carrying protest signs picketed local mine sites on September 4. On September 10, 11,000 Charleston commuters were stranded when protesters halted the city's bus service. On the following day, with pickets spreading rapidly to other area businesses, the Charleston Daily Mail urged protesters and school officials to "Make Texts Concessions .... The ordinary trade and commerce upon

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which all of us depend must not be impeded." The texts were "not worth the fight that is being made over them." That same day the school board proposed such a compromise offering to remove the texts for a 30-day citizen review. The concession was acceptable to protest leader Alice Moore but not to more militant protest leaders. The Reverend Martin Horan urged continued resistance. Horan is reported having said the following to the school superintendent at this time: I drive a truck for a living and I preach the gospel because the Lord called me. The common man don't know what to do except what he's done and that's to go home and sit down. It's his strong back that keeps the system going, and when he don't like something he goes on home and sits down.

The Kanawha County schools were closed September 13 through 16 to protect children from violence. On September 18, eleven protesters including several ministers were arrested for violating a court injunction against picketing. From this point on, conflict intensified as various compromise solutions were rejected. Violence occurred throughout October including vandalism at school buildings, shootings at empty school buses, and the dynamiting of a board of education office. At this point, middle-class conservatives, at first sympathetic, confessed that things had gotten out of hand. According to one journalist living in the county during the conflict, "the tacit support given the protest by middle- and upper-class elements melted away as the picket lines got rougher and the coal companies yelled louder." Once "the growing militancy and anti-business character of the miners' involvement weakened the fragile coalition of antithetical constituencies," the conservatives-"always somewhat disdainful of coal miners"-are said to have begun "muttering about the 'nuts' and 'crazies,' terms which the enlightened liberals in town had used from the first." 10 In early November the school board voted to return the texts to the classrooms. Protesters established several small private schools in opposition and at the end of the month several rural mayors unveiled a plan for secession from Kanawha County. The conflict gradually diminished, though not before a school board meeting in December was disrupted by fist-fighting, when a proposal by Alice Moore was adopted barring certain of the texts from classroom use. According to Francis Parker, a plan was devised to exclude texts that "pry into a child's home life, teach racial hatred, undermine religious, ethnic or racial groups, encourage sedition, insult patriotism, teach that an alien form of government is superior, use the name of God in vain, [or] use offensive language. " 11

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APPALACHIAN STEREOTYPES VERSUS APPALACHIAN HISTORY

The Kanawha County textbook conflict was fraught with many ironies. Observers were puzzled by the paradox that protesters challenged school authorities with illegal and violent tactics because of their opposition to textbooks that they perceived as encouraging children to question authority. 12 For many observers this led to the conclusion that the protest movement was simply an authoritarian, anti-modern defense of traditionalist lifestyles. This interpretation is supported by commonplace misunderstandings of Appalachian culture and history. From the pages of "Lil' Abner" to television images of the "Beverly Hillbillies" or the "Dukes of Hazzard," Appalachian people have been subject to extensive and pejorative stereotyping. Many accounts of the textbook confrontation re-evoked these stereotypes. Franklin Parker, for instance, reported that "most" rural Kanawha County residents "are set in their ways, wary of change," to account for the course of events in Kanawha County. Because of emigration "many who remain are underpaid, underemployed, undereducated, undermotivated to change." He added that "what the mountaineer who remained gained in independence, he paid for in isolation, clannishness, superstition, backwardness." 13 New Yorker reporter Calvin Trillin referred to the protest leadership as "brawl-and-stomp" ministers and reported "an assumption that any dispute involving mountain people-particularly mountain people who are coal miners-will end in violence." 14 Washington Post reporters Baker and Barnes began their feature article on the textbook battle with the following description of Kanawha County "hillbillies": It is easy to sneer at them, those women in hair rollers and men in bib overalls, who go to school board meetings to denounce atheism and immorality in the classrooms of Kanawha County. They have old wringer washers on the front porch and drive battered pickup trucks. They have never heard of John Dewey or Jean Piaget. They are troubled and confused by the 'new morality,' the 'new secularism,' the impact on their lives of all that is 'relevant' and 'innovative,' and they hurl back words like 'blasphemous,' and 'obscene,' and 'unpatriotic.'15

In a critical commentary on Appalachia's image in the media, Curtis Seltzer, a journalist who lived in Kanawha County during the protest, responded to the Baker and Barnes story saying, "I covered this story since its beginning and I never saw a woman in hair rollers or a man in bib overalls." He complained that "because there is no organized mountaineer constituency in Manhattan and because so few newspeo-

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pie have ever lived there, they get away with typing the protesting parents as raggedy, half-literate, bomb-slinging religious nuts." 16 Media stereotypes of Appalachia are lent plausibility by academic literature, which blames economic and social troubles in Appalachia on perceived cultural traits and personality deficiencies of mountain people. This literature portrays a mythical image of Appalachia as a traditional folk culture, frozen in time. 17 Rupert Vance, for example, argues that in Appalachia "mountain isolation ... became mental and cultural isolation, holding people in disadvantaged areas, resisting those changes that would bring them into contact with the outside world." According to Vance, "the effect of conditions thus become a new cause of conditions, but the cause is now an attitude, not a mountain." 18 A related approach interprets the folk culture as a "culture of poverty." 19 In either case, "the crux of the problem is clear. To change the mountains is to change the mountain personality." 20 Although a recent cover story in Mountain Life and Work reflects the frequency with which "Appalachians Demand Quality Rural Education" throughout the region, 21 academicians in the subculturedeficiency traditions contend that "education has not been as valued in Appalachia as in the rest of the United States." Along with "a negative attitude toward ambition, leadership, higher formal education, and other status-making differences," rural Appalachians, according to this view, "have not internalized the value of education." 22 Such an assumption prevents one from understanding the intensity of feelings with which a Kanawha County coalminer would complain to a reporter during the textbook controversy: "We built these schools with our sweat and taxes and, son, no bureaucrat is going to tell me that my kid has to learn garbage." 23 Reified, monolithic images of Appalachia are plausible only because of this long-standing tradition of mythologizing and stereotyping Appalachia, as Henry Shapiro's important intellectual history of the idea of Appalachian "otherness" makes clear. 24 A critique of Appalachian mythmaking such as Shapiro's, however, is not a denial of Appalachian history. New historical studies by scholars such as Alan Banks, David Corbin, Ron Eller, and John Gaventa document the gradual replacement by capitalist industrialization of two pre-capitalist modes of production in rural Appalachia. 25 These modes of production are household subsistence and independent commodity production organized as family farms. 26 These studies describe the separation of rural Appalachians, first from their land and later from control of their work and the value of their products. These forms of alienation accompany the transformation of mountain people's work potential into commodities. 27 This process fundamentally restructures Appalachian

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social relations and prepares the region for the far-reaching commoditization of more and more spheres of daily life. 28 Community studies also document the strains of transition to the capitalist mode of production. Unfortunately most of this sociology, like most American social science, substitutes reified images of "modernism" or "industrialism" for a theoretical comprehension of the logic of capitalist relations and its alternatives. This, along with a synchronic approach, tends to obscure how the "data" are best contextualized historically. Occasionally, instances of resistance to capitalist domination are misread as evidence for a Snuffy Smith subculture of poverty mentality. The best community studies, however, may be reinterpreted as documenting the persistance of elements of precapitalist Appalachian experience. Thus in Shiloh John Stephenson provides a graphic picture of class conflict at the workplace which is terribly significant because of its very mundaneness. Stephenson writes: One local story that has been handed down with embellishments over the years tells of a man who helped build the "scenic," a parkway through the mountains nearby. Although his was not a factory job, the story illustrates well one local attitude toward close work supervision. The man's job involved hauling loose dirt and rock away from a construction site and dumping it over a nearby cliff. After dumping each load, he would Jean on his wheelbarrow and watch the dirt cascade to the bottom of the cliff. The supervisor, after watching the worker enjoy several episodes of this time wasting spectator sport, walked over to him and said gruffly, "Why don't you get another and watch it chase the first one down?" To which the worker is said to have replied, "Why don't let's watch the wheelbarrow chase it?" At this he pushed the wheelbarrow over the cliff and "went to the house" (walked off the job). 29

This daily life incident illustrates resistance to the capitalist separation of work and control. It complements historical accounts of collective expressions of resistance as in Cabin Creek or Harlan County. As an anecdote in folk culture, the story preserves a remembrance of the precapitalist meanings of work and personhood while it presents a local tradition of opposition to capitalist control over the workplace. Working-class-consciousness and traditions of resistance have been nurtured in Appalachia by the presence of strong occupational communities and, following the loss of their land and independence to absentee corporations, the strength of familial and religious ties among mountain people. Many sociologists have documented the tendency for the changing organization of industrial production in the early twentieth century to undermine the social basis for occupational communities. 30 The reverse has been true, however, in extractive industries such as coalmining where industrial villages were created in

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rural areas near mineral deposits. In Appalachia the residential proximity of these workers, along with their underground work experience and overt oppression and exploitation by employers, contributed to strong community bonds at the same time that elsewhere they were being weakened. 31 Also, family and church functioned "to protect [Appalachians] from the sudden influence which came with the development of industrialization." 32 Today, community, family, and religion remain sources of strength in times of social class confrontation as well as institutions to defend against interventions by the agents of other class formations. DIALECfiCS OF WORKING-CLASS ACTIVISM

It is ironic that belief systems and ideologies that were largely imposed

from above in an earlier epoch of capitalist development as a means of disciplining and controlling a rural labor force have become today an obstacle to the continued integration of that labor force under a later stage of capitalist development. We contend that this paradox cannot be fully grasped without an understanding of the dialectics of workingclass activism and the uneven development of capitalist hegemony. Class conflict rarely confines itself to narrowly economic issues. The lives of people and communities are not so easily carved up that we can dissociate their use of symbols or their meaning-producing activity from the analysis of class as a historical process. As E.P. Thompson puts it, "class happens when some men, as a result of common experiences (inherited or shared), feel and articulate the identity of their interests as between themselves, and as against other men whose interests are different from (and usually opposed to) theirs." 33 At any given moment, working people's understanding of their interests is a product of many layers of meaning. Some of the terms of a community's self-understanding are imposed from outside or above, others are embedded in group traditions, and still others emerge as common sense from the shared experience of daily life. The ability to define, evoke, or limit these terms is an important source of cultural power. Configurations of working-class consciousness result from decades of cultural imposition and resistance. Thus it is our contention that the Kanawha County textbook controversy reveals an episode of workingclass opposition obscured by a language-that of Protestant fundamentalism-more often used by other classes for social control to evoke commitment and stability rather than dissent. Why did protesters choose textbooks as their symbolic focus? In our advanced industrial society the school system has become central both in the shaping of values as well as in the creation and reinforcement of

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patterns of social class. Not only has the school emerged as a pivotal institution in the reproduction of class relations, it has also become a central institution in the quest for mobility. One interviewer found that most of the protesters in Kanawha County "confessed to their lack of formal education," which "made desperate their concern that their children receive a 'good education' and more of a chance in life than they had." 34 He rightly observes that what is at stake here is community control, a challenging of the professional domination over the institutions that affect the life chances of working people and their children. In addition, resentment was directed against middle-class educators for, in the words of one protester, "talking down to the laboring class of people. " 35 Thus we contend that the initial symbolism of the textbooks in the protest was neither a consequence of a shallow, backward-looking fundamentalism, nor an abstract defense of lifestyle, but rather part of a quest for class respect, community autonomy, and control over a crucial allocating mechanism of social class and social status. Working-class people in the Upper Kanawha Valley experience, and live with, a series of internal tensions generated by a class-based society. Although many of the protesters acknowledge the inadequacies of schooling in the Upper Kanawha Valley, they nonetheless continue to pin their hopes for their children on the schools. They are thus caught in a dilemma. They know that the dominant culture claims to allocate dignity, freedom, and material resources on the basis of educational accomplishments, but they are unwilling to sacrifice their dignity and freedom that results from the middle-class denigration of their cultural heritage. As a result, the working-class parents from these coalfield communities rebel. They are not wholly willing to accept the "injuries to dignity" which are the price of becoming legitimate in class society. 36 Sociologists in the "status politics" tradition such as Riesman, Vidich and Bensman, and Gusfield correctly perceive a turning point in American life early in this century. But their spatial metaphors of localism (small town values versus mass society), like their psychological analyses (inner versus other-direction), obscure the changes in American class structure and ideology which occurred with the shift from competitive to corporate capitalism. 37 Educational practice came to reflect this shift as meritocratic and technocratic ideologies of schooling replaced earlier practices that were grounded in the metaphors of the marketplace and possessive individualism. 38 Kanawha County parents, we argue, rebelled against texts embodying moral relativism and situational ethics--values more resonant with the "corporate liberalism" of downtown Charleston than with the experience of be-

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leaguered industrial villages in the mining district. In doing so, these parents resisted the imposition of new forms of class domination-in this case, by professional experts who speak the language of the liberal technocratic ethos. AFFIRMATIVE AND OPPOSITIONAL ELEMENTS IN AMERICAN NEO-EV ANGELICALISM

It is now commonplace talk that American social institutions are in

crisis. Ours is a crisis of political and economic viability as well as a crisis of culture. Liberals such as Jimmy Carter, prompted by pollsters' readings of the public "mood," admit to a "loss of confidence" by Americans in their way of life; radical social theorists such as Jiirgen Habermas refer to a "crisis of legitimacy" as a systemic tendency of late capitalism operating at levels of institutional authority and personal motivation. 39 "In a period like our own," writes sociologist Robert Bellah in The Broken Covenant, "when we have lost our sense of direction, when we do not know where our goal is, when our myths have lost their meaning and comprehensive reason has been eclipsed by calculating technical reason, there is need for a rebirth of imaginative vision." 40 The clarification of progressive social goals and values and the revitalization of democratic public culture will involve a complex, collective process of discovery, rememberence, and renewal. Anumber of students of American culture such as Robert Bellah, William McLoughlin, and Jeremy Rifkin contend that American religious traditions are potentially central, significant aspects of revitalization. 41 At the same time, a conservative religiosity threatens to mask and support populist suppression as an instrument of ideological domination. Although the accommodation of mainstream American religion to corporate capitalist society may suggest skepticism for its contribution to "comprehensive reason" and "imaginative vision," observers watch closely for developments that might reinvigorate a liberating, prophetic tradition. In the 1960s the anticapitalist, communal impulse of Woodstock and youth culture as well as the holistic, antitechnicist spirit of eastern religions were viewed as promising influences. Their potential impact, however, has been blunted by their easy cooptation and their commodification as designer jeans and TM courses. 42 A new candidate for playing a catalytic role is Third World "liberation theology." Translations of works by Latin American theologians and biblical scholars by the Catholic Foreign Mission Society of America seem to be encouraging new sociological reflection and theological interpretation, especially among American Catholics. 43

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With its stress on personal pietism and its rural "Bible-belt" roots, Protestant Evangelicalism, however, has typically been discounted as either defensive and marginal or irrevocably conservative. 44 A recent book, however, by Donald Dayton entitled Discovering an Evangelical Heritage attempts to return the American Evangelical movement to its "radical" nineteenth-century roots which, according to Dayton, include both personal repentance and struggles for social reform. Dayton contends that myopic attention to personal holiness is unfaithful to an American Evangelical heritage that includes antebellum abolitionist and feminist agitation. 45 Observers are divided on whether they find a potential here for a socially progressive ideological reorientation. William McLoughlin, perhaps the best historian of Evangelicalism and revivalism in the United States, concludes that "the world view of neo-Evangelicalism, by concentrating on the individual, is essentially an escape from seemingly insoluble, tension-ridden social and political problems." He finds "too much of the old political and economic conservatism of the Fundamentalist ideology" in the movement today for it to play a visionary, progressive role. 46 In another recent publication entitled The Emerging Order: God in the Age of Scarcity, Jeremy Rifkin concludes otherwise. In the theological argumentation and political practice of young neo-Evangelicals such as Jim Wallis, Rifkin discerns a potentially potent critique of the establishment values of liberal Protestantism and corporate capitalism. Viewing American Protestantism in relation to the current crises and contradictions of world capitalism, Rifkin sketches two possible scenarios. On the one hand he finds promise in new developments within neo-Evangelical theology. If these are combined with what he interprets as the liberating impulse of the "new charismatics," Rifkin suggests the possibility of a new covenant vision for a more just and ecologically sound future. On the other hand he warns that American religious spokesmen may instead ally with conservative, upper-class interests to justify a nationalistic, antidemocratic response to declining economic opportunity and energy/natural resource scarcity. The range of ideological variation within neo-Evangelicalism can be seen in the contrast between Jim Wallis and Jerry Falwell, whose Moral Majority movement appeared on the American scene after Rifkin's book was published and lends strong support to Rifkin's second scenario. In his Agenda for Biblical People, Jim Wallis contrasts "establishment Christianity" with "Biblical faith," which he says requires a renunciation of the values of American capitalism and an identification with the poor and powerless. 47 This viewpoint is· represented in a fairly widely read evangelical periodical publication, Sojourners, which Wallis edits. In Listen, America, and through the Moral Majority organiza-

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tion, Jerry Falwell, on the other hand, espouses a politically reactionary "Biblical plan of action" for "revival in America. " 48 Falwell's program represents a right-wing defense of laissez-faire, free enterprise capitalism; American military and nuclear superiority; an authoritarian stress on personal immorality as the principal source of social decline; and a defense of male-dominant politics of the family. The Moral Majority's defense of the capitalist status quo functions implicitly as well as explicitly. In their packaging of Protestant religion as a televised commodity available for millions of viewers of the "electronic church" as well as in the instrumental rationality of their mass media hardware, their computerized approach to fundraising, and their mass mobilization techniques, television Evangelism and the Moral Majority both implicitly uphold dominant logics of capitalist industrialism. This represents a new technocratic version of the affinity Max Weber pointed to between Protestantism and the spirit of early entrepreneurial capitalism. It is erroneous, however, to posit simply a "one-dimensional" interpretation of the Moral Majority. One must distinguish the political aims of the movement's conservative leadership from the diverse levels of meaning that participation implies for its supporters. Despite the intent of its well-financed leadership, one can uncover potentially progressive elements in Moral Majority positions. For example, despite its defense of laissez-faire capitalism, the Moral Majority's campaign against television violence and sexuality contains an implicit critique of narcissism and capitalist consumer culture. Like its demand for the teaching of creationism in public schools, the Moral Majority position on abortion, though certainly antifeminist and antifemale, contains an implicit critique of the spread of technicism and scientism in everyday life. Its defense of the family, though maledominant, defends an increasingly threatened aspect of private space which radical critics such as Christopher Lasch also see as increasingly threatened by the extention of the "therapeutic state." 49 Like the Moral Majority movement, the Kanawha County textbook crusade, as we have argued, manifested a paradoxical blend of ideological positions. Kanawha County families rebelled against school authority in defense of Appalachian working-class culture, which includes Evangelical Protestantism. Historically, as Liston Pope showed in his description of company churches in the southern textile industry, employers in the South have manipulated religious conservatism to blunt class-consciousness. 50 Once such values become part of working-class traditions, however, they may provide a rhetoric for dissent. E.P. Thompson has shown that although Methodism was used to discipline early industrial workers, it also contributed to the making of

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an English working class by providing an organizational and moral basis for the subsequent emergence of socialist leaders. 5 1 Similarly in the American South, Protestantism has functioned not only as a cultural opiate; it has contributed as well, for example, to the social solidarity and cultural symbolism of the farmer's revolt when Populist meetings approached the style of revivalist camp meetings. 52 The same Protestant farmers gave socialist presidential candidate Eugene V. Debs his widest electoral margins in the United States in 1912. 53 Presently, and in the past, Evangelical Protestantism has figured prominently in American class struggles, providing both affirmative support and ideological opposition to industrial capitalism. In a study of the social class status of Evangelical converts during the Second Great Awakening in the 1830s, Paul Johnson found that, initially, New England revivals disproportionately attracted master workmen, manufacturers, and journeyman craftsmen-not merchants, clerks, or laborers. This was true, according to Johnson, because the religion preached was "order-inducing, repressive, and quintessentially bourgeois." 54 Evangelical Protestantism offered new standards of personal comportment and work discipline just when the emerging factory system-contradicting the old paternalistic and authoritarian grammar of Puritan social control-drastically increased the social distance between employers and laborers. According to Johnson, in contrast with Calvinist doctrines of man's moral depravity and the need for collective social control, the Evangelical stress on personal piety and voluntary self-restraint emerged as a middle-class religious solution to the moral dilemma posed by free (and increasingly uncontrollable) labor. Evangelical revivals, Prohibitionism, and Sunday Schools thus functioned as assaults on autonomous working-class institutions that threatened early industrialism. 55 At the same time, however, in movements such as the fight for the ten-hour workday in the late 1830s and 1840s, working-class Protestants found in Evangelicalism a language for resistance as well. 56 This was especially true in the early 1900s in the coalfields of Kanawha County and southern West Virginia. One tenet of the pejorative tradition in Appalachian studies is that Appalachian people, to quote Jack Weller, "have never appreciated anything but a simple literalistic belief in the Scriptures."57 This stereotype of fatalistic, conservative Appalachian religiosity has been challenged in historian David Corbin's account of union struggles in the Paint Creek and Cabin Creek sections of Kanawha County. Here, in the period from 1912 to 1922, "the miners found the Bible to be a gospel of unionism and a handbook of social justice." Sin, in the words of one miner was "to be lukewarm for the [union] cause."58 In the

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course of coalfield struggles, lay "miner-preachers"-reminiscent of the working-class Protestant lay preachers of the English Revolution who would have "turned the world upside down" and made of England a true commonwealth59-responded to God's call to contest the hegemony of company-owned churches and company-controlled ministers. Leading miners in daily prayers at mine faces and picket lines, these union miners articulated a religious doctrine that was enabling rather than fatalistic, comforting rather than narcotic. In commentary on one of the many West Virginia hymns that pictured a unionized heaven, Corban notes that miners' salvation imagery "also gave the miners ideas and ideals to fight for on this side of the workers' paradise": When you hear of a thing that's called union, You know that they're happy and free, For Christ has a union in heaven, How beautiful union must be. There's nothing like union to me, It's a home of the happy and free, It's a heaven of rest for the miners How beautiful union must be! 60

Such hymns did not secularize religion; rather, they endowed economic struggle with communal religious purposefulness. According to Corban, the Appalachian coalfield religion that thrived outside the company churches "promoted collective thought and action, gave cohesion and strength to a social class, and permitted the miners to resist the servility and feelings of inferiority that class oppression often breeds in the oppressed." 61 In the early 1970s Appalachian working-class parents in Kanawha County drew on this religious tradition that earlier had been used both to legitimate human dignity and working-class interests as well to bolster an oppressive system of managerial control. While the content of the antitextbook movement appears as reactionary and authoritarian, we contend that the movement itself can better be understood as the mobilization of class-consciousness within one fraction of the working class in Kanawha County. This class-consciousness is expressed in a series of cultural formations that in an earlier stage of capitalist development usually evoked a commitment to control and stability and occasionally dissent. Ironically, as the parents in Cabin Creek and Paint Creek struggle for community control, they appear reactionary because their opposition to the new social control forms elaborated by technocratic-meritocratic educational practices is phrased in a language of social control which is now in decline. 62

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NOTES The authors wish to thank Dr. Julie Porter for many valuable suggestions in the preparation of this paper. 1. Ann L. Page and Donald A. Clelland, 'The Kanawha County Textbook Controversy: A Study of the Politics of Life Style Concern," Social Forces 57, no. 1 (1978): 273. 2. Franklin Parker, The Battle of the Books: Kanawha County (Bloomington, Ind.: Phi Delta Kappa Educational Foundation, 1975), p. 30. 3. R.K. Baker and B. Barnes, "A Cling to Yesterday," Charleston Gazette, November 17, 1974, pp. 1, 7, section A. 4. Unless otherwise cited, quotations are taken from Parker, Battle. 5. Calvin Trillin, "U.S. Journal: Kanawha County, West Virginia," The New Yorker 50 (1974): 32. 6. Page and Clelland; "Textbook Controversy," pp. 274, 275. 7. Quoted in Page and Clelland, 'Textbook Controversy," p. 274. 8. Parker, Battle, pp. 16 and 17; Page and Clelland, "Textbook Controversy," p. 274. 9. Quoted in Page and Clelland, 'Textbook Controversy," p. 276. 10. Curtis Seltzer, "A Confusion of Goals: West Virginia Book War," Nation, November 2, 1974, pp. 434, 433. In "Textbook Controversy," Page and Clelland assert that since textbook opposition initially cut across class lines the movement was not working-class. For a critique of this argument, see Dwight Billings and Robert Goldman, "Comment on 'The Kanawha County Textbook Controversy,' " Social Problems 57, no. 4 (June 1979): 1393-98. 11. Parker, Battle, p. 15. 12. Page and Clelland, "Textbook Controversy," p. 275. 13. Parker, Battle, pp. 5, 6. 14. Trillin, "Kanawha County," p. 119. 15. Quoted in Curtis Seltzer, "The Media vs. Appalachia: A Case Study," Mountain Review 2 (May 1976): 10. 16. Seltzer, "Media vs. Appalachia," pp. 10, 11. 17. See, for example, Jack E. Weller, Yesterday's People: Life in Contemporary Appalachia (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1966). For empirical evidence against the idea of a distinctive Appalachian subculture, see Dwight Billings, "Culture and Poverty in Appalachia," Social Problems 53, no. 3 (December 1974): 315-23. 18. Rupert Vance, "An Introductory Note," in Weller, Yesterday's People, p. viii. 19. See for example, David H. Looff, Appalachia's Children: The Challenge of Mental Health (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1971) and Richard Ball, 'The Analgesic Subculture of the Southern Appalachians," American Sociological Review 33 (December 1968). For a critique of this approach, see Steve Fisher, "Victim-Blaming in Appalachia," in Bruce Ergood and Bruce Kuhre, eds., Appalachia: Social Context Past and Present (Dubuque, Iowa: Kendall/Hunt, 1976). 20. Rupert Vance, "Introductory Note,'' p. ix. 21. Mountain Life and Work, "Appalachians Demand Quality Rural Education" (February 1980), pp. 3-11. 22. Hart M. Nelson, "The Internalization of Education as a Value in Rural Appalachian Culture: Myth or Reality?," in William Muse (ed.), Business Economic Problems in Appalachia (Athens: Ohio University Press, 1968), pp. 9, 11, 7. 23. Seltzer, "Confusion of Goals," p. 432. 24. Henry D. Shapiro, Appalachia On Our Mind (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1978). 25. Alan J. Banks, 'The Emergence of a Capitalistic Labor Market in Eastern Kentucky," Appalachian Journal?, no. 3 (Spring 1980); David Corbin, Life, Work and Rebellion in

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the Coal Fields (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1981); Ronald Eller, Miners, Mil/hands and Mountaineers (Knoxville, Tenn.: University of Tennessee Press, forthcoming); John Gaventa, Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1980). 26. On precapitalist modes of production in rural America, see Christopher Clark, "The Household Economy, Market Exchange and the Rise of Capitalism in the Connecticut Valley, 1800-1860," Journal of Social History 13, no. 2 (Winter 1979): 169-90; also, James A. Henretta, "Families and Farms: Mentalite in Pre-Industrial America," William and Mary Quarterly 35, no. 1 Ganuary 1978): 3-32. 27. For a discussion of methodological and theoretical issues involved in the analytic shift from cultural modernization theory to Marxian political-economic theories of social change, see John G. Taylor, From Modernization to Modes of Production (Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 1979). 28. The most important theoretical analysis of commoditization is Georg Lukacs, History and Class Consciousness (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1968). Although the term is not used, the commodity trend is a principal theme in Appalachian fiction. James Still's River of Earth (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1977), for instance, describes the Baldridge family's shattered dreams of preserving an autonomous existence in some high lonesome place, as the Baldridges lose their land, move in and out of eastern Kentucky mining camps depending on the vicissitudes of far-away coal markets, and struggle to fulfill the moral obligations to extended family and community that are increasingly compromised by industrialization. 29. John B. Stephenson, Shiloh: A Mountain Community (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1968), pp. 26-27. 30. Harry Braverman, Labor and Monopoly Capital (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1974); Robert Lynd and Helen Lynd, Middletown (New York: Harcourt, Brace and World, 1929). 31. Corbin, Life, Work, and Rebellion, pp. 61-87. 32. Helen Lewis, S. Kobak, and L. Johnson, "Family, Religion, and Colonialism in Central Appalachia or: Bury my Rifle at Big Stone Gap," in Jim Axelrod, ed., Growin' Up Country (Clintwood, Va.: Council of Southern Mountains, 1973), p. 148. 33. E.P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class (Vintage, 1966), p. 9. 34. Seltzer, "Confusion of Goals," p. 432. 35. Ibid. 36. On the contradictions of freedom and dignity in class society, see Richard Sennett and Jonathan Cobb, The Hidden Injuries of Class (New York: Vintage, 1973). 37. See Joseph Gusfield, Symbolic Crusade: Status Politics and the American Temperance Movement (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1963). 38. See Joel Spring, Education and the Rise of the Corporate State (Boston: Beacon, 1972); also Samuel Bowles and Herbert Gintis, Schooling in Capitalist America (New York: Basic Books, 1976). 39. Jiirgen Habermas, Legitimation Crisis (Boston: Beacon, 1975.) 40. Robert Bellah, The Broken Covenant (New York: Seabury Press, 1975), p. 153. 41. William G. McLoughlin, Revivals, Awakenings and Reform (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978); Jeremy Rifkin with Ted Howard, The Emerging Order: God in the Age of Scarcity (New York: Putnam, 1979). 42. McLoughlin, Revivals, pp. 179-216. 43. See, for example, Jose Miranda, Marx and the Bible: A Critique of the Philosophy of Oppression (Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1974). 44. See George M. Marsden, Fundamentalism and American Culture (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980).

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45. Donald Dayton, Discovering an Evangelical Heritage (New York: Harper and Row, 1976). 46. McLoughlin, Revivals, p. 213. 47. Jim Wallis, Agenda for a Biblical People (New York: Harper and Row, 1976). 48. Jerry Falwell, Listen, America! (Garden City: Doubleday, 1980). 49. Christopher Lasch, Haven in a Heartless World (New York: Basic Books, 1977). 50. Liston Pope, Millhands and Preachers (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1942). 51. E.P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class (New York: Vintage, 1%6). 52. Robert McMath, Populist Vanguard: A History of the Southern Farmers' Alliance (New York: Norton, 1975). 53. Leo Ribuffo, "Fundamentalism Revisited: Liberals and That Old-Time Religion," Nation, November 20, 1980. 54. Paul E. Johnson, A Shopkeeper's Millennium: Society and Revivals in Rochester, New York, 1815-1837 (New York: Hill and Wang, 1978), p. 138. 55. Johnson, Shopkeeper's Millennium, pp. 136-41. 56. See Paul Faler, "Cultural Aspects of the Industrial Revolution: Lynn, Massachusetts Shoemakers and Industrial Morality, 1826-1860," Labor History 15 (Summer 1974): 367-94; also Herbert Gutman, "Protestantism and the American Labor Movement," in his Work, Culture and Society in Industrializing America (New York: Vintage, 1977), pp. 79-119. 57. Weller, Yesterday's People, p. 130. 58. Corbin, Life, Work and Rebellion, p. 160. 59. Christopher Hill, The World Turned Upside Down: Radical Ideas During the English Revolution (London: Penguin Books, 1975). 60. Corbin, Life, Work and Rebellion, p. 164. 61. Ibid. p. 169. 62. We are indebted to AI Gedicks for pointing out the similarity between the "New Right's" cooptation of this heritage in Kanawha County and Ernst Bloch's analysis of the cultural efficacy of "German Fascism." In Heritage in our Times, Bloch argued that the Fascist movement accurately comprehended and propagandistically exploited the raw material of "nonsynchronous contradictions." According to Gedicks, Bloch's concept of "nonsynchronous contradictions" refers to superstructure from unfulfilled preindustrial and precapitalist pasts that "survive in the present and result in fractures in the relationship between social being and consciousness." This concept also helps to make sense of the contradictory affinity between the structural exigencies of late capitalism in the United States and the otherwise anachronistic policies advocated by the Moral Majority and ideological positions articulated in current "New Right" legislation such as the Family Protection Bill, which harken back to the paternalism of a bygone era. See AI Gedicks, "Occultism and Marxism: The Dialectics of the Irrational" (unpublished paper), p. 9; also Anson Rabinbach, "Ernst Bloch's Heritage in Our Times and Fascism," New Left Critique, no. 11 (Spring 1977).

THE IMAGE oF APPALACHIAN PoVERTY WALTER PRECOURT

THERE is little doubt that the term "Appalachia" is associated with poverty. In the 1960s the Johnson administration categorized Appalachia as a region of "grinding poverty." Appalachia was in turn designated a frontier in the "war on poverty." Literature on Appalachia abounds with statements about the region's poverty. In the Washington Star an eleven-part series entitled "Poverty in Appalachia" was published in 1964. 1 The following statement appears in the foreword of Appalachian Kentucky: An Exploited Region, "Appalachian Kentucky brings together the factors within the physical environment and the forces within the human geography which have created the conditions of backwardness and poverty associated with 'Appalachia.' 2 Poverty: A New Perspective, published in 1975, focuses almost exclusively on Appalachian Poverty. The book grew out of research on "Poverty in Appalachia" initiated by the Social and Rehabilitation Service of the United States Department of Health, Education and Welfare. According to the author, "some areas, such as Appalachia, appear as massive concentrations of poverty." 3 What has emerged is an Appalachian poverty image. That is, the _term "Appalachian" connotes the idea "poverty." Where did the Appalachian poverty image come from? How did it develop? Does poverty really exist in Appalachia? The latter question may appear ludicrous in light of the barrage of studies and statements on the region's poverty. But if we scrutinize the meaning of "poverty" it is apparent that it rests upon a complex set of cultural assumptions and processes associated with Western economic history. Although most discussions on Appalachian poverty proceed from the assumption that the existence of poverty in the region is a given-that it definitely and concretely exists--there is by no means a consensus among social scientists and policymakers of what poverty actually is. But one thing seems clear:_"Poverty" as frequently used in America today definitely is not a simple synonym for "low income" or "unemployment"; it has

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complex and far-reaching ideological connotations rooted in the fabric of Western economic and political history. This paper will critically examine the notion of poverty in Appalachia. It will seek to identify the historical, economic and social processes that underly the image of Appalachian poverty. An attempt will be made to show why the Appalachian poverty image developed, not why Appalachian poverty developed. The difference between these two terms is very significant, as will become evident in this paper. CONCEPTUALIZING POVERTY

Poverty, atits extreme, has been defined in terms of absolutes such as starvation, death from exposure, or loss of life due to some total lack of resources. Few definitions, however, define poverty in terms of such extremes. Most definitions use criteria that vary depending upon the social and economic conditions present in a particular geographical region at a particular timein history. According to Louis Ferman, "Definitions of poverty are classification systems, designed to suit the particular policy or program purposes." 4 In the United States this type of definition is utilized by the Council of Economic Advisors, which defines poverty in terms of minimum family income. In fact, income is by far the most frequently used indicator of poverty. Wilber states: "Poverty itself is typically regarded as a lack of income, which in turn is related to poor housing, inadequate education, insufficient medical care, excessive fertility, unemployment, and many other depressing problems.' 6 Madden cites a study that lists six broad dimensions of poverty: income, assets or wealth, access to basic services (e.g. health, transportation, legal services), social mobility and education, political power, and status and satisfaction. Income level is the cornerstone of this poverty classification. 6 Davis reiterates the importance of income as a basic poverty-defining criterion in the United States: "Poverty is defined by the U. S. Department of Labor in terms of the adequacy of current family income in meeting a constant absolute standard of food consumption. The poverty income line is based primarily on family size, with adjustment for farm and nonfarm residency. In the Census Bureau's definition, additional adjustment is made for sex and age differences of the head of household." He cites Department of Labor statistics for 1973 poverty income limits for the continental United States. For a nonfarm family with three persons the poverty income level was $3,450; the level for a farm family was $2,950. For a family with six persons the poverty income levels were $5,550 and $4,725, respectively. 7 While there is a great deal of consensus that income is the most

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widely used criterion for defining poverty, there is little consensus that income level and the associated criteria adequately represent the phenomena of poverty. Wilber attempts to go beyond poverty definitions based primarily on income, which he considers "too simplistic and unrealistic." He views poverty as a complex system: "The system of poverty is defined as the relative lack of resources and/or the inability to utilize resources. At a general level, poverty is treated as a function of resources and mobilization .... Thus, instead of treating poverty as a singular entity which is related to a number of additional characteristics of individuals or regions, factors 'related to poverty' are brought into the system." 8 Wilber divides poverty properties into two categories. Category A includes those properties that relate to the life cycle of the individual. They include health, capability, motivation, personality, and socioeconomic status. Category B includes properties that relate to areas, regions, or collectivities of people. These include natural resources, state policy, economic systems, social norms, stratification, community services and facilities, and mass media. Except for nutritional and biochemical standards, which appear as absolute poverty standards, most authors feel that poverty standards are highly relative. Lampman states: "It [poverty] is relative rather than absolute, it is essentially qualitative rather than quantitative, it is to a certain extent subjective rather than objective .... " 9 Madden cogently discusses the relativity of most poverty standards. Prevailing concepts of income adequacy and relative deprivation change over time. Some societies, particularly Western societies, have been characterized as being on a "hedonistic treadmill." That is, as individuals find themselves better off in period two than they were in period one, their aspiration for further improvement in period three tends to make them dissatisfied with the improvement already experienced. This syndrome has serious implications with regard to interpretation of income distribution data ... Proponents of the relative standards of poverty recognize that frustration is a function of the gap between aspirations and expectations. Aspirations of the less well-to-do tend to rise as they observe the ever-increasing affluence of their reference groups. 10

The criticism of some poverty definitions is based on the recognition that most poverty standards are relative. For example, Michael Harrington states that "Poverty should be defined in terms of those who are denied the minimal levels of health, housing, food, and education that our present stage of scientific knowledge specifies as necessary for life as it is now lived in the United States." 11 Rose Friedman, in Poverty: Definition and Perspective, questions Harrington's

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use of the idea "minimum levels" in his definition. "Since, except for food, there are no minimum levels specified by scientific knowledge, the only way this quotation can be understood is to take 'necessary' to mean 'customary' or usual-perhaps average in the sense of modal or typical." 12 In light of the various definitions and concepts of poverty discussed above, it is clear that ideas about poverty deal as much with ideology as they do with material wealth. That is, while physical needs are often considered, cultural values and beliefs are equally significant. Since it is the ideological aspects of Appalachian poverty that are crucial to understanding how Appalachian poverty images have developed, I shall explore in more detail how ideology relates to poverty. Ideology has been defined as "a general interpretation of reality in terms of a combination of values or preferences and objective descriptions of events." 13 In Karl Mannheim's perspective on ideology, "the whole fabric of institutions of a society must be intimately related to the dominant system of existential belief, which, in turn, not merely rationalizes, but springs from the exigencies of functional organization." 14 The use of ideology in this paper is in line with Mannheim's perspective, but the emphasis here is that ideologies resultin a positive or negative interpretation of life experiences. Thus, ideology consists of a basic set of ideas and attitudes shared by members of a society or inhabitants of a geographical area that skews perception at a highly abstract level, placing perceived phenomena into polarities such as good/evil, right/wrong, and desirable/undesirable. Ideological systems are mediated and communicated through complex cultural codes and symbols, e.g., "God" and the "Devil." A fundamental semantic ingredient in the notion of poverty is the idea of good or bad, positive or negative. Thus, to understand the phenomenon of "poverty" we must take into consideration the profound importance of ideology. When we compare ideologies cross-culturally and at different historical periods, the ideological standards by which poverty can feasibly be determined seem potentially as variable as the 862 societies described in the Ethnographic Atlas. 15 Any "objective" criteria seem to exist only in terms of the ideological systems that give them meaning. Even when we consider such basic biological necessities as food and shelter, we cannot overlook the importance of ideology. William Leiss comments on the difficulty of sorting out biological needs from the cultural context. The symbolizing or cultural activity of human beings is so intense and so complex that the biological-cultural dichotomy is never present in the everyday

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activities of social groups, whether they are primitive societies or industrialized empires. The available anthropological record reveals the great diversity in all the human practices devised in response to physiological requirements, including the instances in which certain individuals will commit suicide by depriving themselves of survival necessities so as to maintain the integrity of the social group. What the individual organism objectively requires is a minimum nutrient intake, proper conditions for retaining or dissipating bodily heat, and socialization experiences to maintain group cohesion in social animals such as man. These are everyone's "existence needs." But such needs can be satisfied under a great variety of circumstances, many of which would be considered abhorrent by most persons today. Indeed these needs can be satisfied most efficiently in a setting where the environment has been ruthlessly simplified and organized for just that purpose. Such a setting is described in Zamyatin's famous dystopian novel We, where everyone is assured the necessary nutrients and shelter to sustain life. The sole nutrient is a bland petroleum derivative, however, and the shelter is a small glass-walled cubicle furnished identically for all .... All the most interesting and important issues arise when we study how the objective necessities of human existence are filtered through the symbolic processes of culture and of individual perceptions. In short, all the most important issues arise just in that nebulous zone where the so-called objective and subjective dimensions meet. 16

If aboriginal Eskimo societies didn't regard themselves as poverty stricken, even though they lived in a harsh physical environment, possessed virtually no material wealth, and often were on the brink of starvation, then how can individuals be considered poverty stricken when lack is defined as an inappropriate house-type or style of clothing? This line of thinking may appear like relativism at its extreme, but it does point out the absolute necessity of understanding poverty in a particular context. We must ask why poverty standards exist at all. We must determine how the phenomenon of poverty is manifested and given meaning in different societies. We must identify how a specific version of poverty links to specific social, economic, and ideological processes. These considerations form the basis of the analysis of Appalachian poverty images which follows below. IDEOLOGY AND CONTRASTING ECONOMIC SYSTEMS

To understand the origin of Appalachian poverty images it is first necessary to contrast the ideological characteristics of the Appalachian preindustrial economy to those of market capitalism. Between 1800 and 1900 two basic noncapitalistic economic patterns emerged in the Appalachian region. The first can be termed family-based subsistence farming. Eller desribes this economic pattern:

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Each mountain homestead functions as a nearly self-contained economic unit, depending upon the land and the energy of a single family to provide food, clothing, shelter, and the other necessities of life. . . . the family not only functioned as a self-contained economic unit, but it dominated the economic system itself. The mountain farm was a family enterprise, the family being proprietor, laborer, and manager; and the satisfaction of the needs of the family was the sole objective of running the farm 17

Eller also points out that by 1880 Appalachia contained a greater concentration of noncommercial family farms than any other area in the nation. Few commercial items were purchased by those primarily dependent upon the self-sufficient type of economy. Some trading and bartering was done, but these were not interrelated with other aspects of the economy, and were not based on a commercial market system of supply and demand. The autonomy from the national market economy can in part be explained by the presence of the second economic pattern, independent commodity production. 18 The main feature of independent commodity production is that the producer controls the means of production and personally carries out distribution of goods without an intermediary labor market or monetary system. Thus, production and consumption are localized. Banks characterizes independent commodity production in eastern Kentucky during the late 1800s: "Regular household needs, from clothing and food to soap, lamp oil, spirits, sorghum, hand tools, and stoneware, were satisfied through a local trading network based upon the exchange of products from household manufacture, limited farming, and artisanship. The producers and consumers in this setting were virtually one and the same people." 19 Thus, the system of economic exchange was for the most part outside the sphere of the national economy. It is important to maintain an historical perspective when characterizing the preindustrial, noncapitalistic economic patterns that developed in the Appalachian region. ~elf-sufficient farming and independent commodity production have been replaced almost entirely by involvement with and dependence on the national market economy. The development of the lumber and coal industry starting at the end of ~he 1800s is associated with this economic transformation. It would be inaccurate, however, to suggest that the first decades of the twentieth century saw the end of subsistence farming in Appalachia. Even though the size of most farms had decreased, by 1930 self-sufficient farms in Appalachia numbered 150,659. 20 A study initiated by the Department of Agriculture in the 1930s found that 76 percent of the

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farms in Knott County, Kentucky were self-sufficient. 21 In 1945 Robert Galloway contrasted the social organization of "a typical county in the Northwestern Wheat-fallow sub-region of the Wheat Belt with one in the Southern Appalachian Mountain sub-region." The economy of the wheat farming county, based on mechanized farming, is a large-scale operation with the average gross income in 1945 being $33,000 from wheat alone. In the Appalachian county the farming is essentially domestic. "A typical farmer in this county plants about half of his cropland to corn which is the basic for food for his stock and his family. . . . purchases are confined to necessities-principally clothes and a few staple foods that they cannot produce on their farm." 22 It would also be inaccurate to imply that subsistence farming was the only economic pattern present in the Appalachian region during the nineteenth century. Capitalistic enterprise existed throughout the _region in the 1800s in the more urbanized areas, and even in the larger rural settlements. In fact, one must often know the precise date and geographical locale to estimate the relative importance of subsistence farming versus capitalistic enterprise. Early in the 1800s, when the transportation conditions of the Appalachian region were comparable to lowland regions of the United States, commercial enterprise prevailed even in the most remote mountain sections via trade to outside commercial centers. But with the explosion of transportation facilities outside the mountains during the middle of the 1800s, many commercial producers simply could not compete in outside markets because of transportation difficulties. As Arnow. observes, "numerous as were the manufacturing establishments of 1803, the Cumberland Country was not destined to become a great industrial center. The small farmermanufacturer grew less and less able to compete with the massproduced goods of New England and elsewhere.'' 23 Banks similarly notes, "Even if the mountain producer could accumulate sufficient surplus goods for export, the mountains themselves presented a formidable barrier, even to the most daring and enterprising individuals."24 Although subsistence farming was not universal, Appalachi<.! had J:'Y far the greatest percentage of self-sufficient farms in the United States during the late 1800s and early 1900s. But statistics tell only part of the story. The self-sufficient farm economy formed the basis of folklore about the mountains. It was intriguing to outside observers to witness the ability of certain mountain inhabitants to subsist on produce from the farm and forest, and literature on the mountains focused on this type of economy. The self-sufficient economy came to symbolize Appalachia, and the self-sufficing way of life was depicted in novels and eventually in "documentary" works such as the Foxfire series. 25

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Thus, whether we consider actual statistics on subsistence economy or works of folklore, the self-sufficient economy became closely associated with Appalachia, and the legacy of the self-sufficient mountaineer exists today. To understand the relationship between subsistence farming and the emergence of Appalachian poverty images, it is necessary to realize that subsistence farming is much more than a type of economic activity. That is, subsistence farming involves a total system of social relationships and values. Production and consumption are embedded in social institutions, not the commercial market. That is, economic activities are closely tied to the kinship structure and community-wide networks of mutual aid and exchange. James Brown observes this pattern in his Beech Creek study. The family was the primary economic unit: Unlike most urban families, and even many rural families in the U.S. today, the Beech Creek family tended to be a unit of economic production and consumption. Consequently the economic roles of the family on the farm could not be separated, except analytically, from the family roles. 26

Moreover, "most cooperative farming activities were carried on within the family group." In this system the economy does not function as a separate institution as it does in a commercial market system. As a result, many of the values and beliefs associated with a market ideology, i.e., wealth as a basis of prestige, do not exist or, if they do exist, are mitigated by the demands of kinship and community organizations. This is not to say that "status" does not exist; status, however, is defined in terms other than those related to market ideology. Eller discusses the status system in the self-sufficient farming economy: These status distinctions were functions not of economics (wealth, land ownership, or access to natural resources) but of the value system of the community itself. In remote mountain neighborhoods where economic differences were minimal, measures of social prestige and privilege were based on personality characteristics or ascribed traits such as sex, age, and family groups. The rural social order was divided not into upper, middle, and lower classes, but into respectable and non-respectable groups, and each local community determined its own criteria for respectability. This status system, of course, tended to break down in the villages and county seat towns where class distinctions (and thus class consciousness) were more noticeable. 27

Eller also indicates that the lack of overt class-consciousness "was reflected in the emergence of strong egalitarian attitudes and beliefs." 28

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Many authors have alluded to this value orientation in studies conducted at different times and in different parts of the Appalachian region. Semple states, "Every man recognizes man's equality; there are no different classes" (eastern Kentucky, 1890s). 29 According to Edwards and Jones, there is no discrimination on the basis of dress, language or wealth. "The mountaineer is the same person in overalls, or rags, that he is in a dress suit" (northern Georgia, 1930s). 30 Pearsall similarly observes that the men "feel no special pressure to acquire money and material possessions as status symbols" (eastern Tennessee, 1950s). 31 These attitudes do not mean that the mountaineer did not put a premium on work. If one refused to contribute his share to family and community, there were definite sanctions against his behavior. But the sanctions were based on standards of the community and not on standards of the marketplace. Here again, however, it is necessary to point out the "egalitarian ethic" was not universal but limited mainly to those areas where the self-sufficient economy was predominant. But as with self-sufficiency per se, the egalitarian value system has become part of folklore on Appalachia, and generalized depictions of Appalachian society have been colored by this ethos. Market capitalism is essentially different with regard to modes of economic participation and values and beliefs associated with economic behavior. In a market economy, commercial enterprise is a distinct institution. Social institutions such as kinship and communitywide systems of mutual aid no longer control economic behavior.' Therefore, the social mechanisms by which the economy functions are no longer effective. The economy must create another mechanism-one by which members of a society are compelled to function in the market system. Basic physical subsistence is not automatically translated into an incentive to produce. Physical subsistence is linked with production through the need of earning an income. That is, the capitalist mode of production is characterized by the "separation of producers from real control over and possession of the means or products of labor, and the contractual exchange of labor power for wages . . . labor itself becomes a commodity." 32 Thus, going from point A, physical need, to point B, commodity, is not direct; the path is mediated by an intermediate agency-wages controlled by a market-based labor system. Physical needs, however, are never the sole incentive to work in the market system. "An economic system actually relying for its mainspring on hunger would be almost as perverse as a family system based on the bare urge of sex." 33 It is necessary that "higher motives" become

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rooted in the market ideology and therefore pride, honor, and power become tied to gaining market goods and services. In the nineteenth century the Protestant ethic was the predominant ideological motivation for market-oriented behavior in Europe and the United States. As the commodities market expanded by the beginning of the twentieth century, conspicuous consumption gradually supplanted the Protestant ethic as an ideological force in the market system. The nature of the commodities market as it developed in the twentieth century must be considered before one can understand the value system associated with the acquisition of consumer goods and services. Commodities by definition are goods and services designed to fulfill wants, needs, and desires-the demand. The essential point is that market commodities are not geared to fulfilling a stable set of "objective needs"; the market defines existing needs and constantly generates new needs oriented toward the survival and perpetuation of the market system per se. Furthermore, "the market is the principal reference framework that defines the prevailing model of rational behavior for the members of society. " 34 In The Limits to Satisfaction, William Leiss discusses the commodities market process: In this setting wants become less and less coherent, and their objectives less clear and readily identifiable, as individuals continually reinterpret their needs in relation to the expanding market economy.... New commodities, which today appear steadily and in great numbers, simultaneously promise the satisfaction of wants and promote a feeling of dissatisfaction with regard to the previously existing array. The dizzy pirouette of wants and commodities presents to the individual an ever-changing ensemble of satisfactions and dissatisfactions in terms of which their is no resolution, but only a continuous movement from a less extensive to a more extensive participation in market activity. 35

Leiss also argues that commodities themselves become very complex objects. "They are not simply material things but 'material-symbolic' entities-that is, things which embody complex sets of messages and characteristics." 36 One of the results of the need-commodity treadmill is that each aspect of a person's needs tends to be broken down into progressively smaller component parts. For instance, individuals treat their own bodies as objects made up of component units, each having its own demands. According to Leiss: Hair, face, mouth, eyes, hands, axillae, neck, crotch, legs, and feet all require the application of specific and distinct chemical mixtures, which

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together will make one's body pleasing to others and therefore a means of winning favour. Each of these specific needs in turn can run through potentially infinite permutations in relation to the technological sleight-of-hand embodied in commodities: a deodorant undergoes metamorphosis from paste to powder to spray, is scented with synthetic resemblances to all the fruits of the earth, is packaged in a dazzling variety of shapes and sizes-and so on ad infinitum. 37 The point of all this is quite simple: the fragmentation of needs requires on the individual's part a steadily more intensive effort to hold together his identity and personal integrity. In concrete terms this amounts to spending more and more time in consumption activities. 38

In sum, the market/commodity system exerts profound control on virtually every aspect of a person's physical, psychological and emotional being. Individuals socialized in a market-oriented culture are highly sensitive and finely tuned to market-induced demands. Consumption behavior is delicately coordinated and regulated according to the pitch pipe of the market. If we extend the simile further, we can consider physical needs the two lowest notes on a piano keyboard; in addition to these notes, the tune of market control over individual behavior can be played on any of the remaining eighty-six note~ach representing a "needed" commodity. Of course, the number of notes on the piano keyboard continually increases. An important point to be emphasized here is that the goals concerned with the fulfillment of the market-induced needs are not only those that result in "prosperity," or "luxury." The market also establishes the subsistence level. This is a culturally defined level below which a person is not gaining a culturally defined "subsistence." This in no way implies that a person will lack food, shelter, or clothing if he is below this level. The subsistence level I am considering is defined entirely in terms of cultural values oriented around the acquisition of commodities. The subsistence level is therefore the balance point where a person is contributing just enough to meet the market's needs and in return is just "getting by" in terms of the "necessities" as defined by the market culture. The person demonstrates a lifestyle defined as appropriate by market conditions since the lifestyle is functionally linked to the market via consumption patterns that will ensure the market's existence. The market maintains this subsistence level by adapting the culturally defined goals to its needs. The circumstance of a person's functioning inadequately in terms of the market manifests itself in negative values such as inferiority, shame, and guilt, i.e., the person is below the culturally defined "subsistence level." Poverty is therefore the stigma associated with this negative cultural and economic position. It makes members of a culture

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aware when they dip below a functionally adequate level in the market economy. The flaw in this system, however, is that a person may be defined as functioning inadequately in the economy but may still manage to survive in the society. This may occur among those who disregard the cultural values set accordingly by the market culture. It may also happen when people are incapable of meeting the market demands or unaware of the negative values associated with their economic position. POVERTY AS A STIGMA

This brings us to the basic concept of poverty. To understand exactly why the label "poverty" is attached to levels of economic functioning deemed inappropriate by market standards we must understand the idea of poverty in an historical context. Since the fourteenth century in Europe the label "poverty" has been attached to certain groups of people as a stigma for ostracism and the enforcement of oppressive governmental policies designed to control potentially disruptive behavior. Prior to this tme the care of the so-called poor was in the province of the Church, which in fact regarded the poor to be of the highest moral status.lt was also during the fourteenth century that the collective label "poor" came into wide usage among governmental officials. Waxman notes, "the persistent call for repressive policies to deal with the poor was legitimized by their inherent moral defectiveness and by the belief that they will only cease to be morally defective when they are 'purified' through the process of forced rigid resocialization. . . ." 39 The earliest among these repressive policies were the Statutes of Laborers of 1349, which forbade the giving of alms to those who "refuse to labor, giving themselves to theft and other abominations." A number of Poor Laws were enacted in England during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. During the period 1722-1782 a system of workhouses was implemented where men, women, and children who received relief were forced to eat, sleep, and work. The rules in the workhouses were very rigid, and failure to observe them resulted in punishments which "included the stocks, the dungeon, denial of meals, refusal of permission to leave the house." 40 It was the social Darwinist thinking of Joseph Townsend and Thomas Malthus in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries that influenced attitudes toward poverty at the time of the emergence of capitalism. The "survival of the fittest" mentality fit well into the idea of "laissez-faire" capitalism and influenced the enactment of the Poor Law reforms of 1834.

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Central to the Poor Law reforms was the doctrine of less eligibility, which meant that persons on relief should be kept in a condition "necessarily worse than that of the lowest paid worker not on relief, the objective being to make relief undesirable and to provide the recipient with a clear and strong incentive to get off the relief rolls." 41 Chaim I. Waxman discusses the diffusion of attitudes about poverty to the United States: In 19th century America, these attitudes and approaches to poverty were transplanted. These were adapted to the prevailing ideologies which, on the one hand, from a religious perspective saw poverty as "a fortunate necessity which led the poor into paths of industry and the rich into acts of charity," and on the other hand, saw poverty as a misfortune, unnecessary in the land of golden opportunity. No one who was willing to work need remain poor. Where it existed, poverty was seen as "punishment meted out to the poor for their indolence, inefficiency or improvidence; or else it was interpreted in terms of heredity, intoxicating drink, "degeneration," partisan politics, or, as in one case, the unrestricted liberty allowed to vagrant and degraded women. 42

In the twentieth century the fundamental povety stigma was maintained except the consumption "ante" was steadily "upped": The poverty stigma was applied not just to those who eked out sustenance, but as a sanction for anyone whose behavior did not demonstrate a consumption pattern at the prevailing market level. EMERGENCE OF AN APPALACHIAN POVERTY IMAGE

Let us now consider how the above perspective on poverty relates to Appalachia. Hicks in Appalachian Valley notes, "Since at least 1844, when one of Edgar Allan Poe's short stories mentioned the 'fierce and uncouth races of men' living in western Virginia, there has developed an image of people in Southern Appalachia as slovenly, impoverished, ignorant and sternly individualistic." 43 Thus, by the mid-1800s the process of labeling Appalachians as different on the basis of alleged antisocial traits or deprivation of some form set the stage for the development of the clearly established poverty image that emerged in the twentieth century. The labeling of a group as "different" is_ a significant aspect of the poverty stigma dynamic that had been present in Europe since th~. 1300s. Also, there were scattered accounts of poverty per se in the region. In 1856, a British traveler spoke of the "proverbial poverty" of the people in the "whole region"-due to the excessive time spent on hunting. 44 Missionary groups directly or indirectly fostered a view of impoverishment and deprivation in the

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region during the late 1800s and early 1900s. As Hicks notes, "missionary efforts of church groups had ... advertised the mountain people as ignorant and impoverished." 45 Ideas about Appalachian poverty were, however, relatively sporadic until the economic transformation that occurred between the 1890s and 1930s. During this period the precapitalistic subsistenceoriented economy came under extensive influence and scrutiny by industrial and political agencies of the capitalist system. Let us consider how this process of economic change strengthened and eventually crystallized the image of Appalachian poverty. Subsistence farming is largely outside the sphere of the commercial market system. In fact, self-sufficient farming is virtually the antithesis of a market-based productive system; it is not based on wage labor and cannot possibly provide the monetary means to acquire what the market defines as necessity. In fact, the subsistence economy is integrated according to an entirely different set of principles. Motivation to work is rooted in institutions other than the market, i.e., the family and community-based networks of mutual aid. Thus, prestige is not based on acquiring market goods and services; appropriate productive behavior is defined in terms of an adequate contribution to family and community. While on the periphery of the capitalist system, Appalachians maintained the integrity of their localized economic system. 46 As Appalachians became more involved with the commercial economy of the United States, the material aspects of their way of life were evaluated by a new set of standards, which was based on the ideology of a self-regulating market system. Economic production and consumption, which by traditional standards was appropriate, represented "poverty" by market standards. It is true that some authors have viewed the self-sufficient economy in positive terms. For instance, in Eller's historical study of Appalachian preindustrial economy, the perspective is generally positive: "familism, rather than the accumulation of material wealth, was the predominant cultural value in the region, and it sustained a life style that was simple, methodic, and tranquil." 47 But the message communicated by most studies is that subsistence farming is economically unproductive if not disastrous. One reason for this view is simply that most recent studies are based on the standards of contemporary agricultural economics, which measure agricultural productivity in terms of profit and monetary equivalence. Obviously, if the farming system is not geared toward the agricultural market, monetary returns from farming will be negligible, if not entirely absent. For instance, the following statement appears in The Southern Appalachian Region: "Data

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from the 1930 census of agriculture revealed that the Appalachians held the highest concentration of low income farms in the country. Many returned less than $600 value of gross products: subsistence farms sold little on the open market .... Every measure used served to indicate the uneconomic returns from Appalachian agriculture." 48 In the same survey, the conjunction of federal monetary standards and subsistence farming during the depression of the 1930s is discussed. "Without any lowering of the customary live-at-home and dowithout economy, the application of federal standards made at least half the population in certain Appalachian areas eligible for relief. " 49 Two important points can be made about this statement. One is that a negative connotation was attached to the existing self-sufficient economy; the second is that by the decree of federal monetary relief standards, the subsistence economy became defined as "poverty." Where subsistence farming has persisted, it has generally been associated with poverty. In Bowman's characterization of eastern Kentucky made in the 1960s, an aspect of the economy is defined as "an extremely poor and largely subsistence agriculture." 50 I suggest that at least one hillbilly stereotype grew out of a basic misinterpretation of the self-sufficient lifestyle. The stereotype is that of people sprawled out in front of a cabin beside a somnolent bloodhound. The stereotype is now portrayed in the television program "Hee Haw," and has been widespreadinnumerousdepictionsof the mountaineer. An observer from outside the mountains might gain an impression from certain activities associated with a self-sufficient way of life that could lead to the fabrication of such a stereotype, especially if the observer were accustomed to a market-based work schedule. Subsistence farming is characterized by periods of productive labor with alternate periods of inactivity. Marion Pearsall discusses time usage among subsistence producers in Little Smokey Ridge: There are periods of great activity when a man plows, plants, harvests, or perhaps does some building. He may then leave home to wander if he pleases. . . . At home again work is done in spurts, and there are long hours to sit on the porch, relax at the store, or talk and drink with other men. In the course of a year, however, a man does spend a good deal of time and energy in work. 51

Whether or not it is plausible to link this hillbilly stereotype to a false representation of a subsistence-oriented economy, the stereotype clearly connotes laziness and idleness. These are the characteristics that historically have formed the basis of a poverty stigma. Thus far I have considered the emergence of Appalachian poverty

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images in light of general ideological differences between precapitalistic and capitalistic market economies. We must also consider how developments in the coal industry in parts of Appalachia reinforced the emerging poverty image. Appalachia's rich mineral resources made the region a resource in the 1800s from the perspective of American political and economic interests. Valuable raw materials were waiting to be exploited. A major problem, however, faced the outside political and economic interests: Local Appalachians owned the land containing the valuable resources; thus, the local people represented an obstacle to exploiting the resources-they were "in the way." It is useful to consider this situation in historical and cross-cultural perspective. Whenever a powerful economic and political force demands access to the resources on or under the land of indigenous peoples, a similar pattern seems to emerge in response to the same problem. The problem boils down to this: Something must be done with the people in order to get the resources. One solution to this problem in some cases has been actual genocide. More often, however, indigenous peoples are "corralled" into reservations or otherwise forced off their land. Such exploitation usually never occurs without a rationale. Most often, the rationale is that, because the exploited peoples are culturally or biologically inferior, they must be "saved" or "modernized." In fact, the term "white man's burden" has been applied to non-Western groups undergoing colonialization. The same pattern developed with regard to the exploitation of Appalachian resources. In "Property, Coal, and Theft," John Gaventa discusses the ideology and rationale of economic exploitation in the coal industry. "Anyone who had or who wanted any part of the economic benefit of the new society was dependent on the will of those few who controlled it. . . . With the dependency on the economic controllers, though, also came a supporting ideology of progress, civilization, and response to social need ... Like other traditional colonialists, the virtues of this 'civilization' were unquestionably better than the past, somehow less-than-human, ways of the 'natives.' " 52 The author notes that articles appeared in the New York Times and Harpers Magazine in the 1890s that supported this ideology. The process of denigrating local populations for purposes of exploitation contributed to the poverty stereotype. The process relates directly to the ideological factors associated with the contrasting economic systems discussed above. The Appalachian way of life did not fit the market model; it was therefore lacking; it was therefore in need of salvation by outside industrial interests. Indeed, the poverty label

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places people, socially, in the need-of-help role. The paternalistic attitudes of early mine operators is indicative of this role relationship. In mining towns practically all economic, political, and legal responsibilities were assumed by the mine operators. Harry Caudill states: "In return for his labor his employers clothed his back, filled his belly, sheltered and lighted his household, and provided his family with medical treatment, fuel and water. " 53 When a mountaineer became dependent on mining, he was placed in a situation virtually the opposite of the self-sufficient way of life. He no longer made his own decisions; rather, the company made them for him. He was now completely dependent upon wages. The company controlled his money by issuing scrip that was made by the company and could be used only in company stores. The company made all decisions concerning political and legal matters, hiring its own law officers and dealing with any legal infraction. The miner was at the mercy of the mine operators, to the extent that he could be evicted from his company house at the company's will. 54 Paul Cressey describes the transition of the mountaineer from self-sufficiency to dependence upon the industrial market economy in Harlan County, Kentucky, where by 1940, 70 percent of the men were engaged in mining. Instead of the security provided by the older self-sufficient agriculture there was substituted the instability of industrial employment. A man's livelihood now depended on fluctuations in the national economy which were entirely outside his control. ... With this change in occupation money assumed a dominant place in the miner's life. The friendly barter system disappeared and human relations came to be measured in terms of wages and profits .... The most serious aspect of economic disorganization developed in the relations between the mine operators and the workers. Instead of the older social equality a rigid class system was introduced .... More far-reaching than the disruption of the economic organization was the breakdown of the older community structure .... Competition and exploitation replaced friendly mutual aid as social relations became casual and impersonal. 55

The miner had thus become dependent upon the industrial market economy of the United States. However, the coal industry, being so completely specialized, left the miner virtually isolated from other industries and subsequently from access to other forms of wage labor. Morris states: "The mining camp is a one-industry community, usually isolated-cut off from the main currents of industriallife." 56 This left the miner no alternative to mining. During the times of unemployment, therefore, the miner was economically defenseless; he was dependent on, but not well integrated into a market industrial way of life.

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PRESENT APPALACHIAN POVERTY IMAGES

The emergence of present poverty images is directly related to the two factors discussed above, which include the denigration of subsistenceoriented economic behavior by market standards, and the exploitation of Appalachian resources. In the context of recent economic trends, these forces help mold the poverty stereotype that prevails today. Throughout the twentieth century Appalachia faced periods of sporadic unemployment. Where coal mining developed as a major source of employment, fluctuations in the coal market often led to the closing of mines. Furthermore, many mining activities became automated. In these circumstances, large numbers of miners lost their jobs. Because of unemployment, many persons migrated out of the mountains to various cities seeking employment. Many became successfully employed; often, however, there were no jobs available and some of the migrants had to collect welfare. While some of those remaining in the mountains could find employment, many had no alternative but to collect welfare. It is important to emphasize that not all Appalachians faced these ~conomic_ problems. Some successfully continued in subsistence and cash-crop farming patterns. Others were employed in occupations that were not affected by unemployment associated with mining. The conditions of economic depression affected only certain parts of Appalachia; however, that cast a shadow on the entire region: Economic depression was interpreted in terms of the negative ideas already ingrained in the minds of the general populace regarding the nature of Appalachian culture and society. Furthermore, the mass media emphasized the very worst economic conditions and, at the same time, it portrayed a picture of the Appalachian as culturally backward, if not actually depraved. The significance of the mass media cannot be overemphasized. The mass media are highly sensitive to the fluctuations and demands of the national and international market system. Through advertisements, news broadcasts, financial reports, and political messages the key ideological codes of market-appropriate behavior are neatly packed in a highly palatable form. As Leiss notes, "In the high-intensity market setting the number of messages circulating in the social environment is truly staggering. Before reaching the age of twenty a person in the United States will have been exposed on average to 350,000 television commercials." 57 The rise and fall of the stock market is translated into the emotional well-being of the populace. The interest rate is communicated by news announcers in words and facial expressions as a cause for joy or

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sorrow. There is virtually no escape from the compulsion to conform to highly variable market standards. Those who do not conform are portrayed in the mass media as exhibiting some form of pathos or deprivation. Another characteristic of the mass media is to communicate about ethnic groups and regional populations using caricatures, cliches, and highly edited behavioral portraits. The various Appalachian stereotypes portrayed on television are discussed by Horace Newcomb. The programs considered range from the Beverly Hillbillies to the Dukes of Hazzard. 58 ~~v.erty images fit well into the mass media scheme of communicaJj~m. In fact, in certain respects, Appalachian poverty images ate a phenomenon of the mass media. Documentary films such as Appalachia: Rich Land, Poor People and Christmas in Appalachia clearly communicate the message that Appalachia is a poverty-stricken region. But the poverty messages are also part of most dramatized depictions of the "mountaineer." Take for instance, the Beverly Hillbillies: the song introducing the program includes the phrase, "poor mountaineer barely kept his family fed." And, of course, the material heritage of the Clampett family is beyond the pale by market standards. Fantasy ls{and had an episode on a "hillbilly" family that was aired on January 10, 1981. The story was about a man who wanted his hillbilly family to experience being millionaires. The following is from the program narrative: "Ten millionaires and their ladies are going to attend a party hosted by four of the brokest hillbillies ever to set foot on Fantasy Island ... This is embarrassing Mr. Roarke. A family of poor dirt farmers rubbing shoulders with all that gold and glitter. What have I done?" These and numerous other portrayals of the mountaineer convey a message entrenched in the media perspective of the hillbilly: the mountaineer is poor. Among social ~entists_ctnd policymakers another trend of thought has emerged that has reinforced and strengthened the Appalachian poverty image. Conceptions such as "lower-class culture," "lowincome lifestyles," "culture of violence," "slum culture," and even "dregs culture" are used to categorize and study groups occupying low income sectors of various regions. 59 Oscar Lewis, in La Vida, introduces the concept "culture of poverty" and sa~s essentially that there are certain lifestyles characteristic of the poor. 6 It is generally assumed that poverty-culture traits prevent or inhibit upward mobility in urban economic and social systems. According to Lewis, wherever the culture of poverty occurs, "its practitioners exhibit remarkable similarity in the structure of their families, in interpersonal relations, in spending

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habits, in their value systems and in their orientation in time." Lewis identifies seventy traits that characterize the culture of poverty. For instance one trait is the "disengagement, the nonintegration, of the poor with respect to the major institutions of society. . . . The people do not belong to labor unions or political parties and make little use of banks, hospitals, department stores or museums." 61 The concept has been influential in perspectives on poverty in Appalachia. Appalachians, facing economic difficulties on the one hand and having their way of life stereotyped and denigrated on the other, fit well into the "culture of poverty" mold-Appalachia was now regarded as having a culture of poverty! Rolland Wright presents a penetrating critique of the culture of poverty concept. His perspective is that of a native of a rural population subject to poverty stereotypes. His analysis has important implications for the present discussion, since it questions the meaning of poverty using criteria that relate to ideological differences between populations. Wright's arguments center around differences between social and economic patterns of individuals living in certain rural areas and those of urban market-oriented groups. According to Wright, the differences are so fundamental that they involve different concepts of the "self." The urban ground rule is that acts are definitive of the self. "Urban people are quite sensitive to any behavioral cues which allow them to locate an individual categorically, whether that cue is overt behavior or some expressive symbol, such as clothes, property, bumper stickers or whatever .... This tendency to infer meaning about a man from his acts is so pervasive in urban life I call it the 'urban ground rule.' " 62 In contrast to this concept of self, Wright argues that among the rural population within which he was socialized, identity tends to be given. "They have very little grasp that a man can 'become' anything fundamentally different by the way he acts. . . ." An individual from this group is more likely to think the kind of man he is determines what he will accomplish or achieve, not the other way around. The discussion of different concepts of self is part of Wright's general argument pointing out the inconsistencies in the notion "culture of poverty." The inconsistencies result from the fact the culture of poverty idea stems from one population categorizing another population on the basis of values and judgments meaningful only to the population making the judgments. According to Wright, poverty culture traits are a series of urban definitions turned inside out. "Being negative constructs, they tend to be empty, something like saying the sea is not the land. It is true, but it doesn't say much about the nature of the ocean. In a similar way, the

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'culture of poverty' tells us the [so-called] poor are not urban men, but it says nothing about who they are in their own terms." 63

Wright's perspective offers support for the basic argument advanced here: that the image of Appalachian poverty is rooted in the interpretations of precapitalistic Appalachian economic and social patterns on the basis of commercial market standards. Whether or not it is done intentionally, a group labeled povertystricken is stigmatized. Authors have voiced the opinion that poverty is just a word-what difference does the word make as long as problems such as low income and unemployment are identified? Use of poverty labels may be justified as a muckraking device that will concentrate attention on corruption and injustice. If the poverty label does have utility, it is definitely a double-edged sword. A word such as poverty, especially when incorporated into official policy, is similar to terms such as psychotic, criminal, convict, and traitor. When a person becomes identified with the label the label becomes a stigma having far-reaching emotional, psychological, and social consequences. When the poverty label is attached indiscriminately to an entire region the influence on inhabitants of the region is similar. Coffman discusses the nature of a stigma: While the stranger is present before us, evidence can arise of his possessing an attribute that makes him different from others in the category of persons available for him to be, and of a less desirable kind-in the extreme, a person who is quite thoroughly bad, or dangerous, or weak. He is thus reduced in our minds from a whole and usual person to a tainted, discounted one. Such an attribute is a stigma. 64

Coffman distinguishes three kinds of stigmas: "tribal stigma of race, nation, and religion," "physical stigma-deformities," and "blemishes of individual character." According to Waxman, a poverty stereotype, when attached to a geographical region or ethnic group, is similar to Coffman's tribal stigma of race. He states that "the stigma of poverty is a special type of stigma which attributes to the poor a status of being 'less than human,' and that the stigma has taken various shapes at different historical stages. " 65 In Appalachia, the poverty image clearly falls into the "tribal stigma of race" category, since the idea of poverty is indiscriminately attached to the group-level category "Appalachian." Poverty stereotypes can create difficulties for people identified as Appalachian. Such images result in a communication barrier between local Appalachians and those from other regions: This is especially

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harmful to Appalachians when they migrate to cities. In this situation the problems caused by the negative stereotype far outweigh those associated with such economic factors as unemployment; Appalachians are often socially segregated in residential, educational, and occupational settings. Furthermore, because of the poverty stereotype, it is often assumed that the Appalachian must give up his way of life in order to adapt successfully to "middle-class" urban life. I am aware of inhabitants of the Appalachian region who refuse to be included in literature on the region because they do not want to be considered "poverty-stricken." For the social scientist and policymaker, poverty images take on another dimension. _It is often assumed that if one studies Appalachia, one studies poverty. Thus, it is difficult to formulate research problems that are not biased: The poverty image conveys a perspective for observing Appalachia that compares this population's behavioral, social, and cultural patterns to an arbitrary standard. The poverty image establishes a mind set with which to perceive, select, and categorize information about Appalachia. It is important also to consider the influence of poverty images on public policy. It is often assumed that policy should reflect poverty conditions. Hicks describes the "skirmishes in the war on poverty" that developed in a North Carolina mountain community in the 1960s. "The poverty program in the Little Laurel [Valley] was undertaken by a regional organization, composed of paid and volunteer workers over an area of four counties. Under a well-paid director, this association assigned VISTA workers to various sections of the area, wrote progress reports, and applied for financial grants from the Office of Economic Opportunity in Washington." 66 Hicks notes first of all that the local people resented the flood of poverty propaganda associated with the war on poverty. They simply didn't see themselves as "universally destitute and helpless." Also, the rhetoric and communication styles of poverty workers were insulting to local people who respected their way of life. But overt conflict erupted when application was made to the Office of Economic Opportunity for a large grant to set up a "poor people's newspaper .... Objections from Appalachian newspaper editors and political leaders were overpowering." 67 Hicks concludes his discussion of the impact of the poverty program with the following statement: "Change in the Little Laurel Valley, meanwhile, proceeds at a quickening pace and the outlines of urban America become clearer, but the agencies of change in large part are industrial employment, improved highways, and television, not the poverty program." 68 I would like to conclude this paper with a quote from Shiloh: A Mountain Community, by John Stephenson. John, a native of the Appa-

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lachians, is a sociologist and director of the Appalachian Center at the University of Kentucky. I feel his statement captures the essential theme of this paper: My interest in the mountains has not always been so problem-centered. In fact, I, like many people raised near the Appalachians, was not so aware that we had such problems until someone informed me .... Only gradually did I come to realize that the people referred to by Michael Harrington and Harry Caudill and John F. Kennedy and Vance and the Saturday Evening Post-were the same ones I had as neighbors and school friends when I was a child. In truth, I still think of the mountains as a corner of heaven first and a national disgrace second. 69 NOTES 1. Haynes Johnson, "Poverty in Appalachia," Washington Star, eleven-part series, February 9-14, 16-20, 1964. 2. R.C. Langman, Appalachian Kentucky: An Exploited Region, (Toronto: McGraw-Hill Ryerson, 1971), p.v. 3. George L. Wilber, ed. Poverty: A New Perspective (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1975), p. 5. 4. Louis Ferman, Joyce L. Kombluh, and Alan Haber, eds., Poverty in America: A Book of Readings (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1968), p. 6. 5. Wilber, Poverty, p. 5. 6. J. Patrick Madden, "Poverty Measures as Indicators of Social Welfare," in Poverty: A New Perspective, ed. G. Wilber(Lexington, Ky.: UniversityPressofKentucky, 1975), p. 26. 7. Carlton G. Davis, "Poverty and Rural Development in the United States: Where Do We Stand?" in Rural Poverty and the Policy Crisis, ed. R.O. Coppedge and C. G. Davis, (Ames, Iowa: Iowa State University Press, 1977), p. 12. 8. Wilber, Poverty, p. 3. 9. Robert J. Lampman, Ends and Means of Reducing Income Poverty, (Chicago: Markham Publishing Co., 1971), p. 26. 10. Wilber, Poverty, pp. 36-38 11. Michael Harrington, The Other America: Poverty in the United States (New York: Macmillan, 1962), p. 179. 12. Rose Friedman, Poverty: Definition and Perspective, (Washington: American Enterprise Institute for Public Policy Research, 1965), p. 26. 13. Communications Research Machines, Inc., Anthropology Today (Del Mar, Cal.: CRM Books, 1971), p. 546. 14. Anthony F.C. Wallace, Culture and Personality, 2nd ed. (New York: Random House, 1970), p. 143. 15. George P. Murdock, Ethnographic Atlas, (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1967). 16. William Leiss, The Limits to Satisfaction: An Essay on the Problems of Needs and Commodities. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1976), pp. 54, 61-62. 17. Ronald D. Eller, "Land and Family: An Historical View of Preindustrial Appalachia," Appalachian Journa/6, no. 2 (Winter, 1979): 92, 100.

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18. Alan J. Banks, "The Emergence of a Capitalistic Labor Market in Eastern Kentucky," Appalachian Journal7, no. 3 (Spring 1980): 189. 19. Banks, "Emergence," p. 190. 20. United States Department of Agriculture, Economic and Social Problems and Conditions of the Southern Appalachians, Miscellaneous Publication no. 205 (Washington: United States Government Printing Office, 1935), p. 46. 21. Faith M. Williams, Hazel K. Stiebeling, ldella G. Swisher, and Gertrude S. Weiss, Family Living in Knott County Kentucky, Technical Bulletin no. 576 (Washington: United States Department of Agriculture, 1937), p. 13. 22. Frank D. Alexander and Robert E. Galloway, "Salient Features of Social Organization in a Typical County of the General and Self-Sufficient Farm Region," Rural Sociology 12 (December 1947): 396. 23. Harriett S. Arnow, Seedtime On the Cumberland (New York: Macmillan, 1960), p. 283. 24. Banks, "Emergence," p. 190. 25. Eliot Wigginton, The Foxfire Book (Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor-Doubleday, 1972). 26. James Brown, "The Conjugal Family and the Extended Family Group," American Sociological Review 17 Oune 1952): 297. 27. Eller, "Land and Family," p. 87. 28. Ibid. 29. Ellen C. Semple, "The Anglo-Saxons of the Kentucky Mountains," Bulletin of the American Geographic Society 42 (1910): 589. 30. A.S. Edwards and Leslie Jones, "An Experimental and Field Study of North Georgia Mountaineers," Journal of Social Psychology 9 (August.1938): 333. 31. Marion Pearsall, Little Smokey Ridge: The Natural History of A Southern Appalachian Neighborhood (Birmingham, Ala.: University of Alabama Press), p. 56. 32. Banks, "Emergence," p. 32. 33. Karl Polanyi, "Our Obsolete Market Economy," Commentary 3 (February 1947): 111. 34. Leiss, Limits to Satisfaction, p. 92. 35. Ibid., p. 27. 36. Ibid., p. 74. 37. Ibid., p. 18. 38. Ibid., p. 19. 39. Chaim, I. Waxman, The Stigma of Poverty: A Critique of Poverty Theories and Policies (New York: Pergamon Press, 1977), p. 75. 40. Ibid., p. 78. 41. Ibid., p. 41. 42. Ibid., p. 86. 43. George L. Hicks, Appalachian Valley (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1976), p. 6. 44. Ibid. 45. Ibid., p. 103. 46. See David Walls, "Internal Colony or Internal Periphery? A Critique of Current Models and an Alternative Formulation," in Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case, ed. H. Lewis, L. Johnson and D. Askins (Boone, N.C., Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978). 47. Eller, "Land and Family," p. 106. 48. Thomas R. Ford, ed., The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey, (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1962), p. 5.

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49. Ibid. 50. Mary jean Bowman and W. Warren Haynes, Resources and People in East Kentucky: Problems and Potentials of a Lagging Economy (Baltimore: johns Hopkins Press, 1963), p. 24. 51. Pearsall, Little Smokey Ridge, pp. 89-90. 52. John Gaventa, "Property, Coal, and Theft," in Lewis eta/., Colonialism in Modern America, pp. 144, 145. 53. Harry Caudill, Night Comes to the Cumberlands: A Biography of A Depressed Area (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1963), p. 115. 54. Homer Lawrence Morris, The Plight of the Bituminous Coal Miner (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1934). 55. Paul Cressey, "Social Disorganization and Reorganization in Harlan County, Kentucky," American Sociological Review 14 (1949): 389-94. 56. Morris, Plight, p. 85. 57. Leiss, Limits to Satisfaction, p. 82. 58. Horace Newcomb, "Appalachia on Television: Region as Symbol in American Popular Culture," Appalachian ]ournal7, no. 1-2 (Autumn-Winter 1979): 155-64. 59. Charles Valentine, Culture and Poverty: Critique and Counter Proposals (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968). 60. Oscar Lewis, La Vida: A Puerto Rican Family in the Culture of Pot•erty, (New York: Random House, 1966). 61. Oscar Lewis, "The Culture of Poverty," Scientific American 215 (1966): 19-25.; see Dwight Billings, "Culture and Poverty in Appalachia: A Theoretical Discussion and Empirical Analysis," Social Forces 53 (1974): 315-23. 62. Rolland H. Wright, "The Stranger Mentality and the Culture of Poverty," in The Culture of Poverty: A Critique, ed. Eleanor B. Leacock (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1971), pp. 320-21. 63. Ibid., p. 325. 64. Erving Coffman, Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1963), pp. 2-3. 65. Waxman, Stigma of Poverty, p. 69. 66. Hicks, Appalachian Valley, p. 103. 67. Ibid., p. 104. 68. Ibid., p. 105. 69. john Stephenson, Shiloh: A Mountain Community (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1968), p. viii.

THE PLACE OF CULTURE AND THE PROBLEM OF IDENTITY HENRY D. SHAPIRO

THE apothegm "know thyself," despite its apparent clarity and long popularity, sounds better than it means. Whether we hear it from the ancients or the moderns, it lacks the operational specificity of such other and ancient prescriptive statements as "honor thy father and mother" or "thou shalt not kill." And while it may be true nonetheless, as an assertion of the first obligation of the human consciousness, it does not help us to know who we are or tell us what we should do once we find out. Nor does it tell us about the nature either of selfknowledge or of the self that is to be known. Indeed, the search for self-definition, for identity, cannot occur without some elaboration of the question, by which the asker is provided with a sense of the range of acceptable answers to "who am I?" Only God is permitted to say: "I Am That Am." "Know thyself," which as an obligation may be recognized as a motif in that abstraction we call "Western civilization," must thus be ,\ seen to be embedded also in the culture of time and place, which alone can provide the necessary elaboration permitting the question to be dealt with, if not finally answered. But because real men and women do not live in "Western civilization," it is only in the context of the local or historical culture in which the asker lives that the question is asked. And it is only by the local or historical culture in which the asker lives that the question is made answerable. While we may separate for analytical purposes the asking of the question from the kinds of answer given by real men and women in real times and places, we must also recognize that real life asking and real life answering are inseparable events. The question makes no sense without the elaboration provided by the culture that gives it specificity and focus, and any answers given lack the status of identity statements, unless the question is implied.

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What is true of real people in real time and place, seeking to know themselves, is true also of those who attempt to know others--to view "objectively" someone else's self, someone else's culture, someone else's identity. For we as onlookers also live in real time and place, in a local and historical culture that gives specificity and focus to the ques~ ·" tion "who are they." Any attempt at understanding the culture of others must thus begin with some assessment of the manner in which our questions and our answers are themselves the products of a local and historical culture-the culture of "social theory"-and with a recognition that, just as the cultural patterns we seek to understand can change, so the culture of social theory can change. Indeed the culture of social theory has in fact changed, so that while the questions we ask have remained the same ("who are they?") the kinds of answers we give are quite different now than they were a hundred years ago, or two hundred. Today we are principally concerned with the culture of groups rather than the culture of individuals, and we are prepared to identify particular patterns of culture not only with particular groups or populations, but with particular groups or populations in particular places, and ultimately with particular places. Culture is now tied to "place." It wasn't always . .Social theory in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries considered the relationship of the individual and society largely without reference to the location in space of either the individuals or the societies which were its focus and concern. When place was mentioned at all, it served in a naming way, as a partial identifier of some particular social phenomenon used anecdotally as an example that proved or disproved the rule being advanced or attacked. Thus one might talk of "Roman" society and institutions or "English" society and institutions as familiar examples of human experience illustrative of one or another aspect of the general laws of social theory. But in the same way, one might find equally useful examples of human experience through the imagination, in the idealized states of "nature" or of "civil society" examined by Thomas Hobbes and John Locke and Thomas Paine, in the "histoires hypothetiques" of Rousseau, or in the utopias or dystopias of More, Bacon, Defoe, Voltaire, or Montesquieu. Whether one drew one's examples from the actions of men and women in real time and space or in imaginary time and space, however, it was the rules rather than these examples which were the concern of social theory. The examples epitomized the rules or provided evidence on the basis of which such rules might be constructed. But social theory moved as quickly as possible from examples to generalizations that might be true at all times and in all places. The concern of social theory indeed was

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with the true nature of mankind and the true nature of society, and it presumed to attempt universal statement precisely because it assumed that time and space were accidents, mere reference points in the historical record rather than elements essential to the human condition. This was the character of social theory whether it concerned itself with the nature of mankind or with mankind's behavior (including the creation and use of institutions); whether it viewed real human populations as aggregates of atomic individuals, each of whom epitomized the characteristics of the species, or as a collection of classes or types, each of which displayed some characteristic of human beings; and whether it viewed real human societies as epitomes of human society in general or as examples of a class or type. This was the character of social theory even after the invention of the new idea of history in the nineteenth century, ·which separated past and present into epochs distinguishable by differential patterns of behavior or by different sets of characteristics common among the men and women of different times, moreover. While Hegel and Comte, Spencer and Marx rejected,--\ the assumption of timelessness which had informed the generalizations of seventeenth and eighteenth-century social theory, that is, they retained the older assumption of placelessness. Their contribution was to erect new rules that would describe the processes of change, development, evolution, irrespective of the location in space of those phenomena that were the focus of their interest and provided the data for their generalizations. "Place" thus retained its function as an identifier of exemplary phenomena rather than assuming new status as an essential element in the construction of social theory itself. _By the beginning of the twentieth century, of course, all this _h~ci begun to change. Place as environment had entered social theory as the > critical context facilitating or prohibiting the development of particular patterns of relationships between the individuals of a place and the society of that place. But place had also come to seem the critical element for the identification of a variety of apparently unique social phenomena that seemed to resist classification by any of the conventional schemes of social theory. As the distinguishing element in the description of such phenomena, moreover, place became a potentially important factor in explanation as well as identification. The origins of this change may be traced to the taxonomic crisis of the mid-nineteenth century. Precipitated by the rejection as useless of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century schemes for defining the units of reality and for arranging them as a set or system, this crisis in classification yielded a series of attempts to erect new taxonomies that could "more adequately" describe the processes of natural history and civil

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history. Some of these sought to use place (range, habitat, provenance, "culture area") as a principle for the grouping and arrangement of the units of reality (including "events" and "artifacts"), while others focused new attention on the role of place as environment in the development and distribution of biological species and subspecies, including the races and peoples of mankind, and of languages, belief patterns, and cultures. But all of them tended to replace the more traditional vertical or hierarchical schemes of classification based on one or another ranking criterion with new schemes that arranged populations, events, artifacts, or cultures horizontally in space-as-place. The conventional assumption of seventeenth- and eighteenthcentury thought concerning the universal character of mankind made possible the search for a universal social theory descriptive of man in society, at any time and in any place; but it left little room for acknowledgment of differences between individuals (or societies) except insofar as these were themselves the product of man's situation as social being. Thus seventeenth- and eighteenth-century social theory had no difficulty in recognizing real differences between men and women, adults and children, or free persons and bound persons; such a classification of the population according to sex, age, or civil condition derived from assumptions about the legal status implicit in such a taxonomy and hence derived from principles pertaining to men (and women) in society. Further, the civil condition of any individual might easily be seen to be accidental, that is, a characteristic external to the essence of the person as human being. Such characteristics resulted from that individual's participation in a particular historical society that classified its population in particular ways, or was the result of that other kind of "accident," the product of fate or fortune, as "an accident of birth." The perception of differences among individuals continued to challenge assumptions of a universal humanity, however, and thus threatened the possibility of social theory itself. Whenever possible, social theory directed its efforts at discovering patterns of similarity in the structure and function of individuals and societies, leaving the description of difference to the realm of literature. As new interest developed in the comparative study of individuals and societies in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, however, social theory found mechanisms to resolve the dissonance between the grand assumption of a universal mankind and the observation of human variation. One mode of resolving this dissonance was through the use of the same anthropomorphic metaphor that had served to connect indi-

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vidual and society in the work of Hobbes and his successors, by means of the analogy of function. In a logical extension of this analogy, differences between individuals (or between societies) might be viewed as merely the results of the accidents of fate or fortune, of some mischance that precipitated a misfunction or malfunction in the normal processes of the universal human physiology or the universal human psychology (or the universal human "sociology"). In addition, misfunction or malfunction appeared during the late eighteenth century as a most productive explanation for the occurrence of disease and yielded patterns of treatment which were designed to put the human body back in working order, especially by reestablishing a proper balance among its parts. It was also, of course, the most powerful explanation for the necessity of revolution in America, where in much the same way, it generated attempts to erect new institutions that would put the body politic back in working order and reestablish a proper balance among its parts. But differences explained as the result of malfunction could account only for exceptions to the rule, while ordinary observation suggested patterns of difference between individuals and between societies which had to be integrated into the rule itself. Here again, however, the analogy of function proved to be of use in its capacity to resolve the dissonance between assumption and observation. Because the anecdotal data of natural history and of civil history, of individual history and of national history, seemed all to suggest that universal processes were universally in operation, the different stages in the life cycle of an individual might be viewed as analogues of equally different stages in the life cycle of a society, and the differences between individuals and between societies might be explained as a result of differential rates of their individual growth or development. As individuals were young, mature, or old (and enfeebled), and as one stage of life differed from another in the normal experience of all living creatures, so also societies might be said to be young, mature, or old (and enfeebled). And as the young might be said to be naive, "natural," primitive, savage, uncivilized, uncultivated, and the mature to be sophisticated, "civilized," complete, cultivated, societies also might be classified as having the characteristics of one or another age category by analogy. The problem was to determine what was naive and what sophisticated, what patterns of behavior actually pertained to the young and what to the old, which institutional forms were primitive, which were complete and mature. But in this context, the meaning of "culture" was clear. Culture was what one did to the young and it was also what the mature possessed as a result of learning and experience,

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but in either case it was the opposite of "nature" and "natural," involving the bending of the twig, the giving of shape to raw material, the "development" of otherwise unrealizable potential, the training in one direction or another rather than no training at all. Using anthropomorphic classifiers of this sort, social theory in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was able to account for observed differences between individuals or between societies by locating such differences on a scale of youth to maturity, nature to culture. And when the idea of history (both natural and civil) as a linear rather than a cyclical process was introduced into discussions of social theory during the early nineteenth century, the stage-of-development analogy continued to be useful. Indeed, the new idea of history reinforced the notion of a normal correlation between the calendric epoch and the life cycle epoch, between time and the stage of development. Persons or societies not meeting the norm expected of their historical age might be said to be "young for their age" as we still say of the naughty child; and in the case of individuals or societies, one was then free either to accept the disparity between expectation and behavior or culture, or else to make some efforts at reconciling the two by helping an individual or a society to achieve the expected degree of maturity. Education was of particular usefulness in this context, for accelerating development toward the expected level of maturity or cultivation. By the middle of the nineteenth century this entire structure of assumptions concerning the universal character of mankind and the possibility of a universal social theory, and of explanations to account for differences between individuals and between societies, had begun to crumble. Social theory was left with a mass of data but no principles by which to organize them, with persisting questions concerning the nature of man and of society but no clear definition of either, and with only the root observation with which modern social theory had its beginnings in the seventeenth century to do duty as the foundation for subsequent thought: that there was a difference between the state of nature and of civilization, between natural man and civilized man. It was at this point that social theory, itself emergent as empirical science, engaged in that characteristic gesture of mid-century science and sought to spread out as if on a table all the data available to it concerning the nature of man and of society, in the past and present, with the hope that a fresh look at the whole might yield hints of such a natural system of classification as would permit the grouping of discrete bits and the formulation of generalizations concerning the relationship among them. 1 Out of this experience---<:arried out literally by the curators and

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librarians of the first ethnographic museums, symbolically by the preparers of "tables" of statistical data, and metaphorically by systematizers without number-emerged the notion that "place" was the critical characteristic by which one group of data might be definitively distinguished from another, and that an identity of location, in time or in space, was what linked apparently discrete facts, events, or individuals to each other in such a way as to form the natural units that were the proper concern of an empirical social science. Sometimes "place" was real place-location in definable geographic space or in that historical space revealed by archaeology either as long ago or in some more precise time provided by the evidence of stratiation. Sometimes place was merely that locus on the table where particular data were observed. In all cases, however, the grouping of data in place was never dependent upon assumptions about the rank of these data relative to each other or about the rank of their places relative to each other (except perhaps as "now" or "then"). Instead, the concept of place provided the matrix or grid on which social data were arranged, and at which social data were observed. It was in this context, moreover, that "culture," formerly the possession of the mature as a result of experience, education, cultivation obtained new meaning and new usefulness in the pursuit of social theory. Some of the social data arranged by place consisted of characteristics that pertained to man as species, "natural man," and these, grouped as units according to their location in space or time became the special concern of the new sciences of anthropology-which sought to identify those attributes that distinguished man from other animalsand ethnology-which sought to distinguish among the "types" of man. Some of these data consisted of characteristics that pertained to man as a member of society, "civilized man," the product of experience, education, cultivation. These too became the special concern of anthropology and ethnology, as the critical capability that separated man from the other animals and as the particular behavioral patterns which separated men into "types" of another sort-peoples, families, nations, tribes. For both anthropology and ethnology, as a result, "culture" could no longer be the possession only of the mature but became also the possession of the immature, so that one could talk about the "culture" of children and the "culture" of savages which was their possession as a result of their experience, and distinguish between that which was learned and that which was innate. "Culture" thus became that which made each individual and each society unique but which also pertained to individuals as individuals and to societies as societies so that each individual and each society became an exemp-

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Jar of the universal character of man as species. And "culture" became that which individuals shared as members of particular societies, which made societies out of an aggregation of individuals. The first to use "culture" in this fashion appears to have been Edward Burnett Tylor, in an effort to distinguish between the natural and the artificial in man's behavior and to give a name to that which was the possession of a people as a people and which made them a people, in the past and in the present. "Culture," Tylor said, or "civilization," "is that complex whole which includes knowledge, belief, art, law, morals, custom, and any other capabilities or habits acquired by man as a member of society." 2 Out of context, this definition offered no change from current usage in English. In the context of Tylor's own work, however, it effectively combined the conventional meaning of culture as the possession of the mature with midnineteenth-century meanings of Kultur and civilisation as the possession of a people as a people in such a way as to permit discussion of the culture of those ancient ("primitive") peoples whose monuments had first engaged his interest in anthropology and ethnology. By extension, this new use of culture also permitted discussion of the culture of peoples or societies located apparently randomly in time as contemporary peoples or societies appeared to be located randomly in space, even while it forced anthropology and ethnology to confront the dilemma of talking systematically about phenomena the occurrence of which did not appear to be systematic. Although Tylor was thus the first to use "culture" in this new way and with these new implications, within a relatively few years the word, or at least the concept, became a commonplace among anthropologists and ethnologists and a principal focus for their work. 3 Culture was the baggage a people carried with them, in their wanderings through time and through space, and by which they might be recognized as contemporary tourists are identified by their little blue shoulder-bags. Sometimes the travelers were available to be interviewed, so that anthropologists and ethnologists might ask, "Is this your bag?" but sometimes the travelers had long gone and the anthropologists and ethnologists found only traces of their presence in the left-luggage rooms of prehistory. In either case it was the baggage that most engaged their attention, strange in shape and color, and of uncertain and sometimes unimaginable usefulness, and they sought to describe it fully and to classify it according to the place in which they'd found it. Through the end of the nineteenth century, "culture" was defined as the possession of peoples, although now of all peoples irrespective of their stage of development. In Europe generally, this identification of culture and people facilitated contemporary efforts toward the

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achievement of nationalism by providing a range of characteristics, and a name for those characteristics, which were the common possession of peoples in places, and which transcended in importance the characteristics dividing a population-individual differences in height or physiognomy or behavior, and especially class differences in wealth, status, or the ability to exercise power. Thus a people, united by their common possession of a particular pattern of culture, were "the nation," and the space they controlled was the nation's territory. Or conversely, the space in which common cultural characteristics prevailed was the space of that people who were defined by those characteristics, hence again the nation's territory. Throughout Europe and even in England, this formula created a variety of intellectual dilemmas concerning the matter of peopleness as a function of cultural characteristics and of national territory as a function of nationhood or peopleness, thus exacerbating preexisting patterns of political confusion. But its applicability both to "settled" and historical populations and to "migrant" and prehistoric populations was a condition of its vitality. 4 In the United States by contrast, the usefulness of a definition of culture as the possession of a people seemed limited in its application to North America's native population only. For North American ethnology, the concept of culture proved to be of enormous usefulness, and indeed it was out of attempts to understand the processes of native American history and prehistory that the idea of culture had its origins. In Europe the new concept of culture was available as an element in the construction of a new social theory applicable to the present as well as the past, and to the "sophisticated" as well as to the "primitive." In the United States, by contrast, both the concept of culture and the anthropologists and ethnologists who used it as an intellectual tool seemed excluded from full participation in contemporary efforts at the construction of a new social theory, contemporary discussion of the nature and future of American civilization, and contemporary efforts at the achievement of an American nationalism. For in the United States, no single people possessed a common culture and no common culture seemed to prevail among a population united politically and hence defined administratively as a people. In the United States, moreover, possession of the national territory seemed to antedate either the appearance of the people as a nation or the existence of any cultural characteristics commonly possessed by each and all. Thus it fell to Americans to attempt some essential connection between culture and place and people and place, as Europeans had earlier connected people and culture using place as grid or matrix only. Among the first to make this attempt was Daniel G. Brinton,

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perhaps the premier American ethnologist of the latter half of the nineteenth century. Born in 1837 and hence an almost exact contemporary of the Englishman E. B. Tylor, Brinton attended Yale College and the Jefferson Medical College of Philadelphia, took the obligatory study tour of Europe, and then began the practice of medicine at West Chester, Pennsylvania, near Philadelphia. During the Civil War he served as a surgeon in the Union Army, from 1862 to 1865, returning to West Chester upon the cessation of hostilities. In the early 1870s, he moved to Philadelphia, as assistant editor and then editor of the Medical and Surgical Reporter. He retained this title and some of his functions on the journal until 1887, although from the mid-1880s it became possible for him to pursue full-time the work in ethnology and anthropology which he had begun during his student days and in which he had engaged as an "amateur" up to that time. In 1884, he was named to the chair of ethnology and archaeology at the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia, and in 1886 to the professorship of American linguistics and archaeology in the University of Pennsylvania, holding both positions concurrently for the rest of his life. 5 Already by this time his bibliography in anthropology and ethnology was substantial, comprising thirty-two articles and five books, in addition to the series of North American myths he began publishing in 1882 as the Library of North American Aboriginal Literature and the anthropological materials he prepared for the Medical and Surgical Reporter, but in the fifteen years before his death on July 31, 1899, he would publish an additional166 articles and nine books, including Essays of an Americanist (1890), Races and Peoples (1890), The American Race (1891), and Religions of Primitive People (1897). A member of numerous learned societies in the United States and in Europe, including the Anthropological Societies of Berlin and Vienna, the Ethnological Societies of Paris and Florence, the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Copenhagen, the American Philosophical Society, and the American Antiquarian Society, he served during the later years of his life as president of the American Folklore Society, the Numismatic and Antiquarian Society of Philadelphia, and the American Association for the Advancement of Science. Almost inevitably, therefore, he was chosen to organize and preside at the International Congress of Anthropology held in conjunction with the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago during the summer of 1893, one of a series of meetings intended to demonstrate the progress of science in the nineteenth century and establish publicly America's full participation in the learned dialogues of the day. Almost inevitably also, Brinton chose to address the Congress at its opening session not with a learned and descriptive paper on North American

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mythology, linguistics, or ethnology, but by attempting to come to grips with the peculiar status of anthropology and ethnology as marginal sciences in the contemporary world. And almost inevitably also, he did so in a peculiarly American way, from the special perspective of the contemporary dilemma concerning the nature and future of American civilization. 6 In his address, Brinton proposed to extend the activities of anthropology from its traditional focus on "primitive" man, to which some would restrict its concern, arguing that the discipline was in fact as its name claimed, the science of man in general. Thus he urged that anthropology take as its motto that phrase conventionally identified with the Enlightenment beginnings of modern social theory, a me nullam humanum alienum puto. He then proposed to demonstrate the breadth of anthropology's potential field through an examination of the manner in which the insights of anthropology might be brought to bear on that peculiarly modern phenomenon, the nation. 7 By "The Nation as an Element in Anthropology," Brinton meant the influence of territorial community on the lives, customs, and characteristics of men and women, as an analogue to the more familiar study of the influence of "blood" community-family, tribe, gens on the lives, customs, and characteristics of men and women. "Whenever we find men united together under some form of ~ocial compact," Brinton noted, "we shall find also that this compact will fall under one of three categories. It is based upon community ... of blood, of territorial area, or of purpose." These three were mutually incompatible, both logically and historically, Brinton added, suggesting that they marked off the three stages of development from savagery to civilization. And despite our own claims to the achievement of civilization and the triumph over savagery, in fact at best we found ourselves in the middle stage of territorial community. Recent events, it was true, gave promise of the achievement of a community of purpose manifested in contemporary movements toward internationalism-including the international scientific congresses organized by the exposition managers-but as yet this promise and this hope remained unfulfilled. Most men and women lived in communities defined territorially. And that being the case, it was incumbent upon anthropologists to examine the impact of nation and nationality upon those who lived in territorial communities. But because he was "breaking new ground," Brinton proposed to be suggestive rather than definitive in his own attempt to explore this theme. 8 In general, Brinton found that life in a territorially defined community possessed advantages over life in a community founded upon kinship ties, and that the emergence of nationality did in fact mark an

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advance in civilization. At the same time, he admitted that life in a nation also possessed disadvantages over the state of savagery or un-civilization, especially in the ability of the state or the ruler of the state to enforce conformity and to suppress dissent, although the function of the state rightly understood was not to suppress but to enhance individual differences. "The individual is indeed the true purpose of the state. Its aim distinctly is that he, or she, as an individual, shall be provided with, and protected in, the greatest possible amount of personal liberty, in this being in the utmost contrast to consanguine governments; where the individual is nothing, the tribe is everything." 9 Through a series of contrasts, between exclusive tribal ethics and modern national concepts of jurisprudence, between exclusive tribal religions (including the narrow monotheism of the ancient Hebrews, contra Comte's assertion that monotheism marked the achievement of civilization) and the ecumenism and inclusiveness of modern Protestantism, and between the status of woman as labor in tribal and as person in national communities, Brinton suggested the manner in which "the nation" functioned to alter culture and laid the basis for the eventual inclusiveness, ecumenism, and individualism of the international age ahead. But the importance of this essay lies not in its status as a symptomatic statement of the late nineteenth century's hopes concerning the direction progress would take and the eventual characteristics of the "modern" age, so much as in Brinton's tentative gesture toward a connection of culture and place, and consequently his abandonment of an older vision of culture as "simply" the possession of people. As early as 1890, in Races and Peoples, Brinton had acknowledged the role of "physico-geographical conditions" upon the development of the "physical and psychical" traits of populations inhabiting particular "geographical provinces" over long periods of time, but his treatment of the role of place there extended no farther than to acknowledge the substantial interest in place as environment which derived from the contemporary Darwinian debates over the causes of change during long epochs of time. 10 Occurring in a section on the beginnings and the subdivisions of the "races," his argument was founded upon two conventional assumptions current in the last years of the century: the assumption of a single origin of the human species (against the claims of "polygenesis" advanced by the so-called "American" school of ethnology, especially before publication of The Origin of Species but still a proposition to be considered); and the assumption of the usefulness of place as locus in quem, that is as the critical classifier by which human populations might be divided into distinct groups. 11 In Races and Peoples, his acknowledgement of place as environment permits Brinton to

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hedge on the great issue dividing ethnology and anthropology during the 1870s and 1880s, of diffusion or simultaneous emergence of distinct racial types and distinct cultures, and then to move on to the "easier" matter of describing the "races" of mankind. "The Nation as an Element in Anthropology" thus appears to have been Brinton's first attempt to connect place and culture irrespective of the racial characteristics of the population inhabiting a place or of the older issue of the genesis of racial/cultural differences. Had Brinton titled his address "Territorial Community as a Stage in the Emergence of Civilization," we might have had a more certain sense of his intention than the text of this address in fact provides. With such a title and such a concern, then the address would have been as a whole what it was in part: an attempt to modify earlier vertical modes "analytic" of the stages of development from savagery to civilization, as outlined by Comte, by Lewis Henry Morgan, or by those more recent proponents of evolutionary schemes based on patterns of economic development, 12 and his ultimate goal would have been to preserve (or restore) notions of a universal humanity traversing the same historical/developmental road, albeit at varying rates and with varying degrees of success. As it is, this appears clearly not to have been his intention; for while the age of territorial community is indeed offered us as one of the stages in social (and moral) evolution, the experience of nation is an experience with a particular set of cultural forms in a particular place. By 1895, moreover, in his presidential address to the American Association for the Advancement of Science, Brinton made explicit his abandonment of any and all models projecting a single humanity experiencing a universal process of evolution or development, by attacking theories of "cultural diffusion" which suggested that similarities among cultural forms were the product of their common derivation from a single prototype or resulted from culture contact among distinct peoples. Instead, Brinton argued that cultural differences and cultural similarities were the result of distinct processes of invention or innovation in distinct places; that however much patterns of similarity might be explained as a result of the similarity of the places in which the processes of invention occurred, ultimately each place was distinct and each experience of place was distinct; and that the task of anthropology remained, to address the "reasons" for similarities or differences without preconceptions concerning the necessity or inevitability of the emergence of particular cultural forms. 13 In the memory of later anthropologists, Brinton was ranked with those same evolutionary determinists whose assumptions he found both attractive and probably incorrect, and against the implications of whose assumptions he directed much of his writing during the 1890s.

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As early as 1896, for example, in his own paper at the annual meeting of the AAAS, Franz Boas sought to counter Brinton's alleged determinism of the previous year with the evidence of his field researches, which suggested that the "cause" of the cultural patterns discernible in any particular place was so complex a matter as to defy simple explanation. In subsequent years, however, Boas himself became identified with analyses of the culture of places rather than the culture of people independent of the places they inhabited. 14 What is important is that by the late 1890s a new focus on place had emerged in cultural anthropology, in the work of Brinton and Boas but also in the work of others, which proved to be a direct analogue of the contemporary focus on place in physical anthropology under the influence of the environmental determinists. As a result, when during the later 1910s and 1920s the anthropological community divided between physical anthropology and cultural anthropology, and especially over the validity of the concept of race and the policy implications of the concept of race, both sides in the dispute assumed the centrality of place as an organizing principle for the conduct of research to demonstrate the accuracy of their respective positions. Both sides assumed that the anthropological characteristics of places constituted the proper focus of inquiry for the new science in the new age of the twentieth century. 15 By the time the anthropologists arrived in Chicago for their meetings, the historians had come and gone, as participants in the World's Congress of Historians and Historical Students. Organization of the congress, jointly by a local arrangements committee chaired by William F. Poole of the Newberry Library, perhaps the greatest American bibliographer of his day, and a committee of the American Historical Association led by Herbert Baxter Adams of the Johns Hopkins University and Charles Kendall Adams, President of the University of Wisconsin, was fraught with conflict, and neither the program nor its participants gave much advance promise of contributing to historical scholarship in the United States or of demonstrating the achievements made under the influence of "scientific" methods of research. Some of the more distinguished practitioners of the historian's craft threatened to stay away. 16 One who did attend, and who must have been among the first to arrive, was Professor Frederick Jackson Turner of the University of Wisconsin, accompanied by Mrs. Turner and several of his colleagues. Mae Turner and the colleagues proposed to spend a few days before the opening session of the congress visiting the fair. Turner proposed to spend those days finishing the paper he was scheduled to present, on "The Significance of the Frontier in American History," a

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reworking of an essay he had written for the Wisconsin student newspaper on "Problems in American History." 17 Like Brinton's address, Turner's "Significance of the Frontier" was a general attempt at identifying a new theme for study by disciplinary professionals. Like Brinton, Turner suggested that the traditional subjects of scholarship had missed the mark in their conventional focus on limited and narrow issues, and especially on the explication of particular events, with the result that the discipline as discipline lacked those intellectual constructs that would permit connection to be made between past and present. As a consequence, both suggested, their disciplines found themselves outside the mainstream of contemporary discourse in social theory, useless for the explication of the present or planning for the future. And like Brinton also, Turner suggested a relationship between culture and place that transcended the use of place as matrix or context. But here the similarity ends. For while Brinton was at the height of his career and reputation-perhaps indeed past the height of his career and reputation-Turner was relatively young and certainly unknown to the profession at large, just another protege of the great Herbert Baxter Adams, who sought to push him as he had pushed others toward scholarship and professional visibility by urging a place for him at the Chicago meeting. And while Brinton's address followed from a retrospective look at anthropology as it had developed-largely at his own hands-during the previous halfcentury, and made an intentional effort to expand the role of anthropology into social theory, Turner's paper was almost accidental in its arguments and effects. For both, it was not until the 1920s that their ideas became identifiable as a school of research or interpretation, but Brinton's ideas were never identified with Brinton, while Turner's ideas were so fully identified with Turner that he himself began to think-and, worse, to say-that he knew what he was up to when he drafted his address on those July days of 1893. 18 Born in 1861 at Portage, Wisconsin, Turner attended the state university at Madison from which he received an AB in 1884 and, upon completion of a thesis on "The Character and Influence of the Fur Trade in Wisconsin," an AM in 1888. From 1885 to 1888 he taught rhetoric and oratory, and then rhetoric and history, at the university. In 1888-89 he attended Johns Hopkins as a member of the famous "historical seminary" of Herbert Baxter Adams; he returned to Madison for the next academic year as assistant professor of history. Upon the death of Turner's friend and mentor, William F. Allen, and following completion of a doctoral dissertation for Adams on "The Character and Influence of the Indian Trade in Wisconsin," Turner was appointed to Allen's chair as professor of history beginning in 1891. In

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1892, he was appointed to a new position as professor of American history. 19 Turner's doctoral dissertation, an elaboration of his master's thesis, which was itself an elaboration of a college paper on "The History of the Grignon Tract on the Portage of the Fox and Wisconsin Rivers," 20 was, like those two earlier works, a piece of local history and hometown boosting. 21 By 1891, however, Turner had managed to turn the now familiar facts in the history of the Portage inside out, so that the completed dissertation sought no longer to describe what had happened in his old hometown or even to justify close study of "western" history. Instead, he used events out of Wisconsin's past to construct a more general model of the processes of western settlement in the United States as an epitome of the history of civilization generally, and as a key to understanding American history more particularly. "The Influence of the Indian Trade" asserted the centrality of the Portage area and Wisconsin generally in the northern fur trade and argued that this trade paved the way for the eventual settlement of the upper Midwest. But it also argued that the history of the Indian trade as an example of the confrontation between differing levels of culture permitted one to view, as under a glass and in an hour, the processes of cultural change which yielded that pattern of evolution which all agreed was so striking a characteristic of modern and especially American history. It thus denied implicitly the assumption of America as a blank stage which had governed all previous descriptions of western settlement in the United States and much of the history of the United States as a whole. Such an assumption had made possible the conventional identification of the hunter as pioneer par excellence, and hence as the principal agent of civilization in the American context. If America were indeed a blank stage, then of course the evolution of civilization in North America would replicate the evolution of civilization in general, passing from the primitive age of the hunter-gatherer, through the pastoral, the agricultural, to the mercantile-industrial stage. This was, for example, the theme of Theodore Roosevelt's widely read The Winning of the West (which Turner had reviewed for the Dial in 1889 but chose not to mention at all in the dissertation) as it was of an 1850 speech by Thomas Hart Benton which Turner quotes and attacks, perhaps as being a safer object of correction than the popular work by Roosevelt. The mere presence of a Native American population, Turner noted, made America no blank stage at all, while Native American and EuroAmerican use of trade routes determined by topography-the famous buffalo trails which became public roads, of which Benton had spoken--served as a reminder that North America was not only fur-

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nished with an established human population to whose habits and customs the Euro-Americans adapted, but also with an established landscape to which all also adapted. 22 This was of course the note he struck in his 1893 address to the assembled historians in Chicago, that the history of the West was central to an understanding of American history because it was in the West-whether the "frontier" of European civilization on the Atlantic Coast during the colonial period, or the "frontier" of American civilization across the Alleghenies during the nineteenth century-that EuroAmericans confronted the human and the unbuilt but nonetheless "developed" environment of landscape. As a result it was in the West that one might see both the transit of civilization and the transformation of civilization, the removal to the new world of old world culture and the alteration of old world culture into new world forms. "The frontier ... masters the colonist. It finds him a European in dress, industries, tools, modes of travel and thought. It takes him from the railroad car and puts him in the birch canoe. It strips off the garments of civilization and arrays him in the hunting shirt and the moccasin .... Little by little he transforms the wilderness, but the outcome is not the old Europe, not simply the development of Germanic germs ... [but] a new product that is American." That product in particular, Turner noted, was American nationality, by which he meant both a sense of loyalty to the nation as a whole and a wholly new population, ethnically mixed, which abandoned its "memory" of European or American homelands and prior European or American cultural usages as no longer appropriate in the new environment of the frontier, and which emerged as a new people as a result of the common experience of (as Oscar Handlin would later put it) being "uprooted." But it was also American democracy, a sense of individualism bred of the isolation of the westward migrants from their support communities, and a sense of individual worth based on accomplishment in the new world of the frontier rather than on previous status. And it was also American "pragmatism" as a characteristic of the American intellect, that "coarseness and strength combined with acuteness and inquisitiveness; that practical, inventive turn of mind, quick to find expendients; that masterful grasp of material things, lacking in the artistic but powerful to effect great ends; that restless nervous energy; that dominant individualism, working for good and for evil, and withal that bouyancy and exuberance which comes with freedom. These are the traits of the frontier, or traits called out elsewhere because of the existence of the frontier." 23 • For Turner in 1893, culture was the possession of people, and place-in this case the moving line of the frontier of Euro-American

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settlement-was the matrix against which patterns of culture and processes of cultural change might be located. Within a few short years, however, as he came to revise his 1893 essay for publication and republication, and to use segments of it in other and more "popular" essays, Turner began to see the implications of his own rhetoric and to identify the frontier as a specific place where one found a culture that was peculiarly American. In this he was helped by his discovery of Ratzel and anthropogeography, which served him as legitimation of his "frontier thesis" by connecting it with the "latest" in European social theory, and by the more general American discovery of "regionalism" precipitated by the simultaneous discovery of Appalachia and of the West of Bryan and the populists. 24 If we may believe Turner's ambitious remarks in his essays of 1892 and 1893, his interest in the history of western settlement derived from its potential use as an organizing theme for all of American history up until that present in which the commissioner of the census announced that there could no longer be said to be a frontier line. "And with its going has closed the first period of American history." Yet his own growing reputation as teacher and scholar during the later 1890s and early twentieth century-and his eventual influence both on American historical writing and on American culture generally-turned less and less on his articulation of the theme of national unity, well established by Benton in the 1850s, Henry Cabot Lodge in the 1860s, and Theodore Roosevelt in the 1880s, and more and more on his expertise as the chronicler of the history of the Midwest, and then of the several sections of the nation. The first of these appeared in 1896, as "The Problem of the West," in the Atlantic Monthly. Although begun as an attempt to characterize the West and Westerners for eastern readers, at the suggestion of the Atlantic's brilliant editor, Walter Hines Page, its last pages attempted to explain Bryanism and the farmers' revolt of the 1890s as the inevitable consequence of the closing of the frontier and the end of the era of free land, and it was this section of the essay which brought Turner to national attention. By casting the populist movement as a natural and hence legitimate product of the American experience, Turner made the "otherness" of the West seem comprehensible if not entirely acceptable, a protest within rather than against the more familiar patterns of American culture. 25 So enthusiastically was Turner's essay received, and so frequently was it quoted in newspapers and other magazines, that Page projected a series of articles describing the characteristics of all of America's sections, to be written by Turner, W.P. Trent of the University of the South, and A. F. Sanborn. Although only one essay by Turner was ever

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completed for this series, the series as a whole was founded upon the regionalist assumption with which Turner had begun his essay of 1896, that "the west, at bottom, is a form of society rather than an area," and sought to elucidate the historical processes by which a single (albeit heterogeneous) people had developed diverse patterns of culture in the several sections of the nation of such distinctiveness as to make the residents of one section-irrespective of their place of birth or ethnic heritag~istinguishable from the residents of any other section. 26 Although by 1920, at the height of his professional prestige and influence, Turner would identify his principal contribution to American historiography and the understanding of American civilization as the recognition of that single "factor" that made the United States unique among the nations of the world, this reminiscence-like most of those he was to make in the last decade of his life-involved some considerable manipulation of truth. 27 The origins of such manipulation are easy to understand. In the historical context of the end of World War I and the beginning of an age of intense American nationalism and introspection, and on the occasion of republishing essays that had greater historical interest than historical usefulness, Turner could legitimate the presentation of old work to new readers by implying that his essays had been written from the first as attempts to solve the problem of American uniqueness. In his preface Turner was careful to note that his concern as historian was the relationship of past and present, and to insist that the age of which he wrote was long gone, separated from the present by that watershed of the closing of the frontier. Such caveats and admissions could easily be ignored by the unwary reader, however, who found more memorable remarks: "The larger part of what has been distinctive and valuable in America's contribution to the history of the human spirit has been due to this nation's peculiar experience in extending its type of frontier into new regions; and in creating peaceful societies with new ideals in the successive vast and differing geographic provinces which make up the United States," Turner wrote. "Directly or indirectly these experiences shaped the life of the Eastern as well as the Western States, and even reacted upon the Old World and influenced the direction of its thought and its progress. This experience has been fundamental in the economic, political and social characteristics of the American people and in their conception of their destiny." And, "We must study the transforming influence of the American wilderness, remote from Europe, and by its resources and its free opportunities affording the conditions under which a new people, with new social and political types and ideals, could arise to play its own part in the world, and to influence Europe." 28

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These remarks, and the reputation he received as a result of this, his first "book," denied that other focus of Turner's work from 1893 to 1918, on the similarities between the United States and Europe, continent and continent, as a result of the sectional divisions that divided the United States in the same way that national boundaries, equally reflective of distinctions among peoples and cultures in particular places, divided Europe into a crazy quilt of competing geopolitical units. His 1896 essay was, of course, the first of those that emphasized sectional division and competition as a characteristic of American history and as the key to American civilization, and was followed by a series of more strictly historical pieces arguing that isolation from Europe or the east coast settlements and the presence of "free land" to the west had "caused" the development of sectional distinctiveness and yielded the reality of sectional or regional diversity and sectional or regional competition characteristic of the United States in "our" own time. Most of these focused on the West. By 1907, however, Turner had begun to explore the subdivision of the West into a series of Wests, regions identifiable by the cultural characteristics of their populations and which were the product of the historical experience of those populations in those places, and to address the issue of regionalism as a countervailing force to that nationalism so much talked of in the Progressive Era as the triumph of American historical development. 29 In a paper for the American Sociological Association's meeting at Madison in 1907, for example, Turner noted that growth in the power of the central government did not in itself prove that America was becoming increasingly unified, however much such centralization of power might mean a loss of initiative to the states. For the opposite of nationalism was not states' rights but sectionalism or regionalism, Turner argued. A look at the American present indicated a persisting capacity of the distinct geographic regions of the United States to resist homogenization into the national whole, as manifested by their capacity to operate as political blocs but, also and more important, by that "economic and social separateness involved in the existence of a set of fundamental assumptions, a mental and emotional attitude which segregates the section from other sections or from the nation as a whole." Himself a good Progressive, Turner saw no objection to such a Balkanized view of America, since he anticipated the achievement of balance or equilibrium among the parts of a sectionally divided nation through the Congress and through regional and interregional association. 30 After 1907, moreover, Turner turned increasingly to an effort to define the boundaries of the American sections or regions, to identify their several characteristics, and to elucidate the processes by which a

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particular people in a particular place developed a particular culture. In so doing, he came increasingly to abandon that theme of national unity implicit in the flow of population westward which he had borrowed and altered for his essay of 1893, and to abandon also that simplistic division of the United States between East and West as between mother country and colony, between age and sophistication, youth and naivete, which had been his theme in the 1890s. After 1907, as a consequence, the great problem that remained was to understand the implications of sectionalism in the past as in the present. Sectionalism itself was a given. Thus when Turner's work came under attack by a younger generation of historians, in the late 1920s, what was at issue was his explanation for the cause of sectional characteristics, not the reality of sections themselves. 31 It is well beyond the scope of this essay to attempt any explanation of

the "causes" for those new intellectual emphases on place as the critical element in classifying human populations, which seem so striking a characteristic of social theory in the United States since the early twentieth century. But the legacy of those emphases, and especially of the imbedding of culture in place as a fundamental assumption of social science and social theory in our own time, must be recognized. Its manifestations are almost without number. They appear in the use of place-based units in social policy formulation and social planning for neighborhoods, metropolitan areas, regions, sections, nations, and such transnational"regions" as "the Mediterranean" or "Europe" or "the Western Hemisphere." They appear in the focus of social theory and social science on "communities"-entities that are defined by place and characterized by the presumption of a single culture and a single population even when the particular culture and/or the particular population is/are acknowledged to be "pluralist" in its/their character. They appear in the emergence of a place-based rather than spacebased focus for studies of land-use in surface geography, in the new science of topography, in the vogue for anthropogeography and historical geography, as well as in the practice of the new profession of city and regional planning. They appear in the new emphases among architects on the function of places rather than on the relationship of spaces in the built environment. And they appear in the construction of the new concept of ethnicity as a combination of the concepts of culture and place, and the use of ethnicity as a key to the development of personality and/or the formation of group or individual identity, hence to the behavior of groups or individuals--at home, in the workplace, and in the voting booth. Regionalism and its associated concepts, of culture, place, and

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ethnicity were not merely "new ideas" at the start of the twentieth century, however. Their emergence as key words in the American vocabulary available to describe the American reality was linked to a shift from the traditional vertical and hierarchical system of ordering social reality to a horizontal and then a horizontal and non-hierarchical "pluralist" scheme, and at the same time to a series of changes in the criteria by which the units in the social system were defined as units, hence a series of changes in the definition of the elements of American society itself. At its simplest level, this transformation moved from a system comprising individuals ranked hierarchically on "the basis of their degree of possession of some valued characteristic external to themselves, to a system comprising groups arranged horizontally on the basis of their possession of some characteristic intrinsic to their status as a group, all such characteristics being equally valued, and then further to a system in which horizontal arrangement was arbitrary, that is not indicative of centrality or peripherality or any other evaluative or analytical schema. The ladder of the eighteenth-century social hierarchy, one might say, was turned and laid on edge, appearing thus as a measuring stick indicating distance from one end to another or from the ends to the center. As individuals could move up or down the eighteenth century ladder, so they could move along the ladder on edge, and the rungs represented arbitrary divisions of the whole, marking off for convenience equal distances up or along. But at the turn of the century, that ladder on edge was sawn along the rungs into a set of equal and equivalent segments, necessarily arranged in a two-dimensional series but not for this reason indicative of a rank order.

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This was the world of regionalism and pluralism. But now the segments of the ladder appeared as cells, self-defined units, and the question of what the cells contained, what the pieces of the ladder surrounded, became critical. The discovery of Appalachia, as I have argued elsewhere, 32 occurred in the context of the first phase of this transformation, during the 1880s and 1890s, and the literature on Appalachia speaks predictably of the "distance" that separated the mountaineers from their American brethren in the North and lowland South, as measured along the ladder on edge, and concerned itself with patterns of population movement along the ladder (the emigration of mountaineers to the urban centers of civilization, the immigration of engineers, entrepreneurs, home-missionaries, and social workers as leaven to the loaf), the movement of goods and services in and out of the mountain region, and the availability of transportation facilities to make such movement possible. During the early years of the twentieth century, as the ladder was sawn into equivalent cells, the matter of content, of the special culture of Appalachia and the special characteristics of the mountaineers as a group-which legitimized Appalachia's place in the social system at all, and from which its status as a place followed-became critical. It was in this context that the literature on Appalachia became concerned with the internal characteristics of the region, the intrinsic patterns of culture by which the people were defined as a group, the real history of the region or the people which was their own. By 1920, such characteristics, such a culture, such a history were "found" and Appalachia was established as one of the legitimately distinct patterns of culture in a culturally plural nation. Yet the search for mountain culture, for Appalachian distinctiveness, for Appalachian identity followed from the requirements of the model more than from the necessities of mountain life itself, and the tripartite division of the people, the place, and the culture-like the assumption of an essential link among all three, such that one may serve as a metaphor of the other-was equally the product of the necessity for theoretical coherence and of the conventions of theoretical convenience. And while it may be true that for the purposes of analysis one model may be as good as another, we must be wary lest we presume that any model represents reality, that the coherence of our analytical scheme reflects a real coherence out there in the world we seek to understand. This is the dilemma of Appalachian studiesas it is indeed of "American" studies. From the presumed connection between people, place, and culture, and from the assumption of an essential link between place and culture, has come that series of oper-

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ational questions which has dominated Appalachian studies at least since 1920---that is long before the current movement with its formal organizations and journals, its bibliographies as monuments to the field's legitimacy as well as guides to past and future research, its archives, its courses and certificate programs, and its institutions sponsoring research. These questions have been of three sorts. They have asked about the uniqueness of Appalachian culture in America. They have asked about the relationship of Appalachian culture to Appalachian space, that is about the "origins" of the culture in Appalachia as a place, including the "origins" of the culture in the historical experience of Appalachia or the people in Appalachia. And they have asked about the relationship of Appalachian culture to the Appalachian people, that is about the "origins" of the culture in the people as a people, including the historical experience of the people in the place. But they have not asked if culture, which manifests itself in the behavior of people, is necessarily tied to place, if culture is the possession of place. They have not asked if the culture of "Appalachia" as conventionally described is really the culture of the Appalachian people, in the mountains or out. And they have not asked if "who you are is where you're from" is really the same as "what you do is where you're from," or if these cannot exist as independent statements to be evaluated on their own merit without reference to a more general model of the social reality. Nor have they asked if the new "place-ism" of social theory in our time is not just another version of nineteenth-century "race-ism"derived, as was that one, from attempts to understand the reality of human diversity and to classify individuals according to "useful" criteria, but yielding a separation of individuals from each other and a denial of all of our selves in the name of analytic convenience. NOTES 1. The rise of empiricism during the mid-nineteenth century is discussed, although with another end in view, by George Daniels, American Science in the Age of Jackson {New York: Columbia University Press, 1968), from which my own thinking about "Baconianism" as a response to taxonomic crisis largely derives. The rise of empiricism in the "science of man" appears clearly, e.g., in [Appleton's) New American Cyclopaedia: A Popular Dictionary of General Knowledge (1857) 1:647-53 and 7:306-11, s. v. "Anthropology" and "Ethnology," and especially in [Appleton's] American Cyclapaedia: A Popular Dictionary of General Knowledge, 2nded. (1883)4:753-60, s.v. "Ethnology," by G. A. F. VanRhyn; Encyclopaedia Britannica, 9th ed. (1884) 2:107-23, 8:613-26, s.v. "Anthropology," by Edward BurnettTylor, and "Ethnography and Ethnology," by Elie Reclus. John C. Greene, The Death of Adam: Evolution and Its Impact on Western Thought (Ames, Iowa: Iowa State

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University Press, 1959), remains the best examination of the taxonomic crisis of the mid-nineteenth century as it affected the "science of man." 2. The famous remark begins Primitive Culture: Researches into the Development of Mythology, Philosophy, Religion, Language, Art and Custom, 2 vols (London, 1871 and subsequent editions); in full it reads: "Culture or civilization, taken in its wide ethnographic sense, is that complex whole which includes knowledge, belief, art, morals, law, custom, and any other capabilities and habits acquired by man as a member of society. The condition of culture among the various societies of mankind, insofar as it is capable of being investigated on general principles, is a subject apt for the study oflaws of human thought and action. On the one hand, the uniformity which so largely pervades civilization may be ascribed, in great measure, to the uniform action of uniform causes; while on the other hand its various grades may be regarded as stages of development or evolution, each the product of previous history, and about to do its proper part in shaping the history of the future." Tylor's status as the "father" of anthropology is acknowledged in Encyclopaedia Britannica, 11th ed. (1910) 27:498, s.v. "Tylor, Edward Burnett," and celebrated in Alfred L. Kroeber and Clyde Kluckhohn, Culture: A Critical Review of Concepts and Definitions, Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology 47, no. 1 (1952), esp. partl. For the development of his thought, cf. his essays, "Anthropology," in Encyclopaedia Britannica, 9th ed. (1884) 2:107-23, and "Anthropology," ibid., lith ed. (1910) 2:108-19. 3. Kroeber and Kluckhohn insist on the distinction between "culture" and "cultures" as central to modem anthropological thinking and note that the latter appears only in the twentieth century. "Culture" as the possession of all persons irrespective of their "stage of civilization" and as distinguished from "nature" or "instinct," however, was the critical insight which made possible an independent "science of man," regularly designated in the 19th century as "ethnology" rather than "anthropology," e.g., the distinction drawn in [Appleton's] American Cyclopaedia (1883) 4:753, ethnology being "the science which treats of man as a member of a tribe or nation, and of his culture, morals and language" and anthropology the science "which treats of man zoologically, and of his physical condition and inherent faculties." 4. Daniel G. Brinton used "nation" in this way through the 1880s to designate a settled population, historic or prehistoric, associated with a place or "site," e.g., American Hero Myths: A Study of the Native Religions of the Western Continent (Philadelphia: H.C. Watt & Co., 1882), p. 35 et passim, and "Were the Toltecs an Historic Nation?" American Philosophical Society Proceedings 24 (1887) :229-41; but see below. Rudolph Rocker, Nationalism and Culture (Los Angeles, Rocker Publications Committee, 1937) and George L. Masse, The Crisis of German Ideology: Intellectual Origins of the Third Reich (New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1964) explore the European connection between concepts of people, culture, and nation with special reference to the "event" of Nazi Germany, and hence view them as unnecessary and unfortunate. In contrast, Hans Kohn, in The Idea of Nationalism: A Study in Its Origins and Background (New York: The Macmillan Co., 1944), sees the European connection of people, culture, and nation as both inevitable and desirable, as a necessary precursor to globalism or internationalism, and hence asserts their origin in the classical age, when "western civilization" had its beginnings. His work remains the best introduction to nineteenth century developments and completes the analysis begun by Carleton}. H. Hayes, e.g., The Historical Evolution of Modern Nationalism (New York: Richard R. Smith, 1931). 5. Biographical and bibliographical information is summarized from Encyclopaedia Britannica, lith ed. (1910) 4:572, s.v. "Brinton, Daniel Garrison;" Appleton's Annual Cyclopaedia 1899, pp. 581-2, s.v. "Obituaries, American. Brinton, Daniel Garrison;" and [American Philosophical Society,] Brinton Memorial Meeting. Report of the Memorial Meet-

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ing held January 16, 1900, under the Auspices of the American Philosophical Society, l1y Twenty-Six Learned Societies, in Honor of the Late Daniel Garrison Brinton, M.D. (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1900), especially Albert H. Smyth, "Memorial Address," pp. 16-29, and Stewart Culin, comp., "Bibliography [of DGB]," pp. 42-67. His contributions to American ethnology, and his dose relations with coworkers in the development of American anthropology, are attested in the letters of tribute sent by John Wesley Powell, Alice C. Fletcher, Frank Hamilton Cushing, and the remarks of Frederick Ward Putnam and especially W. J. McGee, "On the Ethnological Work of Daniel Garrison Brinton," ibid., pp. 7-9, 33-4, 37-41. The list of his memberships appears in the Encyclopaedia Britannica sketch, supplemented by Daniel G. Brinton, Races and Peoples: Lectures on the Science of Ethnography (New York: N.D.C. Hodges, 1890), p. 1. 6. On the World's Congress Auxiliary, its purpose and organization, see Appleton's Annual Cyclopaedia 1893, pp. 768-72. The proceedings of the anthropology meeting were published as Memoirs of the International Congress of Anthropology, ed. C. Staniland Wake (Chicago: Schulte Publishing Co., 1894) and in Smithsonian Institution, Annual Report 1893. Frederick Ward Putnam of the Peabody Museum was on the Exposition Committee itself, as chief of the Department of Ethnology, Archaeology, Progress of Labor and Invention, in charge of "isolated and collective exhibits," Ann. Cyc. 1893, p. 760. The ethnologic exhibits at the World's Columbian Exposition, organized by Otis T. Mason from the collections of the Bureau of American Ethnology and Smithsonian Institution, have been regularly hailed as marking the origins of the "culture area concept" in museum display, rather than "aesthetic type" display, and hence as preparing the way for the rise of cultural anthropology, e.g., Joan Mark, Four Anthropologists: An American Science in Its Early Years (New York: Science History Publications, 1980), pp. 154-55 et passim, and Lee Clark Mitchell, Witnesses to A Vanishing America: The Nineteenth Century Response (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1980), p. 248, where Boas is unaccountably given credit for these exhibits. (Boas is otherwise given credit for the invention of the "culture area concept" by Alexander Golden weiser, "Leading Contributions of Anthropology to Social Theory," pp. 433-90, in Harry Elmer Barnes et al., eds., Contemporary Social Theory [New York: D. Appleton-Century Co., 1940], pp. 461-62; but Brinton himself traced the origin of the concept to Agassiz's organization of the Museum of Comparative Zoology during the 1850s, Races and Peoples: Lectures on the Science of Ethnography [New York: N.D. C. Hodges, 1890], p. 95.) An examination of Otis T. Mason, "Ethnological Exhibit of the Smithsonian Institution at the World's Columbian Exposition," Memoirs of the International Congress, pp. 208-16, suggests that Mason used the "culture area concept" sometimes and sometimes did not; and d. Hubert Howe Bancroft, The Book of the Fair: An Historical and Descriptive Presentation of the World's Science, Art, and Industry As Viewed Through the Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893, 2 vols. (Chicago: Bancroft Co., 1893) 2:629-46, 650-53, 663. More indicative of the power of the "culture area concept" and its relation to the idea of place during the early 1890s is the fact that the main exposition area and the adjacent "Midway Plaisance" included numerous "cultural area exhibits," frequently living dioramas inhabited by the peculiar people from the strange lands whose culture was on display. These included life-sized models of an American Indian school, a logger's camp, an angler's camp, a military hospital, and a "modern" public school where instruction was conducted (all from the United States); a Japanese tea house, which served refreshments; an East Indian Village, an American Indian village, a Dahomey village, an Austrian village, a Chinese village (also with a tea house), a Turkish village, a Dutch "settlement," and a Moorish palace: Bancroft, Book of the Fair 1:55 and photos passim, 2:835-83.

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7. Daniel G. Brinton, "The 'Nation' as an Element in Anthropology," Memoirs of the International Congress of Anthropology, p. 19; also printed as a separate (Chicago: Schulte Publishing Co., 1893) and in Smithsonian Institution, Annual Report 1893, pp. 589-600. In addition, Brinton presented two specialized papers at the Congress, "On Various Supposed Relations between the American and Asian Races," pp. 145-51, and "The Present Status of American Linguistics," pp. 335-38. The breadth of Brinton's interests, and his ambitions for anthropology as the science of mankind, were regularly noted in the testimonials printed in Brinton Memorial Meeting, as those by Frank Hamilton Cushing, ibid., pp. 8-9, and Albert H. Smyth, ibid., p. 18: "The great questions of religion, politics, society and science were of vital importance to him. 'Humani nihil a me alienum puto,' he might have said." So much for good friends who claim to have read your work! 8. Brinton "The 'Nation' as an Element in Anthropology," pp. 21, 33-34. The emergence of the state (or "politics") as an event in the evolutionary history of mankind was a conventional subject for discussion during the 1860s and 1870s. These discussions were genuinely "evolutionary" in their presumptions but often retained the two-stage model of earlier social theory, recast as a developmental process. Thus the emergence of the state was viewed as revolutionary; but the history of the state was then evolutionary and was characterized by the rise of human freedom, choice, and appearance of universal ethical standards, and so forth. Brinton's departure from this tradition will be apparent and, to the best of my knowledge, he is the first to talk of the nation as distinguished from the state from an evolutionary and anthropological point of view. See also above, n. 4. Brinton's third stage of development, the achievement of community of purpose, appears in Ferdinand Tonnies, Community and Association (1887 and 1912) as a characteristic of earlier societies as well as a desideratum of future society, although Tonnies' mid-twentieth century readers have ignored his own internationalistic socialism and used him as justification for a romantic revaluation of "little communities" persisting into the modern age of "artificial" and "contractual" relationships, which thus become a rebuke to the present and a model for the future. One such "little community" is said to be found in the southern Appalachians. 9. "The 'Nation' as an Element in Anthropology," p. 31. 10. Daniel G. Brinton, Races and Peoples: Lectures on the Science of Ethnography (New York: N. D. C. Hodges, 1890), p. 95. 11. On the"American School" and the origin of polygenesis, see William I. Stanton, The Leopard's Spots: Scientific Attitudes toward Race in America, 1815-59 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1960); on its persistence, George W. Stocking, Jr., "The Persistence of Polygenist Thought in Post-Darwinian Anthropology," in Race, Culture and Evolution: Essays in the History of Anthropology (New York: The Free Press, 1968), pp. 44-68. 12. Below, n. 22. 13. Daniel G. Brinton, "The Aims of Anthropology," American Association for the Advancement of Science Proceedings 44 (1895) :1-17. Brinton asserted the universal sameness of the human capacity to reason and solve problems, hence the potential of men and women in different times and places to respond in identical ways to identical situations, but also their capacity to respond in different ways to identical situations. Brinton and Boas did not disagree on the principle of evolutionary determinism as the origin of cultural forms (both denied it) or the principle of diffusion and the use of the comparative method to identify common derivation from a single source (both denied the principle and the usefulness of the method). They did disagree on the reality of differential capacities of the "races" to achieve "civilization." Boas made his stand in his address as retiring AAAS vice-president for Section H (Anthropology) in 1894, "Human Faculty as Determined by Race," AAAS Proceedings 43 (1894) :327: "Historical events appear to have

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been much more potent in leading races to civilization than their faculty, and it follows that achievements of races do not warrant us to assume that one race is more highly gifted than another." Brinton took exception to this position en passant, in "The Aims of Anthropology," p. 12. The problem for anthropologists at the end of the nineteenth century was to explain the polygenesis of culture without assuming ~he polygenesis of mankind, and to explain cultural change without assuming evolutionary inevitability or geographic determinism; that is, to reconcile the horizontal distribution of differences in space characteristic of the concerns of ethnology with the vertical distribution of differences in time characteristic of the concerns of anthropology, into a single "science of man." In this context, "diffusionism," long denied by ethnologists (including Tylor as well as Brinton and the unnamed author of the article "Anthropology" in (Appleton's] New American Cyclopaedia (1857] 1:463-70), gained new credibility, especially among the "folklorists." Cf. in this connection Grafton Elliot Smith, "Anthropology," in Encyclopaedia Britannica, 12th ed. (1922), 30:143-54. 14. Franz Boas, "Limitations of the Comparative Method in Anthropology," Science, n.s. 4 (1896) :901-909; reprinted in Race, Language and Culture (New York, Macmillan Co., 1940), pp. 271-304. Boas' "attack" on Brinton (but not Brinton's earlier attack on Boas) has become a minor Event in the history and folklore of anthropology: Leslie A. White, The Ethnology and Ethnography of Franz Boas, University of Texas, Texas Memorial Museum Bulletin no. 6 (1963): 43-5; Marvin Harris, The Rise of Anthropological Theory: A History of Theories of Culture (New York; Thomas Y. Crowell Co., 1968), pp. 255-57; Stocking, Race, Culture and Evolution, pp. 209-10. On the rise of Boas and "the Boasians," see Kroeber and Kluckhohn, Culture; Leslie A. White, "The Social Organization of Ethnological Theory," Rice University Studies, 52, no. 4 (1966); Harris, The Rise of Anthropological Theory; Hamilton Cravens, The Triumph of Evolution: American Scientists and the Heredity-Environment Controversy, 1900-1941 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1978). The "old fashioned" quality of Brinton's work was regularly explained as a result of his failure to engage in "field work" after the 1860s, e.g., Truman Michelson, "Brinton, Daniel Garrison," in Dictionary of American Biography (1929) 3:50-51, and Clark Wissler, "Brinton, Daniel Garrison," in Encyclopaedia of the Social Sciences (1930) 3:4, both of whom follow McGee, "The Ethnological Work of Daniel Garrison Brinton," almost verbatim. McGee also noted the absence of fieldwork but chose to identify Brinton as one of the "pioneers" of American ethnology, along with Albert Gallatin and Lewis Henry Morgan, while Charles C. Harrison of the American Philosophical Society (Brinton Memorial Meeting, p. 41) reminded his colleagues that Brinton was not a "mere collector or observer" but sought to use anthropological knowledge for the improvement of mankind. Harris, Rise of Anthropological Theory, pp. 255-56, prefers to identify Brinton as one of Boas's contemporaries, for the sake of the drama in which the latter as young hero emerges as primus inter pares. 15. Stocking tells the story in "The Scientific Reaction Against Cultural Anthropology, 1917-1920," in Race, Culture and Evolution, pp. 273-307, to be supplemented by Cravens, The Triumph of Evolution, for the 1920s and 1930s. The acceptance of "culture" in anthropology in fact meant the acceptance of culture as the possession of people in places, that is of what Harris, in The Rise of Anthropological Theory, calls "particularism." Whether or not this requires taking a moral stance on the issue of "cultural relativism" is quite another issue. On the acceptance of "culture" in anthropology, see Kroeber and Kluckhohn, Culture; Harris, The Rise of Anthropological Theory; and Cravens, The Triumph of Evolution. On the acceptance of "culture" in the social sciences, through the new focus on the study of peoples in places ("groups"), see

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William Fielding Ogburn and Alexander Goldenweiser, eds., The Social Sciences and their Interrelations (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1927); Harry Elmer Barnes et a/., eds., Contemporary Social Theory (New York: D. Appleton-Century Co., 1940); Leonard D. White, ed., The State of the Social Sciences (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1956), esp. Phillip M. Hauser, "Ecological Aspects of Urban Research," pp. 229-54, and Everett c. Hughes, "The Cultural Aspect of Urban Research," pp. 255-68; and such examples of the monographic literature as Ernest W. Burgess, ed., The Urban Community: Selected Papers from the Proceedings of the American Sociological Society, 1925 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1926); T.V. Smith and Leonard D. White, eds., Chicago: An Experiment in Social Science Research (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1929); RobertS. and Helen Merrill Lynd, Middletown: A Study in American Culture (New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1929). There is no satisfactory study of the rise of "community studies" in the United States (or Europe), although the phenomenon is recognized in R. Jackson Wilson, In Quest of Community: Social Philosophy in the United States (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1968), and Jean B. Quandt, From the Small Town to the Great Community: The Social Thought of Progressive Intellectuals (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1970). 16. On the organization of the Congress and controversy surrounding it, see Ray Allen Billington, The Genesis of the Frontier Thesis: A Study in Historical Creativity (San Marino, Calif.: Huntington Library, 1971), pp. 161-66; W. Stull Holt, Historical Scholarship in the United States, 1876-1901: As Revealed in the Correspondence of Herbert Baxter Adams (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1938), pp. 196-99. 17. On the preparation of "The Significance of the Frontier in American History" in the hotel room in Chicago, and its derivation from "Problems in American History," see Billington, Genesis, pp. 156-61, 165, and Wilbur R. Jacobs, The Historical World of Frederick fackson Turner: With Selections from his Correspondence (New Haven, Conn.: Yale Univ. Press, 1968), p. 198. "Problems in American History," originally published in the University of Wisconsin Aegis, 7 (November 4, 1892): 48-52, is reprinted in Frederick Jackson Turner, Early Writings, ed. Fulmer Mood (Madison, Wise.: University of Wisconsin Press, 1938), pp. 71-83. 18. Turner's reminiscences are published, with necessary editorial corrections, in Billington, Genesis, pp. 179ff., and without correction in Jacobs, The Historical World of Frederick Jackson Turner. 19. Biographical details are from Jacobs, The Historical World of Frederick Jackson Turner; Billington, Genesis, and Frederick Jackson Turner: Historian, Scholar, Teacher (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973). 20. William F. Allen routinely set his junior and senior students to work doing "original research" from published or unpublished documents. In 1882 Allen was asked by Herbert Baxter Adams to provide information on early landholdings in Wisconsin which might illuminate Adams' study of the origin of towns in the New World. Turner was enrolled in Allen's American history course that spring and was naturally assigned to examine the land records of his home town of Portage. Billington, Genesis, pp. 21-22 and notes, pp. (on Allen) 15ff. and notes. The text was published in Turner's father's newspaper, the Wisconsin State Register (Portage) and subsequently reprinted with an introduction by Fulmer Mood and Everett E. Edwards as "Frederick Jackson Turner's History of the Grignon Tract on the Portage of the Fox and Wisconsin Rivers," Agricultural History 17 (April1943): 113-20. 21. Herbert Baxter Adams urged his graduate students to write the histories of their hometowns as ways of examining the growth of "Teutonic germs" in American soil. Billington, Genesis, p. 28. On the "Teutonic School" of American historiography: Billington's summary, ibid., pp. 87-93, is superb.

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22. Frederick Jackson Turner, The Character and Influence of the Indian Trade in Wisconsin. A Study of the Trading Post as an Institution, Johns Hopkins University Studies in History and Political Science, 9th ser., nos. 11-12 (1891); reprinted in Turner, Early Writings, pp. 172-74. Turner's review of Roosevelt, The Winning of the West, appeared in the Dial10 (August 1889): 71-72. The stages of civilization as progressing from food-gathering to the pastoral, agricultural, and thence to the mercantile was popularized in the United States in the writings of RichardT. Ely, although Ely derived them from the work of Friedrich List, according to Billington, Genesis, p. 33 and notes. 23. Frederick Jackson Turner, "The Significance of the Frontier in American History," in The Frontier in American History (New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1920), pp. 4, 22-30,30-36, 37; reprinted from American Historical Association, Annual Report 1893, pp. 199-227. It was on the frontier that "the bond of custom"-sometimes Turner said "the cake of custom"-was broken. The "cake" is from Walter Bagehot, Physics and Politics, or Thoughts on the Application of the Principles of "Natural Selection" and "Inheritance" to Political Society(London, 1867;NewYork, D. Appleton Co., 1895), pp. 27, 53,158. See also above, n. 8. As Billington notes, Genesis, 166, the "authorized" text was too long for oral delivery at a session that included papers by four other historians. As a result the version actually presented in Chicago can only be reconstructed imaginatively, which Billington appempts in The Frontier Thesis: Valid Interpretation of American History? (New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1966), pp. 9-20. 24. Turner's discovery of Ratzel is discussed in Billington, Genesis, pp. 57 n. 56, 100-101, 267-68, 272. On the influence of Ratzel and anthropogeography among historians, see ibid., pp. 96-100; among social scientists, see Franklin Thomas, "The Role of Anthropogeography in Contemporary Social Theory," pp. 143-211, and James A. Quinn, "The Development of Human Ecology in Sociology,'' pp. 212-46, in Harry Elmer Barnes et al., eds., Contemporary Social Theory (New York: D. Appleton-Century Co., 1940).

25. Frederick Jackson Turner, "The Problem of the West," Atlantic Monthly 78 (September 1896): 289-97, reprinted in The Frontier in American History, pp. 205-21. See also Billington, Turner, pp. 192-94; and John Milton Cooper, Jr., Walter Hines Page, the Southerner as American (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1977), p. 124. 26. Turner's essay was "Dominant Forces in Western Life," Atlantic Monthly 79 (April1897): 433-43, reprinted in The Frontier in American History, pp. 222-42. The series included W. P. Trent, "Dominant Forces in Southern Life," Atlantic Monthly 79 (January 1897): 42-53; Phillip Morgan, "The Problems of Rural New England: A Remote Village," Atlantic Monthly 79 (May 1897): 577-87, and Alvin F. Sanborn, "The Problems of Rural New England: A Farming Community," Atlantic Monthly 79 (May 1897): 588-98; W. P. Trent, "Tendencies of Higher Life in the South," Atlantic Monthly 79 (June 1897): 766-78; Alvin F. Sanborn, "The Future of Rural New England," Atlantic Monthly 80 (July 1897): 74-83. It was continued as a series of community studies: Alvin F. Sanborn, "A Massachusetts Shoe Town," Atlantic Monthly 80 (August 1897): 177-85; William Allen White, "A Typical Kansas Community," Atlantic Monthly 80 (August 1897): 171-76; Henry B. Fuller, "The Upward Movement in Chicago," Atlantic Monthly 80 (October 1897): 534-47. 27. Frederick Jackson Turner, The Frontier in American History, p. vi. So powerful was this assertion that it not only determined Turner's own reputation among historians in the years immediately following his death (e.g., Frederic Logan Paxson, "Turner, Frederick Jackson" and bibliography, in Dictionary of American Biography [1936)19:62-4), but it also (1) gave shape (a) to the revolt against Turnerism during the late 1920s and

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1930s as a denial of the uniqueness of America (e.g., Dixon Ryan Fox, ed., Sources of Culture in the Middle West: Backgrounds versus Frontier [New York: D. Appleton-Century Co., 1934), esp. pp. 6-8) and (b) to the revolt against the idea of American uniqueness in the 1950s and 1960s as an erroneous notion spawned by Turner (e.g., Thomas L. Hartshorne, The Distorted Image: Changing Conceptions of the American Character Since Turner [Cleveland: Case Western Reserve University, 1968)) and (2) persisted into the 1970s to trouble Ray Allen Billington, who found the chronology of Turner's essays on sectionalism difficult to explain; Turner, pp. 209-32. On Turner's periodic reinterpretation of the history of his career and accomplishments, see Billington, Genesis, esp. pp. 27-29 and part III. 28. Turner, The Frontier in American History, p. vi. 29. E.g., Frederick Jackson Turner, "The Old West," State Historical Society of Wisconsin Proceedings 56 (1908): 184-233, reprinted in The Frontier in American History, pp. 67-125. Turner's essays on sectionalism were reprinted only posthumously, in Frederick Jackson Turner, The Significance of the Section in American History, ed. Max Farrand and Avery Craven (New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1932). 30. Frederick Jackson Turner, "Is Sectionalism in America Dying Away?" American Journal of Sociology 13 (March 1908): 661-75, reprinted in Turner, The Significance of the Section, pp. 288, 313-14. Cf. also Turner's essays, "Sections and Nation," Yale Review 12 (October 1922): 1-21, reprinted in The Significance of the Section, pp. 315-39, and "The Significance of the Section in American History," Wisconsin Magazine of History 8 (March 1925): 255-80, reprinted in The Significance of the Section, pp. 22-51. 31. For the revolt against Turnerism, see the annotated bibliographies in Ray Allen Billington, Westward Expansion: A History of the American Frontier (New York: Macmillan Co., 1949), pp. 760-61, and The Frontier Thesis: Valid Interpretation?, pp. 120-22. 32. Henry D. Shapiro, Appalachia on Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920 (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1978).

RITUALS OF DEPENDENCE IN APPALACHIAN KENTUCKY ALLEN BATTEAU

DEPENDENCE AND POVERTY

In the past twenty years, two contrasting orientations have dominated discussions of the problems of poverty and underdevelopment in Appalachia. One orientation, viewing the region's poverty as a matter of underdevelopment or dependent development, finds the structural causes most basic. In this view, it is the lack of capital, lack of infrastructure, or economic dependence on outside industry and capital that keep Appalachia underdeveloped. The alternative orientation, usually associated with theories of "provincialism" or a "culture of poverty," finds the personal causes more basic; in this view, either the poor need to be taught new attitudes so that they can overcome their poverty or the "traditional" culture needs to be "modernized." While there is a general agreement between these two orientations on the overall dimensions of the problem-lack of jobs, lack of capital, lack of mobilization of local resources, and the politicizing of the half-hearted development efforts that do exist-there is no agreement on whether the structural or the personal aspect of the problem is "more basic." To posit these as mutually exclusive alternatives is illusory. Just as any social order has both personal and structural manifestations, so too do the economic problems of Appalachia; the problem for any person who wishes to understand or to change these is not to engage in Thomistic exercises of deciding which is "more basic," but rather to understand how social structures elicit individual attitudes and behaviors, and how individual actions maintain the larger structures even when the latter are experienced as oppressive. The larger structure in question is the set of relationships of objective dependency between the regional economies of Appalachia and lowland metropoles. 1 These relationships establish a subservient position for the region in financial, commercial, and regulatory transactions. Whether this is a matter of "dependent development," the

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creation of "internal periphery," or "internal colonialism" is of less interest to us than its aggregate result: It has precluded industrial diversification and regional autonomy in Appalachia, because all capital formation has flowed into channels of greatest profit to lowland commercial and financial centers. The dependency of the Appalachian coal industry on railroads, steel mills, and urban utilities is a welldocumented fact; the most recent development, the purchasing of coal properties and mines by multinational energy corporations, will further guarantee that the coal industry will never become an instrument of regional transformation. In the Alleghenies, the tourist industry, catering primarily to lowland tourists, offers a similar case of dependent development. As such, the paradox of "rich land, poor people" that many have noted for Appalachia is no paradox at all, for it is precisely those regions richest in natural resources that are the most inviting targets for outside capital and consequent underdevelopment. 2 The other major export of Appalachia, population, is the basis of what I have elsewhere labeled the "human resources economy." 3 This is the set of educational, health, and social services, provided by the state, that ensure a population motivated and capable of participating in the national economy. In some counties of central Appalachia this human resources economy accounts for more than 30 percent of the employment; it includes the schools, which prepare students for jobs outside the region. Dependent on state funding and controlled by state boards, the schools, hospitals, and human service agencies have not been agencies for pursuing local or regional development. Dependency theory and world system theory have been criticized for their economic reductionism and determinism. Overcompensating for these defects are the theories of a culture of poverty and "characterological deterrents" to economic progress in Appalachia. In these conceptions, such values and attitudes as conservatism, fatalism, conceptions of honor, the "image of limited good" all stand in the way of "modernization." The best-known approach of this sort is Thomas Ford's essay, "The Passing of Provincialism." 4 In similar vein, the behavior of the lower class is often explained by invoking ideas of a "culture of poverty." 5 In this conception, the lower class is characterized as present-oriented, self-centered, and hedonistic; the "amoral familism" of its members prevents them from cooperating for the common good. In both of these theories, the population so described lacks the attitudes and motivations, usually those associated with the Protestant ethic, thought to be necessary for economic growth and success. The key to development in such societies, it follows, lies in teaching the people some new attitudes. These theories, as has frequently been observed, often generalize from a few pathological cases

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to an entire group or region; they rarely offer observations shown to bear a factual correlation with differences in level of development. 6 Each of these two orientations, the structural and the attitudinal, focuses on some important empirical realities: In the former case, the relationships of economic domination; in the latter, the manifest occurrences of self-defeating behavior among the poor. Each achieves its respective focus, however, through some strategic omissions. In the case of dependent development, what remains hidden is the personalistic aspect of dependency relationships; in the case of the culture of poverty, what one does not see are the relationships through which these attitudes and behaviors are elicited and cultivated. In this paper I will attempt to find a common ground between the two, by examining the ramifications of dependency in the daily lives of people in an eastern Kentucky community. I suggest that dependence is not simply the structure of commercial relationships between Appalachia and lowland metropoles, but is a pattern of relationships and values exerting a pervasive influence on all areas of life in the dependent region-a climate, if one wishes, requiring heroic measures to overcome. I suggest that within the institutions of economic and political dependency, there exist interpersonal relationships having as part of their content certain ritualized behaviors that manipulate the shame and dependent impulses of the subordinate. Through such organization and orchestration of emotions-the key to any effective ritual-the subordinates are bonded to the very system that they as renters, welfare recipients, and political clients find oppressive. This reinforcement of dependent impulses through ritual is the key to understanding why clientele classes have such difficulty in either banding together against those who have power over them or abandoning the oppressive relationships altogether: At the internal periphery of a mature capitalist economy, power is exercised less by force or cooptation, and more by the manipulation of regressive and self-defeating impulses within the dependent class. A qualification is necessary here. Obviously, within a complex society, dependent relationships are a fact of life. Children are dependent on parents, non-unionized employees are dependent on their bosses, voters on their representatives, small businessmen on large. With very few exceptions everyone in a late capitalist society lives within a web of dependency relationships. For most, however, the economic, political, and psychological debits of dependency are partially offset by the fact of having others dependent on them. Only at the very mudsills of the society-among the unorganized, the uneducated, the unemployable poor-does one find a condition of absolute (as distinguished from relative) dependency. This "underclass,"

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which is the despair of policymakers of every ideological persuasion, is the necessary concomitant of a society built up on these inequalities. Such dependency is found, in eastern Kentucky, in the various hierarchies of state and local politics. Articulated by kinship, friendship, and patronage, these form a lattice-work extending downward from state politicians to courthouse officials to family patriarchs, and finally down to the individual voters. Through the control of patronage jobs and development resources, this sytem absorbs the very opportunities for survival and economic improvement in eastern Kentucky. In the absence of "public works," political loyalty is the price of a job; in the absence of other means of access, every development scheme becomes enmeshed in patronage politics. 7 This political dependence is the interpersonal infrastructure of economic dependence: together they create an environment in which there are various political, economic, and psychological rewards for playing a subservient role in the national economy. These rewards include the opportunity to have a big name in the local community, to form a clientele of one's own, to accumulate capital. There are many beguiling opportunities for dependence in Appalachia, whereas the opportunities for independence are few and far between. DEPENDENCE AND RITUAL

Some do choose to be independent. A man who "has some land he can be independent on" escapes dependence, providing he is willing to forgo most opportunities for substantial income. Old Regular Baptists, abjuring the things of this world with their minds intent on salvation in the next, are similarly independent. But these are a minority. The more active efforts to counteract a history of subservience in Appalachia, efforts that have included the development of a mining industry, the organizing of a miners' union, the creation of local planning districts, or the establishment of a regional commission, have despite their short-run successes simply rearranged the terms of dependence. The paradox of all these efforts is that the dependency relationships within them-between a mineowner and outside financiers, between a coaldigger and the boss, between a local official and a Washington bureaucrat-are entered into voluntarily, if not eagerly. Once entered into, however, they are difficult to break out of, despite a lack of coercion, even when their limitations are recognized. The reason for this, I would suggest, is that all of these relationships-jobs, access to development resources, political patronage, involvement in the game of conspicuous consumption-involve far more than simply an impersonal economic content. Whether considering dependency rela-

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tionships in coalmining, politics, welfare, or a number of other institutions, there is a ritualistic dimension giving personal content to and thus reinforcing and maintaining the economic content. This personalizing of an economic relationship is found, perhaps most poignantly, in the indignities visited upon welfare clients; it is found in all the other relationships as well. The economic content is personalized through such patterns of behavior as the invasion of private domains, the public exhibition of various tokens of inferiority, the rewarding of compliance and subservience, and the creation of a series of no-win situations for the person in the subordinate position. By examining these patterns in a variety of contexts, we can begin to see such personalizing of dependence as a significant issue in Appalachia. The one ritual that is omitted here, regretably, is that of obtaining a political job. It is perhaps one of the most typical of the rituals of dependence in the region, and it creates some of the most durable and far-reaching ties of dependence; yet because it is so private, I was unable to observe it. The personalizing of dependence is less extreme, yet more pervasive than the infantilizing "ceremonies of degradation" which authors such as Stanley Elkins and Erving Goffman discuss. Regarding such interactions in the context of nineteenth-century Indian removals, Michael Ragin notes that they destroy the victim's connection to his previously validated social self. Individuals lose social support for their own personal experience of reality. The infantilizing process, calling into question one's basic security in and trust of the environment, undermines the independent ego.... The victim's blank and bare environment offers him only one remaining source of gratification, the authority who manipulates rewards and punishments. Thus the very oppressor becomes the source of values and sustenance. The infantilized victim, in the extreme case, identifies with his oppressor and seeks total dependence upon him. 8

The rituals of dependence and structures of domination that I am discussing here are, to be sure, less extreme than those discussed by Goffman and Elkins. Yet for their effectiveness, they draw on the same archaic impulses that bond victims everywhere to their oppressors. Despite the institutional dissimilarity of the behaviors I examine here, I suggest that they share a common social-psychological structure, made up of the personalizing contents just mentioned. Their common outcome is the orchestration and manipulation of feelings of shame and inferiority. This results in the maintenance of social relationships based on various defenses against shame and the threat of shame. These defenses include dependent identification, rejection, and overconformity. 9 They are associated with a sense of fragmenta-

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tion of identity, a lack of personal wholeness, and a lack of internalized attachment to the symbols that unify the disparate aspects of an individual's life and integrate them into the social world. In children this is the normal state of affairs, and emotional dependence on and identification with the parents is the defense against it. The psychological task facing adolescents is to overcome this emotional dependence. Such dependence is repressed but never eliminated, and dependent impulses remain a regressive threat well into adulthood. In an adult, emotional dependence can be recognized by such behaviors as clinging submissiveness to a superior, lack of initiative, feelings of inadequacy in the absence of a powerful figure to attach oneself to, repeated requests for gifts and favors, and an apparent lack of gratitude for those given. 10 In some societies, such dependence is acceptable, if not rewarded; there is no incongruity or childishness implied. In a modern society, however, for an adult to behave in such a manner implies an inadequacy that can itself become a further source of shame, particularly insofar as the behavior is made a matter of public display. There are several defenses against this shameful experience of inadequacy which are normative in modern societies. By maintaining certain boundaries of privacy one can always retreat if the competition becomes too intense. The threat to such privacy, as we shall see, is an essential part of the status of the welfare recipient and the renter; it compromises this defense, and becomes itself a source of shame. By depersonalizing relationships, one maintains a similar sphere of privacy, guarding against the exposure of emotions and weaknesses. By roleplaying and overconformity one arrives at an identity closure that, however artificial and detached from one's true self, can ward off shame. These defenses, it might be noted, are typical of the "bureaucratic personality" that Robert Merton first described in 1940. 11 In describing these rituals of inferiority, exposure, and shame, it may seem frivolous that so much attention should be devoted to behavior that is dismissed, especially by subordinates, as "mickey mouse" or "playing games." Yet the very dismissal of such behavior as gameplaying reveals part of its structure: It creates an inequality where none previously existed. 12 More properly speaking, it orchestrates certain sentiments of inequality for both superior and inferior. Part ritual in its joining of two individuals, and part game in that certain rules must be followed, but certainly never playful, these rituals of shame and dependence are the bonds by which the victims' cooperation is secured in the process of their subjection. "Just Renters." I first became aware of the symbolic content of renting a house in two of my efforts to obtain a place to stay in a small and very rural county in eastern Kentucky. In the course of fieldwork

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in this county I rented houses in four different locations, from four different people: a settlement worker, a retired farmer, the wife of an automobile dealer, and a bootlegger. I also came dose to renting a house from the wife of an engineer in a large (population 10,000) town in the next county. In the transactions that led up to the renting, it was understood that I was a university student there doing research. These status considerations contributed to the relationships that evolved between me and my potential landlords. Two of these were modestly educated country people, and two were the wives of (relatively) urbane men with prestigious occupations. All of the houses were small structures close by, usually in back of the landlord's house-an architectural arrangement that itself indicated inclusion and subordination. The landladies could always see my comings and goings; some commented on them more than others. Occasionally, upon returning to the house, I would find that the landlady had been in it for some purpose. In the community at large I was identified with the landlord, as "the boy that's renting from ---." Altogether, the relationship was one of subordination and inclusion within the landlord's household, in a rather personal but asymmetric manner. Since I was "just a renter," I lacked full status in the community. As in all of the rural South, renters in this community do indeed occupy a depressed status; in discussions with others, I learned that my experiences were not atypical. Renters are thought of as transient, unreliable; they were often manipulated by their landlords, being told how to vote and which stores to trade at. Since no leases were ever signed, the renter could be turned out at the landlord's pleasure. Renters were generally deferential to their landlords, at least in my presence; many were shy, awkward, and ill-at-ease in the community at large. With certain of these landlords I found that their behavior toward me was that described in the local idiom as "lording it over" one. For example, in my dealings with the engineer's wife, I was told that a substandard house would be acceptable to me: she had three houses available, one of which had indoor plumbing, one of which had outdoor plumbing and a twelve-foot dug well, and one of which was uninhabitable (lacking doors and having been taken over by a flock of chickens). She did not want to rent the first to me, saying that she regarded the second as adequate. For another example, the wife of the car dealer insisted on storing certain of her furniture in the house that I rented, including a double bed in the small living room. She did not have any place for the furniture in her house, she said, and I did not need that much space for myself anyway.

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My relationships with these landlords contained elements of personalized dependence and inferiority; I felt uneasy in such a position, although my status as an outsider may explain this. I was dependent on these landlords and had to show the proper deference in asking them for a place to rent. They, in turn, made the assumption that they could tell me what I needed and supervise and comment on my life. I had few defenses other than avoidance against the sense of powerlessness that resulted. "Getting a Check." In the mountain towns of Kentucky, the first day of the month is colloquially known as "check day" or "stamp day." This is the day that government checks-social security, supplemental social insurance, public assistance, disability, workmen's compensation, aid to families with dependent children, unemployment compensation, veterans' benefits-arrive in their distinctive brown envelopes. Welfare recipients crowd into town, jamming the narrow streets, picking up their checks, cashing them at the bank, and then going over to the post office to get their food stamps. In the town in which my fieldwork was conducted, the food stamps were sold not in the front lobby of the post office, but in a small vestibule at the back of the building near where the mail truck parked. Anyone coming to that window is obviously coming not to mail a letter or pick up a parcel but to buy food stamps. The purchase of food stamps, like their use at the supermarket, is a public announcement that one is on welfare. On check day, there are nearly a hundred people in the food stamp line, which stretches a long distance outside the window, as the clerks check the recipients' authorization cards and identification cards and sell them the stamps. The recipients must wait patiently in the slowmoving line, even in rain and snow, if they wish to have anything to feed to their families that night. Meanwhile, the people who live and work in town pass by on their various errands, at times feeling sorry for the recipients, but also at times angry because their tax money supports these "bums." Food stamps and the various checks considered "welfare" are the only forms of government largesse distributed in so demeaning a manner. Manifestly a protection against fraud, the latent function of such disbursement is to put the recipient in his place: It tells him that he is inferior. The public assistance office is run in a similar manner, although the waiting area is indoors. The main office is a large room with a number of caseworkers' desks; off a corridor in the back are the supervisors' offices. In the front, separated by a free-standing partition, are a few folding chairs for the welfare clients waiting to see their caseworkers. If one is not a client but simply a friend or a visiting professional, one need not wait but can go back behind the partition. The client must

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wait until the worker is ready to see him, which is another reminder of inferiority. In nearly every case, the caseloads of the workers are far too large to obviate such waiting or even to permit the treatment of the clients with a consistent level of courtesy. The task of the public assistance caseworker is to ascertain and certify "eligibility," to examine the particularities of a potential client's life and determine whether that client is eligible for the small amount the welfare system might pay. To ascertain this, the caseworker, whether in Appalachia or Chicago, is mandated to make a greater invasion of the client's privacy than is found anywhere else in America outside of prisons. One must tell the caseworker the composition of one's household, assets, medical condition, education, work history, and prior residence. The caseworker is entitled to instruct the client to alter the composition of his household, divest himself of particular assets, or seek particular employment, in order to qualify for assistance. In some states, the caseworker is permitted to make unannounced "visits" to a client's home, visits which may result in a "missing" husband slipping out the back door as the caseworker knocks on the front. It is difficult to overstate the degree to which the public assistance caseworker is a presence in the private lives of welfare recipients. If one is certified as permanently and totally disabled, there is little further intervention from the caseworker. However, if one is on Aid to Families with Dependent Children, or if one occasionally works at seasonal employment, the interaction with the caseworker is a recurrent phenomenon. In such a situation, one has little privacy. The state-that is, the public assistance office-has the right to inquire about nearly every aspect of one's life, and one constantly has to evaluate different actions in terms of how they might affect eligibility. Should a son visit relatives in Cleveland for the summer? That would cut the check. Dare one take a temporary job? It might be too difficult to get recertified. What if one votes for the wrong candidate? Welfare is supposedly divorced from politics, but many fearful recipients believe otherwise. The reality of the system is that the caseworkers find these petty interventions just as burdensome as ·do the recipients. But for the fact that too many cases of fraud might be discovered on a worker's caseload, the caseworker would just as soon certify the potential client as eligible and get rid of him. The caseworker is as much compelled to go through the forms as is the client, with the only difference being that it is the client's and not the caseworker's privacy that is being invaded. As a result, there evolve a number of games played between social workers and clients. The master game here might be named "Eligibility." In this game the client approaches the worker with an attitude of

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sufficient humility yet optimism that, with a little help, he or she might be able to get off of relief. The worker cooperates with the client, and with a few winks and hints suggests some strategic lying so that the interview can be quickly concluded and the potential client certified. The experienced client needs no such winks and hints; the caseworker often prefers such an experienced client to the greenhorn who naively presents all the honest, messy details of his life. The outcome of this process is the clarification of an inherently ambiguous situation, the classification of the client's life into one or another of the categories of eligiblity. Clarifying this is the worker's responsibility, although the client can help reduce the worker's anxiety by providing the correct answers. Similar games are played by caseworkers and clients, many of which are described in Polansky's Roots of Futility, including exaggerated shows of conformity and playing stupid. 13 These are games only in the sense that they are arational: They are played in defiance of a welfare system that forces the client into a personalized inferiority and attempts to rationalize the minutiae of the client's life. They accomplish this subversion by providing the appearance of conformity to the rules while maintaining a sphere of privacy in players' emotions contrary to the spirit of the system that attempts to manipulate not only living arrangements and lifestyles, but also attitudes and emotions. As a total institution, welfare permits no privacy; by playing the game, caseworker and client simultaneously protest and protect the system. These "games" mobilize certain impulses and sentiments in order to restate and reinforce a social relationship. The sentiments of the worker are those of superiority, confidence that she knows what is best for the client. The client confronting the worker finds that compliance is rewarded, and independence is not. Dependence in following the worker's instructions elicits smiles of approval and a continuation of the check; independence, whether through self-assertion or taking a job, provokes hostility or a reduction of the check. Such reinforcement of infantile impulses, in Polansky's judgment, leads to "some deterioration in adequacy." 14 Forced into such a situation, the client can direct his anger and shame at either the worker or himself. The latter is clearly self-defeating, whereas the former invests further emotional energy in the relationship bonding worker and client together through their mutual rejection. 15 "Getting a Road." The subordination of renters is a common phenomenon in the South; the cultivation of psychological dependence in welfare recipients is found throughout America. However, when one begins to examine political clientelism, one arrives at a definitive characteristic of the texture of life in eastern Kentucky. Relationships be-

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tween politicians and their clients pervade all areas of life, and considerations of patronage and loyalty influence some of the most farreaching decisions involved in the development of the region. The scene is familiar enough to any politician: A group of clients has come into his office-a table in the corner of the dairy bar-seeking his support for a petition. The politician is casually dressed, with an open-collar shirt and knit trousers. The petitioners are wearing workclothes and housedresses; some have mud on their boots. The most articulate member of the group speaks for the rest, explaining why they "need" a road up their holler. Currently all they have is an ungraded "county road," which half the time courses through a stream bed and most of the winter is unpassable. The petitioners feel that they have a "right" to a road, since several nearby communities have obtained roads in the past few years. Yet they do not insist on their "right," for to do so would be an imputation of the politician's bad faith. Instead, they make their case on the basis of "need." The politician may well agree in the back of his mind that the group is entitled to a road. To acknowledge this would make it more difficult for him should he fail to deliver. He knows that these people, and many similar groups, have rights and needs which he cannot satisfy; yet refusing them outright would cost him their votes. He weighs just how many votes are to be gained and lost by granting which of the patronage requests that have been made to him-whether for roads, bridges, jobs, schoolbus service, loads of gravel, or help with various public agencies. In the end, he sees the group off with a warm but noncommittal promise of "I'll see what I can do." The group itself is divided between those who think he meant it and those who have had their mistrust of politicians reinforced. For county officials in eastern Kentucky, political survival hinges on the astute distribution of such patronage. Each of the magistrates has some discretion as to how his share of the county's patronage is distributed, and the fiscal court as a whole can also decide to build a road or a bridge in a certain district. As a consequence, a common spectacle at the monthly fiscal court meetings is for diverse groups of local petitioners to address the court, seeking some favor. In the county in which my fieldwork was done, the monthly fiscal court meetings are quite informal, with the four magistrates and the county judge, along with other county officials, sitting crowded around a table so small that some of the magistrates have their backs to the audience. On one day in October the judge and the county attorney were wearing jackets and ties, but the magistrates were variously clad in hunting jackets, work uniforms or jackets from leisure suits. During the meeting there was much passing back and forth of papers for

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signatures between the sheriff, the county treasurer, the judge, and some of the squires, to the extent that the conduct of business seemed at times a distraction from the more important tasks of paper-shuffling. People came and went in and out of the small courtroom, and loud conversations could frequently be heard through the open door to the anteroom. Above all this confusion the county judge tried to run the meeting, which consisted primarily of hearing the petitions of various delegations from communities in the county. The petitioners, when called on by the judge, would explain why they needed a road, a bridge, or a load of gravel on a driveway. Nearly all of the petitioners were from rural areas; people in town were sufficiently well-connected that they did not need to present requests at public meetings. The petitioners were dearly ill at ease when presenting their requests. Their clothes marked them as poor, and their speech-they say "requesties" rather than "requests"-indicated their rural origins. Occasionally a petitioner's anger showed through his thin and cracking voice. Yet confrontations are rare here, and the appearance is maintained that building a road is a favor done by the politicians for their constituents. The favor, of course, is rewarded with votes at election time; if the petitioners appeared to be demanding their rights, they might not be trusted to reciprocate. Conversely, if the petitioners have been consistently loyal to the politician, supporting him in each election, they have little difficulty in getting their road. After each group presents its request, it usually leaves, not waiting for the end of the meeting. After all of them have left, the county treasurer comes in to present his report. A nattily dressed man, in a polyester suit with matching trousers and jacket, he has the sleek look of a television preacher. "What can we do for you?" the judge asks, "What do you want?", just as he had asked all of the rural petitioners. With a wink and a broad grin, the treasurer parodies the rural petitioners: "I need some gravel on my bridge." In its daily practice, the game of local politics in eastern Kentucky involves just this sort of exchange of patronage for loyalty. This articulation extends upward through neighborhood politicians, big men in the county, factions in the state Democratic party, and ultimately into the statehouse and the federal capital. At every level, the same interpersonal situation obtains: a group approaches an official seeking patronage, with the implicit understanding that loyalty will be returned. To approach the politician singly with no imputation that one is representing a larger group, implies a relationship of equality, or that one has a completely unrealistic notion of how politicians grant favors. Only in the distribution of jobs does the one-to-one approach work, and there the expectation of loyalty from the jobholder is stronger than

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ever. The holder of a political job, along with his family, is expected to vote, if not actually get out and campaign, for the politician that got him the job. This expectation of loyalty is sometimes extended to private employment as well: Employees should not actively oppose a candidate their boss is "interested" in. Certain styles of behavior, containing strong elements of verbal stroking, are crucial to these processes of securing patronage or mobilizing a constituency: flattery, reassurances of trust and good faith, a suppression of negative or hostile impulses, and a heightened sensitivity to the nuances of speech and gesture that might indicate one's hidden feelings. Such behavior pervades many settings in which personalized relationships must be mobilized for instrumental ends. The interminable discussions that go on in families and local groups are efforts to find a satisfactory consensus on past events or courses for future action. The avoidance of dissension in Appalachia, which many have noted, necessary in a milieu where cooperation is relatively unstructured, is reinforced by the sensitivity of others' feelings. The counterpoint to this avoidance is a heightened vulnerability to others' blame and censure. These personalized relationships are found in such diverse settings as families, villages, political groups, dubs, and streetcorner encounters; in such personalized settings, there is considerable reinforcement to suppress one's individuality and accept the drift of events. Whether these reinforcements are experienced as the warmth and intimacy of a "folk community" or the smothering pressure of village gossips, they are an expression of a caring that is quite real and which, like all reinforcements, carries over beyond the immediate setting to create an atmosphere pervading all interaction. The personalized political dependence described here extends far beyond the matter of obtaining gravel for a road. The development of central Appalachia (outside the coal industry) is for the most part financed by state and federal dollars, funds that are with varying degrees of subtlety subject to the rules of patronage distribution. As a result, one finds at all levels of Appalachian society a reinforcement for political dependence and a subversion by political considerations of the economic rationalization that is the intended consequence of these development efforts. Some of the deformations of the local polity which result from this dependence will be considered in the final section. The Aigner Purse. The examples given this far are pertinent primarily to the poorer families in Appalachia, families whose dependence is obvious even if the reasons for it are not. These families dangle from multiple dependencies on country stores, politicians, welfare offices and landlords. Appalachia has a higher proportion of welfare depen-

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dents than most other southern regions; hence, like the frequency of political dependence just noted, the incidence of welfare dependence is sufficiently great that the quality of relationships in the welfare system affects the texture of life throughout the community, in ways not found elsewhere in the South. For these families living in a state of multiple dependency, the only source of independence they might have is land of their own; yet even the value of land ownership has been rendered questionable. Land without a road is of little value, since it cannot be used commercially or residentially; even if a farmer's land has a road, it can provide him with little more than "a cornbread living" unless he has a job and a regular income. Today a homesteader needs the electricity, deep well, telephone, automobile, and store-bought food and clothes that his grandfather never dreamed of having. This rise in living standards creates one of the most subtle and pervasive forms of dependence in Appalachia today. To understand why living standards rise, often more rapidly than the incomes with which they are purchased or the satisfactions that they bring, we have to understand the uses people make of the objects involved in different standards of living. Aside from cases of sheer necessity, the ownership of such goods is part of participation in the larger community. This "participation" is a set of stylized rituals; the "large community" can be a high school, a club, the street life of a small town, or a circle of friends. In nearly every case in Appalachia, these groups do not set their own standards, but follow the lead of other groups. Understanding how these rituals bind individuals into the "larger community," and how that group in turn is bound to other groups, will enable us to understand how conspicuous consumption and emulation form one of the strongest bonds in the society, even as they cultivate and threaten feelings of inadequacy. When I conducted a survey of the students in the consolidated high school in McPherson, Kentucky, I found that one item on the survey elicited more comment than all of the others combined. On the girls' questionnaire, I asked, "Do you own an Aigner purse?" For the next few days, any time I would meet a mother in town who had a daughter in the high school, she would mention this item on the questionnaire. The simultaneous novelty and importance of Aigner purses for these families made them a focal point for all their ambivalences involved in conspicuous emulation. 16 The women's self-consciousness about their Aigner purses was mostly due to the novelty of the purses. A boom had started in the coal industry just a few months previously, and for the first time in the region there was a class that was simultaneously sizable, well edu-

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cated, and sufficiently affluent to create a public impression by conspicuous consumption. The middle class of earlier years had been smaller, less sophisticated, and less affluent. There was a change in atmosphere so that for the first time in this small town it was becoming acceptable to compete through stylish consumption. The ritualized character of conspicuous consumption-whether in the car one drives or the jogging suit one wears-is a commonplace sociological observation: The specificity of time, place, social context, and script involved is sufficient to characterize it as ritual, even if the details of symbolic adornment periodically change. The outcome of this ritual, like the others, is to define positions of superiority and inferiority, and to reinforce impulses of confidence and diffidence in the respective parties. In urban America, for reasons Michael Harrington notes in his discussion of the invisibility of poverty, 17 rituals such as these are often more of a game, playfully undertaken and seldom striking to the core of one's being. In eastern Kentucky, where large-scale inequalities of income exist within small-scale communities, the ritual display of superiority and inferiority is at times quite blatant. A common story heard from adolescents of rural origin in Appalachia is of their shame and embarrassment at wearing the wrong clothes or having the wrong purse when they attended the consolidated high school in town. The public shame that accompanies a display of low status is itself at times difficult and embarrassing to observe. Whether it be a customer in the post office who cannot fill out a money order for herself, or a high school girl whose clothes are out of date, the awkwardness and embarrassment are obvious and contagious. One should guard against overstating the sense of shame induced by such rituals. Two middle-class adults meeting on a streetcorner will have sufficient means of rationalization and avoidance to obviate any more than the slightest feeling of awkwardness. Conversely, many people raised in rural Appalachia feel little compulsion to make frequent trips into town, into a setting where they will feel awkward and out of place. In some situations though, particularly among adolescents in high school, where identities are not crystallized and where avoidance is impossible, the shame produced by having the wrong purse, wearing an out-of-date dress, lacking current knowledge on cars, television trivia, or sports, can be quite intense. Other shaming rituals, such as the professional's flaunting of his vocabulary in front of clients, or the teacher's exhibition of a student's poverty before the entire class, 18 can similarly produce intense feelings of shame and inferiority. The common armature of these rituals is that one partner in the interaction, by contrast with the other, becomes seen as an unsoph-

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isticated "hillbilly." The entire range of conspicuous consumption of cars, houses, knowledge, clothes, and so forth continuously sorts out the population into gradations of sophistication and backwardness. such invidious comparisons, accumulating over the last hundred years, have made many within the region quite sensitive to the judgments of others from outside the region. The shame of wearing the wrong skirt is qualitatively the same as the shame of having the wrong speech. Both are badges of inferiority within a community that is nominally egalitarian. They are sometimes dealt with by avoidance: Some of the poorest rural families prefer to trade at the country stores, where prices are higher, rather than go into town where they feel embarrassed by their dress. When avoidance is impossible, as when one needs to do business with some professional agency in town or see the doctor or attend school, there are several possible defenses against the shame of personalized inferiority. Denial, in the form of defensive statements such as "I'm just as good a man as he is!", is one. Regression to dependence, and identification through emulation, reap greater rewards, for the obvious reason that they are socially integrative, obviating the isolation of feelings of shame. When a person in Lexington imitates the fashions in New York, he is identifying with certain stylish groups there; it is the same when a person in Hazard imitates the styles in Lexington, or a person in Beaver Creek imitates the styles in Hazard. In every case there is an attempt to be like the other, to avoid threats of awkwardness in comparison or interaction with the other. Yet this imitation, when continued or compulsive, places the individual in a dependent position vis-a-vis New York, Lexington, or Hazard, just as a child takes its cues from its parents for its sense of identity. Compulsive stylishness is a defense against feelings of incongruity, in a society where people are judged on the basis of elective consumption. The Currency of Shame in Public Order. Four typical situations have been given here-the renter, the welfare mother, the political petitioner, and the style-conscious consumer. With the exception of the last, these pertain primarily to those at the bottom of the social pyramid, people who live in dependence without the offsetting advantage of having others dependent on them. The distinctiveness of Appalachia in this regard is less in the fact of these relationships and more in their pervasive character. Despite their diversity, the situations given share the common structure of one person being placed in a position of inferiority or incongruity with respect to another. To the extent that this is personalized and publicly displayed, there is the accompanying threat of shame, unpleasant for both those who experience and

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those who witness or evoke it. "It just tears me up," a postal worker told me, "When these people come into the post office, you know, that cannot read or write, and say, 'Can you back [i.e. address] this letter for me. I'm so nervous today I just can't write,' or 'I left my glasses at home.' It just tears me to pieces." These activities, in addition to their rational content, have a ritual script that allocates positions of superiority or inferiority and reinforces certain subjective defenses against the shame of inferiority. These defenses alternatively include a rejection of the superior, or a need for dependence on the part of the inferior. These maneuvers satisfy both parties: A mulish or hostile rejection is a subjective denial of another's superiority; the other individual will see such behavior as proof of childish stubbornness. Clinging and dependent behavior similarly justify subordination while obviating its shame through identification. In all of these situations, diverse sentiments and emotions are enlisted in the maintenance of relationships of superiority and inferiority. Such superordination is a normal state of affairs in all human societies, although some acknowledge it more readily than others. 19 Yet in most of the typical situations described above, the subordination is made a matter of public display, even while the public ideology asserts a nominal equality, maintaining that personal inadequacies are private matters. This public exposure itself becomes a further source of shaming. There are two available defenses against such shaming and manipulation of inferiority. The first, which is the emhasis of this article, is identification and dependence. This defense is further reinforced by the manner in which landlords and welfare workers invade the privacy of their dependents, denying them the conventional defenses of social distance and physical privacy. Identification, necessitating as it does innovative behavior, is a more progressive defense against the same feelings; to the extent that it is compulsive and stylized, it becomes a mortgaging of one's identity to the innovators of fashion. One can see in the overconformity of the arriviste, whether in Pineville or Louisville, a reaction to fears that perhaps one does not fit in, is not accepted by the emulated group. The final defense against shame is the rejection of the superior, either in the form of passive avoidance or in active hostility. The former is more available when the needs are of the subjective sort satisfied by politics or status consumption, or when one has social skills that facilitate a carefully controlled distance within interaction. However, if the need is a matter of survival, as is the case of the welfare recipient, then the dependent must reject the superior who satisfies it, even while the relationship is maintained. This rejection, like the need for dependence, is an investment of emotional energy upward, toward

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the superior, rather than horizontally toward one's peers. In any system of dependent relationships, there are three routes to objective amelioration of one's position: The accumulation of equity and other resources, upward mobility through the creation of one's own clientele, or organizing the class that is dependent by virtue of being fragmented. The first of these is precluded by the rules of the welfare system, 20 the second simply perpetuates and elaborates the system, whereas the third, the only strategy promising fundamental change, is made more difficult by the bonds to the superior. 21 The superiors in this system, whether those who design the rituals or those who participate in them, are similarly caught up in the dependent relationships that seem to be a characteristic feature of a late capitalist economy. This is clear from the discussion of conspicuous emulation; it similarly obtains with welfare caseworkers and politicians. Yet all of these have in their objective circumstances a number of resources and opportunities that the renter or the welfare client do not. The middle-class person enters into a dependent relationship with a greater degree of choice than does the lower-class person. The former has available a larger sphere of autonomy, whether in the control of private living space or in the control of a skill, both of which offer refuge. It he must seek public largesse and reveal his private finances, as in the case of a parent applying for a scholarship for a college student, it is through the anonymous medium of an application form rather than the personalized and demeaning casework interview. The professional has a clientele, whose dependence on him can offer compensations for the obloquy of his dependence on others: Both in public esteem and in the defensive projection of his regressive impulses onto his clientele, the professional can maintain an illusion of independence despite objective circumstances to the contrary. Within the lowest stratum of Appalachian society, this orchestration and manipulation of shame, exposure, and dependence is at bottom an instrument of control: It is a means of maintaining a structure in which the superiors accumulate economic, political, and psychological capital at the expense of the inferiors, in a society that is nominally egalitarian and open. There are other mechanisms of control appropriate to rationalized societies, that do not figure so prominently in rural Appalachia: The manipulating of welfare benefits to "regulate the poor," as described by Piven and Cloward, is less effective among the rural than the urban poor because the rural poor are less threatening to public order and have greater opportunities for dropping out into rural subsistence. The subtler forms of cooptation, in the promise of future rewards for present cooperation, work mainly among the credulous, the university-educated-they have certainly lost much of

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their credibility among the Appalachian poor. The very legitimacy of bureaucratic authority, one of the main elements of the hidden curricula of secondary schools, is subject to question among those who have been shamed, rejected, and cast out by those schools. Short of physical coercion, the only means for controlling the bottom rung of Appalachia is this manipulation of some of the most archaic and primitive emotions in the human psyche. CONFRONTATION AND TRANSFORMATION

It is not proposed here that dependence, or a "need for dependence," is somehow a modal personality trait of the Appalachian people. Any study of modal personality that is divorced from the social context within which a group exists, or from the context within which the observ.ations were made, is inherently fallacious. What is argued here is that the structure of certain activities in Appalachian Kentucky, particularly activities involving interaction across class lines, reinforce impulses within the lower class that the middle class observes as dependence, regression, apathy, or a sense of futility. This is not the modal personality of the Appalachian lower class: It is the quality of behavior that the middle class elicits from them. Through repeated reward for submissive behavior, infantile and dependent impulses are reinforced, to the detriment of more mature motivations; through repeated shaming and exposure of inadequacy, identities become fragmented and immaturity is maintained. 22 Observing such phenomena, the middle class frequently complains that the Appalachian poor have been "ruined" or "demoralized" by welfare (and by politics, some add), so that now they are too lazy and apathetic to take a job or care for themselves. Lower-class Appalachians are thus found in need of middle-class "caretakers" (in Herbert Gans' terminology) of various professional affiliations. Such caretakers, motivated by a strong sense of inner-direction and perhaps a guilt-stricken conscience, are usually ill-equipped to arrive at any empathetic understanding of how their behavior manipulates the threat of shame or the dependent impulses of the Appalachian rural poor. The inner-directed individual simply does not share the sensitivity of the other-directed person to the cues and pressures of others. There is an obvious potential for tragic misunderstanding, if not horrifying injury, when the guilt-stricken advantaged confront the shame-threatened disadvantaged. Many have written of the sense of honor among the Appalachian people, of their sensitivity to the opinions of others, and of their strong ambivalence over autonomy. Such observations imply a threat of shame lurking in

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the background of such personalities, a formation that some of the most vocal chauvinists readily acknowledge. 23 The inner-directed caretakers and reformers, on the other hand, are impervious if not oblivious to such threats. They are less concerned with what the people around them think, less sensitive to the subtleties of public pressure, and more fixed on some idealized image of social good. Unwittingly, then, in an effort to "help" some disadvantaged person realize that good, they may subject that person to public disgrace and induce feelings of shame for which they have little empathy. As a defense against such shame, the "disadvantaged" person may regress into dependence on the caretaker or reject him altogether. The tragedy here is that these responses can, at times, reinforce the guilt of the reformer; the injury is in the emotional damage done to the person he is trying to "help." Similar damage, in terms of reinforcing dependence and fragmentation, can be done to a polity as well as a personality. Many communities and political and administrative structures, including schools, hospitals, town governments, and service agencies organized by political"big men," are heavily dependent on outside support; this is not very surprising in a depressed region that attempts to consume such services on the same scale as the nation as a whole. The result, though, is that many local officials have become just as habituated to living off of state and federal transfers as have welfare clients. 24 The local expectation, for the most part factual, that these transfers are politicized, leads to an intrusion of political calculation in many areas of life-industrial investment, pedagogy, health care-to a surprising degree. By virtue of their patronage aspects, these transfers tend to support the emergence of political"big men" and machines. A serious deformation of the polity results, to such an extent that one questions its motivation, whether in Alaska, Maine, Yap, or Appalachia, whenever a community continues to live off external resources: Marginal manipulators emerge as local"leaders," and there is an atrophy in the ability to mobilize local resources for local ends. The durability of this dependence, both individual and political, has been the despair of those who would improve Appalachia. The dependence is explained, and a role for the reformer maintained, by the concept of a "culture of poverty" which immobilizes the poor. In this conception the poor have certain traits such as fatalism, present orientation, violent tendencies, or "amoral familism" which prevent them from bettering their position. These attitudes, however, are all defenses elicited by the manner in which the middle class insists on interacting with the poor. The best-known application of culture-of-

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poverty ideas to Appalachia is Weller's Yesterday's People, a book since repudiated in some of its more extreme formulations by its author. A more systematic characterization in the same vein is an article by Richard Ball, "A Poverty Case: the Analgesic Subculture of the Southern Appalachians". 25 Ball reduces the descriptions of Jack Weller and Thomas Ford to the defense mechanisms of regression, fixation, and aggression. He fails to consider what these might actually be defenses against, instead making the presumption that a "culture" might be constituted by a series of defense mechanisms. If we recognize that the threat to be defended against is the threat of shame, and that this threat is provoked primarily by interactions such as those desribed here, then the styles of behavior subsumed under the "culture of poverty" resolve themselves into the strategies that the rural poor subjectively find necessary to protect themselves against the middle class. The experience of being so stigmatized, even by a well-intentioned reformer, is intensely isolating. Yet as a consequence those who have been stigmatized, when they discover and begin to share their common humiliation, find in it a strong bond, a source of brotherhood and sisterhood, ineffable to outsiders. This, as Carl Schneider notes, 26 is the psychological source of solidarity among various movements of racial and ethnic emergence, including Appalachian nationalism. As a rejection of the more extreme forms of dependence and the shameful stereotypes that accompany them, this creation of group pride and identification is an important step in political mobilization: The proliferation of Appalachian festivals (crafts, country music, and country dancing in Cincinnati, Berea, Asheville, and elsewhere), Appalachian folklore (dulcimers, baskets, handweaving), Appalachian Centers (University of Kentucky, University of Tennessee, Appalachian State University, and of course Berea), and Appalachian books (the Foxfire series) and magazines (Mountain Review, Mountain Heritage) can thus be seen as part of the formation of a regional ethnic identity. An understanding of its historical context, however, should warn one against the possibility that Appalachian nationalism could become either a premature form of identity closure or the latest transformation of dependency. It is important to recognize that the early Appalachian community contained strong elements of interdependency, a dependence of mutuality that, for many outsiders, gave the community its warmth and charm. This was a secure anchorage for these individuals into a social world. With the confrontation between this early community and the various agents of the "outside" world, these same dependent impulses that previously had been a source of security, became a

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liability. The mountain people quickly fell into dependent relationships with the colonists, relationships that later became a source of exploitation and oppression. Part of this oppression included the uprooting of individuals and families and the destruction of their social anchorages. The current nationalism that has emerged in response to this oppression and consequent identity destruction is based on symbols of a new identity created by inflating the symbols of the old: Identification is now with a region rather than a locality, and unity is with a people rather than a family. Now the symbols that in another context were stigmatizing-poke bonnets, bib overalls, rustic speech, home gardening-become, in a secondary formation, badges of honor, proudly displayed. This construction of a group identity, whatever its symbolic basis or historical occasion, is one of the first steps in becoming politically effective, in mobilizing a scattering of local groups against external threats to their integrity. To the extent that movements of ethnic emergence overcome the handicaps of emotional dependence on and identification with their oppressors, they are a progressive force. There is a danger, however, that such a nationalism can be based on an artificial closure of identity, a rigid and reflexive distinction between "we" and "they." This can be seen in the way an author in the Mountain Review is identified as "100% Appalachian"; it can be seen in the statements of local educators that "only Appalachians should write about Appalachians." This "authentic" identity is a division of the world into two groups, "Appalachians" and "non-Appalachians," the former being identified by its folk traits of attachment to place and rurality. An example of a nationalistic statement is Billy Best's article, "Stripping Appalachian Soul: the New Left's Ace in the Hole." In this article, Best posits the opposition between guilt-driven missionaries, old and new, and the Appalachian people who are losing their identity because of this "stripping" of the Appalachian "soul." (The metaphor of nakedness is worth noting.) There is something terribly ironic about a college professor, writing from Berea, with his Ph.D. from a New England university, calling in a N.E.H.-supported magazine for the autonomy of the Appalachian Mountain People; or an oral history program, supported by foundation grants, entertaining a middle-class audience with stories of "hog dressing, log cabin building, mountain crafts and foods, planting by the signs ... and other affairs of plain living." This uneasy alliance between elite patronage and local particularity should point up the abiding tension within Appalachian nationalism: To the extent that it fails to take root among and mobilize

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large segments of the community, it stands in danger of creating the newest form of dependency: a museum piece preserved for the entertainment of the elite. To recognize that such Appalachian nationalism exists by virtue of elite patronage, just as the shaming rituals described here exist at the bottom rungs of structures of domination that are national in scope, suggests an answer to the problem of the symbiosis of the middle class and Appalachia. In the definition of Appalachia, ideas of exploitation, a romantic folk, and degraded poverty exist in uneasy conjunction. The second image is dearly a fabrication, and the third offers a poor base for social mobilization; only the first, in the image of the outside rapacious colonizers stripping the hillsides, has real potential for uniting the region. However, most of the economic domination that is found in the region is qualitatively the same that is found all over America, even if the oppressive aspects are more dramatic. In certain specific localities one does find corporate predation in an unusually extreme and undisguised form, and in these localities indigenous activists are in fact struggling against outside colonial forces. However, most of the region coexists, if just as uneasily as any other powerless group, with the industrial interests of America. If we define Appalachia simply in terms of economic exploitation or disprivilege, then there is no such thing as Appalachia, save as a romantic fabrication. If we allow that there can be other sources of value and other bases for exploitation in addition to the economic, and if we recognize the exploitive quality of the rituals described here, then we arrive at a new understanding of Appalachia. Given the structural context of Appalachia I have argued for (a dependent class at the bottom of several hierarchies of dependence) and given the rituals through which that context is maintained, we can see in the middleclass construction of Appalachia an off-loading of psychological debits that accumulate in a rationalized society. For the very features that define the "hillbilly," whether the awkward dress and lack of sophistication, the poverty and subordination and childish innocence, are those behaviors and sentiments in which the middle class finds the threat of shame lurking, just as the defining features of the "folk society"-personalism, spontaneity, intimacy, stability-offer compensations (even if in fantasy) for some of the deforming strategies of the bureaucratic personality with which the middle class avoids the threat of shame (see page 147 above). That the image of degraded poverty and romantic folk should coexist in the middle-class image of Appalachia is comprehensible when we understand this Appalachia as a projective anodyne for middle-class shame. Communities frequently

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externalize their common fears by forming stereotypes such as that of the hillbilly. That the social order of a rationalized society should be built upon the orchestration and manipulation of such fears, is a tragedy; that one people, in externalizing their collective anxieties in myth and ritual, should cripple another, is a horror. NOTES This study is based on fieldwork conducted in eastern Kentucky in the period between 1973 and 1978. I would like to express my appreciation to David Klein, Phillip Obermiller, Thomas Plaut, Katherine 0. See, and Arthur Vener for their comments on previous drafts of the paper. 1. This basic model has been developed by Immanuel Wallerstein, who suggests in The Modern World System that integrated world economies, such as that of the capitalist West, can be divided into core, semi-peripheral, and peripheral states. The former have been developed at the expense of the latter, which thus become dependent on the former. This distinction is associated with several aspects of the states' economies: Core states ·Peripheral states Economic structure Technology Control of labor Wage rates Autonomy Polity Industry structure

Diversified, interdependent Sophisticated Free High Rationalized internally Strong state Monopolistic

Single-industry, export Primitive Serfdom, peonage, slavery Low Rationalized externally Weak state Competitive

Walls suggests that Wallerstein's model is applicable to Appalachia, considering central Appalachia as an internal periphery within an advanced capitalist economy. If we allow for the fact that the coal industry has both a monopolistic and a competitive sector, then this model has considerable appeal. In the two-tier economy of central Appalachia, everyone connected with the monopolistic sector of the coal industry enjoys a privileged position, whereas the remainder of the populace is consigned to various degrees of dependence. Cf. David Walls, "Internal Colony or Internal Periphery? A Critique of Current Models and an Alternative Formulation," in Helen M. Lewis, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins, eds., Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978). 2. Andre Gunder Frank, Lumpenbourgeoisie: Lumpendevelopment (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1972). 3. Allen Batteau "Class and Status in an Egalitarian Community" (unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, University of Chicago, 1978). 4. Thomas Ford, "The Passing of Provincialism," in Thomas Ford, ed., The Southern Appalachian Region: A Survey (Lexington, Ky.: University of Kentucky Press. 1962). 5. Oscar Lewis, La Vida: A Puerto Rican Family in the Culture of Poverty (New York: Random House, 1966). 6. Dwight Billings, "Culture and Poverty in Appalachia: A Theoretical Discussion and Empirical Analysis," Social Forces 53 (1974): 315-23. 7. For a discussion of the manner in which economic development decisions become subjected to political calculation and patronage, cf. David Whisnant, Modernizing the Mountaineer: People, Power, and Planning in Appalachia (New York: Burt Franklin and Co.,

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1980). Cf. also Anita Parlow, Jonathan Sher, and Phil Primack, Appalachian Regional Commission: Boon or Boondoggle? (N. p.: A.R.C. Accountability Project, n.d. ). Briefly, local planning districts, which are dominated by local politicians, must approve all expenditures of federal development funds within any given district. 8. Michael Paul Rogin, Fathers and Children: Andreu• Jackson and the Subjugation of the American Indian. (New York: A.A. Knopf, 1975), p. 208. Cf. also Stanley Elkins, Slavery (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1959), Jules Henry, Culture Against Man, (New York: Vintage, 1965), and Erving Goffman, Asylums (New York: Anchor-Doubleday, 1961). 9. It is important to understand what is referred to here by "shame" and "dependence." In Gerhard Piers' definitive statement, shame is the sense of inadequacy and exposure which results from failing to live up to a personal or cultural ideal; it is an external sanction for failure as contrasted to guilt, which is an internal sanction for transgressing a boundary. Shame and Guilt: A Psychoanalytic and a Cultural Study (Springfield, Ill.: Charles C. Thomas, 1953). In Helen Lynd's On Shame and the Search for Identity (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and World, 1958), the experience of shame is seen as the result of an imperfect identity formation, an incongruity between one's self and one's social surroundings. For Carl Schneider, Shame, Exposure, and Privacy (Boston: Beacon Press, 1977), shame is not simply an emotion, but a unique human capability, protecting the individual against exposure and violation: In the sense of discretion, it is a covering mechanism; in the sense of disgrace, it is a sanction for uncovering that which should be kept private. As understood here, shame is a complex whole, associating experiences of exposure, incongruity, fragmentation and loss of integrity, and feelings of inadequacy. This whole can be invoked by the experience of any of its parts: The experience of incongruity, coming from wearing the wrong clothes in a particular setting, can invoke the associated feelings of exposure and isolation. 10. Cf. Ottavio Mannoni Prospera and Caliban: The Psychology of Colonization, Trans. Pamela Powesland (New York: Frederick A. Praeger, 1964), pp. 39ff. 11. Robert Merton, "Bureaucratic Structure and Personality," in Robert Merton Social Theory and Social Structure, 2d ed. (New York: The Free Press, 1968), pp. 249-60 (originally published in 1940). 12. Claude Levi-Strauss, The Savage Mind (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), pp. 30ff. 13. Cf. Norman Polansky, Roots of Futility (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1972). 14. Ibid., pp. 196f. 15. Concerning "bonds of rejection," d. Richard Sennett Authority (New York: A.A. Knopf, 1980), pp. 27ff. 16. For those unfamiliar with women's fashions, I should mention that Aigner is a French maker of high-quality leather goods. In many small towns in America, Aigner provides the only available accessories combining quality and style. The shoes, purses, belts, and keycases made by Aigner all have a distinctive color and a distinctive antique brass monogram =A=, occasionally used as a buckle of conspicuous proportions. Among women who can afford them, and some who cannot, they are in considerable demand. 17. Michael Harrington The Other America (New York: Macmillan, 1962). 18. "One of the authors of this essay first encountered the process of stratification when he attended grade school in a Southern West Virginia county-seat town .... In the fourth grade, Billings observed that one of the Coal Camp children always turned red and buried her face in her hands whenever the teacher called on her to participate in class. This same child was once stood up before the class and her chapped hands were shown to her schoolmates. The teacher explained that her father could not afford to buy

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her handcream, and, in missionary language, she asked if one of the other children would share her bounty and bring her some cream." DavidS. Walls and Dwight Billings, "The Sociology of Southern Appalachia," Appalachian Journal 5 (1977): 135£. 19. Louis Dumont, "Caste, Racism, and Stratification," in Dumont, Homo Hierarchicus (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1%9). 20. Cf. Carol Stack All Our Kin (New York: Harper and Row, 1974). 21. Sennett, Authority, pp. 27ff. 22. Lynd, On Shame and the Search for Identity. 23. Billy Best, "Stripping Appalachian Soul: The New Left's Ace in the Hole," Mountain Review 4, no. 3 (1979): 14-16. 24. "Yeah, we've got that image," one planner at the Kentucky River Area Development District office told me, when I was discussing my research into the image of Appalachia as a poverty region. "It's not exactly correct, but it's sure got us a lot of money." 25. Richard Ball, "A Poverty Case: The Analgesic Subculture of the Southern Appalachians," American Sociological Review 33 (1969): 885-95. Cf. also Richard Ball, "The Southern Appalachian Folk Subculture as a Tension Reducing Way of Life," in John D. Photiadis and Harry K. Schwarzweller, eds., Change in Rural Appalachia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1970). 26. Schneider, Shame, Exposure and Privacy.

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from media presentations and literature on the subject, central Appalachia is a region of contradictions. It is a region rich in minerals with people in poverty; a rural area with landless people; and metaphorically, a region of darkness at dawn. 1 It should not be surprising, then, if an examination of health care in the central Appalachian region also reveals contradictions. In fact, health manpower shortages, infant mortality rates above the national level, and other indices of poor health2 exist within a region that has hosted some of the most significant attempts at health care reform in this country. Nurse midwives, for example, functioned in and around Hyden, Kentucky through the Frontier Nursing Service. 3 Their work demonstrated the effectiveness of nurse midwives in reducing infant mortality in a most cost-effective manner. Yet, ironically, nurse midwives are still confronted with obstacles to their practice even though the infant mortality rate in the United States is among the highest in advanced industrialized countries. The contradictions of poor health care and new health measures endure because both parts of the contradiction, like the parts of other Appalachian contradictions, are related to forms of political power and political economy in the American system. David S. Walls has suggested this relationship in his analysis of Appalachia as a peripheral region within an advanced capitalist system. 4 Recent community innovations to establish primary health care clinics in Appalachia might also be best understood, then, in terms of the political power and the political economy of the American health care system. Such an interpretation also sheds important light on the relationship of health care to a sense of community and the factors that promote or hinder both of them. The history of earlier health care innovations forms an important context in which to understand these community efforts to develop primary care clinics.

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EARLY REFORMS

Physicians are regarded as the backbone of any health care system, but they are not evenly distributed in American society. The maldistribution of physicians in a physician-dominated system means problems of access to health care for people in areas where physicians are not located. The first efforts to redress physician shortages in the central Appalachian region were made by the coal companies with the advent of company towns. The companies guaranteed physicians equipment and office space, as well as a steady reliable income. They provided the latter by deducting a portion of each worker's paycheck for doctors' services. This deduction provided each worker and his family members access to physician services. Hospital care was available at some additional cost. 5 This prepayment plan succeeded remarkably well in attracting physicians to the coalfield. A survey of medical care in rural areas conducted in the mid-1940s showed West Virginia to have more physicians per capita than any other state with an equivalent rural population. 6 Moreover, physician to patient ratios in rural areas in Kentucky ranged from 1:1,110 to 1:10,000! The lowerratios were found in the coalfields. Another medical survey conducted at the same time, but dealing exclusively with medical care in coal mining areas, found that 96 per cent of all coalmines were within five miles of a doctor's office. This report concluded: "The presence of physicians in direct relationship to coal-mining population is attributable to prepaid medical care ." 7 This report, most often called the Boone Report, was commissioned by the federal government as part of a contract settlement with the United Mine Workers of America (UMWA) in 1946. John L. Lewis, president of the UMWA, hoped to create general awareness of deplorable health conditions in the coalfields through this study. He was successful. The report documented the fact that health care could be inadequate despite the presence of physicians. Coalmining camps, for example, were not receiving their share of public health funds available for sanitation and water systems. This was due, in part, to the sparse population of the area, but also because public health workers were reluctant to spend tax dollars on company-owned towns. In addition, the report continued, the miners, the mineowners, and the physicians in these areas had not demanded the implementation of the programs available to them. But the report's most damaging criticism of the area's health care was related to the political economy of the medical care that was observed. The check-off system contributed to a monopoly of health care by the company-supported doctor. The closed staffs of the hospi-

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tals owned by these same physicians were cited as a "primary barrier" to younger physicians locating and establishing new practices there. The report also maintained that the check-off removed competition among physicians and provided no financial incentives for professional excellence. This led to facilities in the central Appalachian region which were "substandard and noticeably poorer" than other facilities in the same area where the check-off was not prevalent. 8 The "Introduction" to the report indicated just how substandard and poor these facilities were: "Their tolerance is a disgrace to a nation to which the world looks for pattern and guidance." 9 The Boone Report recommended instituting fee-for-service, private practice in place of the prevailing check-off system, but more importantly, the report was used as a means of achieving a much broader attempt at health care change. Armed with the information of this report, Lewis won a royalty on each ton of coal produced in union mines as part of the next contract. This royalty went to pay pensions and retirement benefits for miners and to provide a new financial base for health care innovation. At first the Health Fund reimbursed miners and their family members for expenses related to physician services and hospital care. This practice was halted quickly. It simply made no sense to pump more money into a medical system already demonstrated to be inadequate. Consequently, the Fund instituted quality control measures such as establishing a list of doctors whose services would be paid for and analyzing tissue taken from beneficiaries during operations to determine that the operation was needed. The Fund soon went beyond regulating the existing system and by 1952 it instituted an alternative system of care for its beneficiaries. Large multi-specialty clinics were begun in the tri-state region around Pittsburgh and by 1956 ten new hospitals were constructed in the central Appalachian region. At this time the UMWA Health Fund represented "the most extensive unionsponsored medical services in existence." 10 The Fund soon ebbed from this high water mark. By 1962 all ten hospitals were out of the Fund's hands. The majority were purchased, with federal assistance, by the Board of National Missions of the United Presbyterian Church. Subsequently, a nonprofit corporation, the Appalachian Regional Hospitals, was formed to operate the hospitals. This sale was brought on by fundamental problems. First, the Fund was tied to the coal industry and when production fell, income from royalties did the same. At first eligibility was restricted and then benefits were limited to meet decreased income, but it was not enough. The decline in union membership, no increases in royalties, and

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slumps in the coal industry, compounded later by malfeasance 11 and ineptitude, 12 led to the decline and then the end of the Health Fund in 1977. Second, the Health Fund's demise was attributable to the financial drain of the needs which it uncovered. For example, the Fund undertook a rehabilitation program for disabled miners as its earliest activity. By 1955,97,000 miners had taken part in the program. Many had to be searched out, such was the complete inattention they had received; many others, more than a thousand, were completely bed-ridden. All of them underwent the best available physical rehabilitation at centers around the nation that would never have been available to them otherwise. In addition, the Miners Memorial Hospitals, created by the Health Fund beginning in 1952, sought to provide care to underserved people within the coalmining regions. This service to non-beneficiaries without other means of payment swamped the hospitals financially and contributed to the decision to sell them. Medicare and Medicaid might have helped the hospitals' finances but they were years away. It should be pointed out, however, that, in addition to these sizeable unmet needs and the financial demands they made, other unmet health needs such as black lung, which would have further increased At first the Health Fund reimbursed miners and their family members for expenses related to physician services and hospital care. This extensive attempts of health care reform in Appalachia or America came to an end. 13 But this was not the only health care innovation that organized labor stimulated in the Appalachian region. In fact, when coalminers of the UMWA addressed the black lung issue they exceeded eventually the achievements of any other category of American worker in obtaining programs for compensation and prevention of an occupational illness. This statement must be understood in the context of the abysmal American record of concern for the health of workers and the relatively inadequate state of our knowledge about occupational health. On the other hand, this context makes the achievements of coalminers, and the similar gains of textile workers in the South, all the more extraordinary. 14 Thus, even though compensation remains a problem and policies on coal and cotton dust sometimes go unenforced, workers in the Appalachian region have nevertheless achieved more public recognition for and responsiveness to their problems than workers in other areas and industries of the country. This is all the more remarkable because coalminers achieved these measures despite their union, and textile workers have achieved their success in large measure without union representation. The West

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Virginia Black Lung Association was part of an insurgent movement within the UMWA which conducted a successful two and one-half week strike in West Virginia to gain state legislation on black lung. This legislation in turn served as a model for federal legislation. The insurgent movement became a majority and stimulated reforms in the UMWA including new attitudes on health and safety. The miners' extraordinary success can also be measured by the changes they fostered in standard medical practice. Specifically, the medical convention of diagnosing black lung by X-ray was challenged successfully and at times completely ignored if other tests such as time worked in the mines and respiratory problems were met. Dust control standards were improved at the same time so that the miners made gains in prevention as well as compensation. These gains represent substantial innovation in health care within the region including the most basic innovation, which is recognition of a health problem that had been previously officially denied or ignored. By the late 1960s the black lung movement was under way; a former innovation, the Miners Memorial Hospitals, had long passed from the control of the UMWA Funds; and new innovations were emerging. Beginning in the late 1960s, individual community groups and leaders began efforts to organize new health services in the central Appalachian area. These services provided primary care, that is nonhospital-based care, and were staffed in various ways. Some clinics had several physicians while others had a single nurse practitioner with a physician on-site one or two days a week. They were equipped to take care of the vast majority of ailments and to provide monitoring and evaluation for healthy kids and chronically ill persons of all ages. More serious illnesses requiring hospital care or a specialist's attention were referred or taken care of depending in part on whether or not the physician provided care in local hospitals. Additional services such as dental care, transportation and health education were available at some of the clinics. One set of these new health service efforts was associated with the Appalachian Student Health Coalition based at Vanderbilt University. The efforts associated with this project do not encompass every community's experience, obviously, but they are representative of the promise and problems of some of them. In 1977, we conducted a survey of forty-five communities, most of them in central Appalachia, where the coalition had worked. Our survey results were admirably summarized by Charlotte Nichols of Dungannon, Virginia. Speaking in reference to efforts to initiate the local clinic, she said, "We've had some of the best times that ever was and some of the hardest times."

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COMMUNITY HEALTH EFFORTS: THE BEST TIMES

Efforts to establish health care in these communities were the best of times because they represented successful expression of community pride. It is very important to put these efforts in the context of community. There are two aspects of this context. The first is the destruction of community. Frederick D. Mott and Milton I. Roemer found in their survey that rural health problems were only one example that "In a very real sense much of rural America has become a casualty of the industrial revolution." 15 Our own survey corroborates this judgment. The mechanization of the coalmines in the late 1940s exacerbated already poor social and economic conditions. Beginning in the mid-1950s, strip-mining damaged the physical environment of communities in the region. Numerous institutions reached a nadir of decline at the same time. There were many elderly physicians who, if they practiced at all, were practicing on a reduced scale, and younger physicians, who were trained in specialities and hospital-based care, were choosing to locate in urban areas with larger populations rather than to replace their older, rural counterparts. Likewise, many communities were set back further when local schools were shut down in order to create consolidated systems. In short, when the Student Health Coalition began in 1969, a general decline in rural areas, recently documented by a presidential study, 16 was far advanced. Communities like Clairfield, Tennessee had a population of 1,400 people at this time, one-tenth of the population they had thirty years previously. Likewise, when we asked to whom we might speak at New River, Tennessee about past coalition work, Byrd Duncan of Briceville, Tennessee gave us an indication of the literal destruction of community in Appalachia. They tore New River up since then. Lord, yes. They tore all the buildings down. A couple of big coal companies used to be out there. I wouldn't know hardly who to tell you to talk to now. They don't do anything there anymore.

The other aspect of this community context of clinic development was the reassertion of community in the face of this decline. Former organizing efforts often formed the backdrop for the community organizing around health issues. Many community leaders in clinic development had participated in previous efforts of organized change. In White Oak, Tennessee, for example, the original health council was led by three retired coalminers, two of whom were members of the United Mine Workers. As one of them remarked, "If you ever belonged to a union, you know that people have to stick together. That's the only

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way to get things done." In Mud Creek, in Floyd County, Kentucky, the effort to establish a community clinic was rooted in earlier protest of the OEO-sponsored Floyd County Comprehensive Health Services Program. This program basically subsidized the fee-for-service, private practice physicians of the county and provided no direct health care to low-income people. The Eastern Kentucky Welfare Rights Organization, which protested this program, had previously protested the school lunch program and the policies of the Appalachian Regional Hospital, formerly a Miners Memorial Hospital, in McDowell Kentucky. 17 Eula Hall, recipient of the presidential citation from the American Public Health Association for her efforts in Mud Creek, explained the motives for her work. "You just get tired of being pushed around." Time after time people we interviewed expressed pride in their struggle to achieve what they had. Many felt they were regarded as the "chronic grumblers and complainers" by the officials in the county seat who, they also felt, too often neglected their needs. A sense of injustice accompanied these feelings. One community resident told us his community was treated as "an outcast of the federal government, the state and the county." But overarching these feelings was the sense of pride in making an effort to change this situation for the better. In addition to previous organizing efforts, the people we interviewed had a history of advocacy for individuals with problems in the community. They were the people to whom others went when a son was in jail, or a person was ill, or a social security check had not arrived on time. They were the people to whom other people looked to improve the physical condition of a school, to repair a road, or to gain a new water system. These experiences exemplified some of the cooperation and individual leadership required to develop a clinic. Cake sales, donations, suppers, volunteer labor, raffles, dances, athletic events, and gospel sings were only a few of the means used to raise money and otherwise contribute to the clinic's development. Not surprisingly, the more a community made use of its own resources, the greater was its pride in its accomplishments. By the very act of offering leadership, the community leaders we interviewed are in some ways atypical. They are representative of a community in the making rather than the community of need. Although they share underservice in common with others, they have a unique blend of pride, vision, will-power, and community spirit to become involved in working for change. There are other characteristics that facilitate their work. Most often they are part of a network, an

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extended family, or service club, which assists in communication and in fostering cooperation. Financial security is another characteristic; not only are leaders' earnings generally above the per capita income level, but their incomes come from sources that are secure from the retribution of people with whom they may come in conflict. Examples of this are union jobs and pensions. Every leader we interviewed also owned his own home. Space was another important aspect of the community context of clinic development and was frequently a problem. In Appalachia where flat land is scarce, much land, and in some counties most land, is owned by outside corporations. 18 Typically, attempts by people in Clairfield in 1970 to gain a few of the acres that the American Association, a London-based corporation, owned there were in vain. In some instances, buildings no longer used for services-a post office, a school, or even a former doctor's office-were bought, renovated, and used. The recycling of these buildings was a reminder that these efforts were building where other institutions and services had declined. The significance of a community acquiring land or a building cannot be overstated. Most of these communities are unincorporated areas, and health councils are often the only forum available for the discussion of community issues and needs. A clinic or clinic building is often the only space available to all members of a community to come to meet and discuss community issues. Community pride goes hand in hand with community space. The emergence of a common property was an obvious spark in the development of health services. As a building's foundation was poured and its frame erected, the majority of community residents became believers in the efficacy of community efforts. People in Dungannon recalled an event that conveyed the significance of clinic development and the reassertion of community pride. A guy who hadn't been here since we had a supper came by. We just had the roof on, we didn't have it partitioned off or anything. He said: "This is one of the best things that has happened in the community."

Clinic buildings are showplaces for community pride. People we interviewed recalled in great detail the individual donors of materials and skills, the amounts of contributed time, and the costs which were cut by volunteer labor. People in Ewing, Virginia sought to construct an energy-efficient community center. The building is assessed at $175,000, but only $76,000 was put into it. Their opinion was: "It's fantastic! There is not another building around like it." The establishment of a clinic and its maintenance not only required

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individual and community effort, it sometimes necessitated the cooperation of several communities. In some cases communities joined together to create a sufficient population base to warrant the services of one or several physicians. Residents of Dungannon, Virginia, for example, cooperated with residents of neighboring Fort Blackmore to establish the Clinch River Health Services. The clinic now serves both communities and is the first instance of cooperation between these two communities. Another form of cooperation was the reorganization of individual clinics into federations of several clinics. The United Health Services and the Mountain Peoples Health Councils, both in Tennessee, were examples of such federations. These organizations allowed individual clinics to share administrative costs and to recruit full-time physicians to rotate among the clinics staffed with a full-time nurse practitioner. It is important to underscore the fact that they represented cooperation among different communities with few previous ties. The establishment of community health services was not without its problems. First, there was a problem of opposition from medical professionals who feared "socialized medicine" or from political leaders who feared that a doctor would get angry and leave or that community efforts to establish health services represented a base of political power for an opponent. In some cases this explicit opposition prevented community groups from gaining funding from public programs or from recruiting physicians. Dr. Fitzhugh Mullan, one of the National Health Service Corps' first volunteers and later director of the corps was interested in practicing in Mud Creek in Floyd County, Kentucky in 1972. He was not able to do this because the local medical society disapproved the application of the Mud Creek residents for a National Health Service Corps physician. Subsequent changes in policy give local medical associations far less power in determining the health needs of an area. For every case of explicit opposition our interviews uncovered a case of extensive cooperation. In most cases, health professionals and local politicians neither assisted nor hindered the efforts of community groups. We should point out that we are detailing only the instances where community people overcame the opposition or indifference of officials and health care professionals. There are doubtless instances where this opposition or indifference successfully undermined a community group's hopes for improved services. This simply underscores the importance of community groups which were successful when they undertook organized action for services they thought would benefit the community. They were asserting a future for their community different from its present.

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COMMUNITY HEALTH EFFORTS: THE HARDEST TIMES

Overcoming political and medical opposition, acquiring land and building, renovating, or finding a home for clinic services are among the tasks community people have accomplished well. These accomplishments most often represent the high watermark of community involvement and satisfaction with the new health services. Beyond these efforts are processes with which community people are far less familiar and over which they have far less control. As important as it is to understand the establishment of health services as part of a decline and rejuvenation of particular communities in rural areas, it is equally important to understand the relationship of the American medical system to these efforts. Previous health efforts in the mountains were necessitated by the inability of the American medical system to respond to the health care needs of the region. As recently as 1975, Karen Davis and Ray Marshall again analyzed the training of health providers, finances of health care delivery, and other characteristics of American medical practice and determined that they "cause the system in the main not to address itself to the needs of the rural people as effectively as it might." 19 The most recent efforts of community groups to initiate health services are striking reminders of health underservice and the neglect and inability of the health care system vis-a-vis these communities. The clinics' origins thus represent a critique of the American medical system. Moreover, their subsequent experience highlights the political economy of this system and the authority of professionals within it and how these factors undermine the effectiveness of people willing to take responsibility for their own health care services. The political economy of American medical care jeopardizes the financial basis of the clinics as it undermined the UMWA Health Fund. Mott and Roemer clearly traced the relationship of declining health services and health status to low incomes. 20 Simply put, in areas with large numbers of low-income people there are many who cannot afford to pay for medical services. If a clinic is to provide services to people who cannot afford to pay, it must do so at no cost or reduced cost, just as the Miners Memorial Hospitals did. This means the clinic will not generate revenues sufficient to meet its cost. The search for financial self-sufficiency, the goal of many of the people we interviewed, springs from the same feeling of self-reliance that prompted community effort in the first place. But in running a rural medical service, financial self-sufficiency runs counter to the efforts to provide access to all regardless of the ability to pay. One council member in White Oak summed up this dilemma of meeting costs and providing access.

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Let's say the way it works here, through this area, if we come up with fifty percent of what we spend, we'd be doing good. That's the way I feel about it. That is, if you're going to doctor the people they require you to doctor. That's the people I'm interested in first, you know, the people who can't pay. You see the thing is they tell you that you've got to make dollar for dollar and then they turn right around and they tell you you've got to doctor people that can't pay; maybe half that many. Well, all right. It's like putting legs on a table and cutting one of them off. You know if you saw it off, it's going to fall over. Well, how're you going to doctor the people that can't pay and pay?

The coal companies successfully dealt with part of this problem by requiring workers to pay to make services available regardless of whether they used them or not. This did not of course provide access to all regardless of the ability to pay, but it achieved financial selfsufficiency with access for some. This solution is not now available to community groups for several reasons. First, if the clinic is to be a community center, it cannot be available only to those able to pay or those unable to pay; such availability would be divisive rather than uniting. Universal access is also important for the most efficient use of personnel and facilities in small communities. 21 Moreover, the economics of rural primary health care are more difficult today because of vastly increased costs. At the time of the Boone Report the average monthly check-off for a miner with dependents was two dollars a month. This did not include hospitalization. In addition, there is no real economy of scale in health care today. The standards for quality care involve equipment and personnel that drive the price of care up. While these standards certainly reflect measures to protect the public, they are also the product of competing groups of providers with vested interests. Standards of quality are political phenomena, as Murray Edelman has argued, designed to gain public quiescence in the face of gains by private interest groups or in the face of efforts to curb their worst abuses. 22 All these community efforts to provide a "floor" or minimum of health services are measured against a "ceiling" or a level of health services established by providers ordinarily in urban settings with little accountability to patients for those standards or costs. This simply aggravates the inadequate financial basis that exists to pay for health services on an individual by individual basis in a low-income area. Medicaid, for example, is tied to the welfare system of each individual state. This generally results in the states with the greatest number of poor people, proportionately, exercising the most stringent criteria for eligibility. Tennessee, for example, used approximately 36 percent of the federal poverty level for the Medicaid level in 1979

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despite the fact that 150 percent of the federal poverty level is considered medical indigency. The consequences of this became clearer by examining the revenue base of some of the clinics. We took a random sample of patients from four rural primary care clinics in East Tennessee and we determined the form of payment each patient used for services within the clinic. The results are given in Table l. Table 1 Patients According to Source of Payment

Total

Medicaid

Other Public Programs

Private Insurance

Private Payment

1,043

181

58

231

573

More than half of our sample, 573, had no insurance or form of public payment. Of this number 423 had family incomes below the poverty level. Table 2 shows that private payment patients with family incomes below the federal poverty guidelines made up 40 percent of the sample we took. Sixty percent of this category or approximately 25 percent of our entire sample are children without insurance or Medicaid and in families with incomes below the federal poverty lines. Table 2 illustrates how the clinics seek to combine the provision of access with their own financial requirements by discounting services to this group of patients. Table2 Uninsured Individuals according to Federal Poverty Income Levels and Degree of Clinic Subsidy for Care

Subsidy(%)

0-25

26-50

51-75

76-100

Total

Income above Poverty Level Income below Poverty Level

137 16

13 250

-0157

-0-0-

150 423

There are several important points about Table 2. The first is obvious: The rates of discount, which are determined by the boards of the clinics, seem in keeping with the principle that those with more income should pay more for services. The second point is not obvious at all. One clinic in our survey did not provide discounts above 50 percent. Of the 121 people from this clinic in this subsample, 120 are in the second category. This means that without this clinic's restriction there would have been a more normal distribution among the four categories with more people in the 51-75 percent category, and perhaps in the 76-100

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percent category as well. The factors that prompted this restriction on the percentage of subsidy within the clinic are important to single out. Basically, this council, as did others, began with a sliding fee scale and rates it felt the patients could pay. The council soon discovered that, despite adequate utilization rates, expenses were not being covered. To meet expenses, rates were increased and discounts reduced, as had happened with the UMWA Fund. There is of course the danger that prices could go high enough to prevent people from using the clinic. The council is thus faced with the dilemma of preserving access to the services they started while raising sufficient income from people with low incomes and few other sources of payment. This dilemma cannot be overstated. In fact, a household survey by the Tennessee Public Health Department in 1973-74 found the single greatest reason why people did not go to a doctor, although ill, was a lack of money. The number of visits desired but not realized declined as income increased. Likewise, 38.6 percent of those interviewed who had annual family incomes of $5,000 or less reported no physician visits in the previous year. This rate was double that of those with annual incomes above $5,000. 23 The survey data underscore the cash barrier to health care services which may exist even when those services are close by. The data are unique to Tennessee; in other Appalachian states where the UMWA and other unions are prevalent and where medical insurance is an ordinary fringe benefit of a job, much higher revenues are achieved. 24 It should be mentioned, however, that even in these areas, when the UMWA Health Fund was terminated in 1977 and standard private health insurance replaced it, the clinics were forced to narrow the range of services which the Fund's retainer system had allowed them to conduct to more selective medical services that could be reimbursed on a stricter fee-for-service basis. This represented a change from an emphasis on the cost of services that clinic patients required to an emphasis on reimbursing the services that medical professionals provided. In addition to the problems of clinics related to the political economy of American medicine, there are frequently problems related to the conflicting roles of the community board within a clinic and the clinic's health providers. The community clinics are new political forms as well as new health care forms. They are a setting in which the clear demarcations of medical and community authority are blurred. This ambiguity of roles is likely to lead to conflict when a clinic's board and health providers have explicitly different views of the clinic which they assert simultaneously. When council members express concern with the waiting time of patients or the attitudes of the provider, they may

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be charged with intervening in the professional role. On the other hand, providers may lament the standards of care which board members prefer such as placebos, penicillin for colds, or heavy reliance on medication. But there are more substantial conflicts inherent in the ambiguity of roles and responsibilities. Community mores may be violated by the provision of birth control advice and devices for young, unmarried women. In fact, whether such information and devices are even medical issues might be contested. Similarly, the board and the providers of a clinic might exchange charges of blame and responsibility in the event the clinic is underutilized or incurs financial problems. An effective clinic administrator can mediate some of the conflicts in roles and over issues in the clinics, and he or she is important in the political mix of a clinic. In fact, AI Ulmer's study of poor people's cooperatives in the South emphasizes the importance of acquiring management skills for efforts like the clinics as well as several other analogies between the cooperative efforts and the clinics. 25 Controversy can also be avoided when one group or the other simply accepts the primacy of the other's role and limits its activity. Thus, a community board may acquiesce to a provider and even permit the community facility to be converted to a private practice. Or a provider may be satisfied to serve out a period of obligatory service under a community board's direction. It is precisely when a board and a provider exercise their authority and perspective simultaneously that the conflicts may become most severe. In this sense, America can look to Appalachia for "pattern and guidance," because the conflicts we have recently witnessed are precursors of the conflicts yet to come in American health care. We have been emphasizing community-controlled clinics where the board members are outside the structures of political authority and often bring a history of contention with those structures to their efforts in clinic development. They are representative of a community in the making, and serious conflicts between them and the professionals are the most common. It would be remiss, however, not at leastto mention that there have been conflicts between professionals and community board members who are within structures of political authority or who resist the exercise of basic legitimate professional responsibilities. One such example is in Unicoi County, Tennessee where a husband-wife physician team addressed problems of the use of pesticides and severe dermatological reactions among migrant workers and the problems associated with risks from low-level radiation from a uranium plant in the county. The actions of these physicians incurred the wrath of board members and local officials and contributed to the team's leaving. Again, conflict in this case ensued because each side took a strong

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position. This should serve as sufficient warning that we are not speaking of monoliths, absolute right and wrong, or good community councils versus bad professionals. Nor is conflict inevitable. There are innumerable instances where councils and professionals work well together and illustrate mutual respect and cooperation within health innovations. Nevertheless, the challenges to community control of clinics whose leaders are outside existing political structures and who represent a community in the making best illustrate the conflicts yet to come as greater social control over the means of the production and distribution of health care is sought. Perhaps the most lamentable aspect of these conflicts is that a challenge to the authority and competence of the board becomes a challenge to the community nature of the clinic. If there is a divisive conflict going on, professionals will question why their supporters are not on the board or propose changes in the board's structure and functions to permit a satisfactory resolution to the conflict for them. Often they will successfully enlist the support of funding agencies in their efforts. Ultimately, the authority of the board is challenged by questioning the premise that the board members worked to organize the clinic for the benefit of the community. Altruism, it is often alleged, is a thinly veiled disguise for autocracy. The challenge to a community group's motives and authority is equalled by the challenge to its competence. Pejorative interpretations of board members' ability or their lack of formal education or wealth are often cited as evidence of their incompetence. Pejorative stereotypes of Appalachian residents are invoked. This aspect of the controversy is by far the most divisive and ironically converts the clinic, a community achievement, into a battleground over the meaning and importance of the community's values. 26 J. W. Bradley, reflecting on a bitter battle in Petros, lamented, "Our dream has become a nightmare." While it may not be surprising to learn that in such conflicts the boards have most often chosen to sacrifice medical care rather than their integrity, it is surprising that events should foster such a choice. Most critiques of American health care do not explain this, although Freidson' s explanation of professional dominance and Illich' s portrayal of the "medical nemesis" offer important contextual understanding. 27 But at rock bottom, struggles between boards and providers in rural Appalachian clinics, such as we are discussing, are struggles over who should produce and distribute health care in America. They indicate the power of providers even in areas where the ordinary practices of a professionally dominated system are clearly inadequate. What we find time and again in these conflicts is official intervention to keep the

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control of health care and the distribution of services in the hands of the providers. This has taken explicit form in the controversy within the United Health Services. In that case the funding agencies, including the Appalachian Regional Commission, which did much to stimulate the development of clinics, required a reorganization of boards critical of the physician. When reorganization did not occur, funding and physician services were withdrawn and were not reinstated until new forms of community control-with fewer representatives of the community in the making-were established. This is not to suggest a conspiracy theory. But it is to underscore that the control of physicians over the means of producing and distributing health care limits the efforts of others to innovate, and that public programs are premised on control by physicians. This is true, in more subtle fashions, even when a community board's position is upheld in a controversy. In Petros, for example, the National Health Service Corps sided with the board in its dispute with the doctor. However, no one had authority to prevent that doctor from moving from Petros to Coalfield, which is six miles away, or from attempting to take the Petros clinic's patients with him while they were without a physician. In other words, what these conflicts make clear is that, at present, health manpower shortages and rural health needs are to be met within the private control of health care by physicians and the voluntary choices physicians make as to where to locate and how to practice. If a community group seeks a genuine alternative to this, it is unavailable. If that same group should assert its authority over the behavior of a physician or his or her continuation in the clinic, it discovers that claims of community control are no match for the realities of practices and policies premised on the private control of health care services and their distribution. Too often when a community group persists in asserting its authority, its only choice in a controversy may be to close the doors of the building it built and end the services or at best temporarily interrupt them. This of course is a forceful and articulate protest but it underscores the lack of community control over health services. Thus, a movement for change in health services is reduced to a protest movement, and ordinary community people acting for the general good become "ignorant hillbillies," too uneducated to play a role in health services or to see after the best interests of the clinic they initiated. PATIERN AND GUIDANCE

Thirty-five years after the Boone Report, it is the United States which needs "pattern and guidance" to deal with the rural health needs of the

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Appalachian region. Some observations are obvious after our discussion. Control over wealth is important to the nature of the innovation. The control of coal companies over miners' wages led to increased numbers of physicians and paradoxically, a national disgrace of poor quality medical care. The control of the UMWA Health Fund over royalties but not tonnage led to unparalleled but short-lived intervention in health care. The control of community groups over limited local resources produces modest success in health care characterized by great civic pride. What is also apparent, especially in the efforts of the UMWA Fund and the community clinics, is that the health needs of the area far exceed our use of resources to meet them. A recent study of landowning and taxation in the region explains how the local tax base is not used to support local services. 28 Individuals have been left with inadequate resources to pay for services even when available, and financial requirements and standards of care limit clinic board members from making health care available at lower cost. Health care is another instance of a need within the region related to a set of institutions and practices established outside of the region and without its needs in mind. Nothing makes this dearer than Stanley S. Wallack's conclusion that economic self-sufficiency for rural primary care centers ordinarily requires a considerable amount of hospital care by the clinics' physicians. 29 Additionally, the Appalachian health experience embodies the Inverse Care Law. The law was devised by Julian Tudor Hart, a physician in Wales, and was based on his comparison of health facilities and standards in Wales with those of England. The law states: "the availability of good medical care tends to vary inversely with the need of the population served." 30 This law implies the necessity of public intervention in the "market," which we have been reluctant to accept. Health analysts are in general agreement on this necessity, although they differ on how much intervention is enough. 31 The Appalachian experience suggests that the intervention needed is complex and extensive. The coal companies' check-off mechanisms demonstrated that financing alone could provide access to physicians, but this access brought no guarantee of the quality of care. The UMWA Fund with its resources and alternative services was not enough. The services of health care providers within the National Health Service Corps will not be enough, and recent changes in that program (to emphasize scholarship aid for medical students rather than the redistribution of physicians and support of volunteers) only lessen its impact on Appalachia. It will be enough when the health of Appalachians and all Americans is declared a public responsibility to be met with public means. This will require that the inequities between sectors of American society and

INNOVATION IN HEALTH CARE

185

regions be redressed by a redistribution of the wealth and resources accumulated in such great disproportions. Recent Appalachian experience makes it clear that there are numerous groups ready to use resources effectively to promote health and a sense of community and thus to reverse past and present disparities. Evaluations of community-sponsored primary care clinics, such as the ones we are discussing, indicate that nurse practitioners and other such primary care providers are an important innovation. They can provide primary care comparable to that provided by physicians, elicit as much if not more acceptance and approval from patients as can physicians, and come closest to providing cost-effective care in clinics with 4,000 visits or less annually. These same evaluations indicate that problems remain, such as the underutilization of some clinics. 32 But then again, the underutilization has some systemic characteristics. This is, the difficulty of recruiting providers to rural areas, the challenges to the legal status of nurse practitioners by other providers, and the changing public programs of grant support for operations all contribute to an appearance of instability which deters some from ending relations with present providers and trusting their care, and its continuity, to a community clinic. In addition, inadequate reimbursement programs and conflicts within the clinic can deter increased utilization. There is one final observation to be made. The clinics we surveyed represented a balance between community and health care. We have emphasized the factors which undermine them as health facilities, and this of course is a setback to the community effort entailed in the clinic. But it is important to elaborate on the community aspect of these clinics. The clinics are the expression of community, that is the institutionalization of relationships and services on a scale small enough to be understood and controlled by a set of people who acknowledge ties stemming from common space or common needs. The clinics result in a meeting place, a public space, and a forum for discussion and decision-making regarding programs for the community. The community boards of these clinics are public initiatives to redress the maldistribution of medical personnel and services. They are also efforts to assert, in some small fashion, a future for their communities distinct from years of decline, exploitation, and neglect. These boards are an expression of health; not merely freedom from illness but the search for control over factors that promote well-being. They are the expression of people in the active roles of neighbor and citizen. They are one part of the penumbra of the eclipse of community: "a meeting ground for people within a community which the depersonalizing forces of mass society can diminish but never destroy." 33 They are all of this here and there throughout the mountains. They

186

RICHARD A. COUTO

~

could be all of this in many more places, if community was seen as an! important form of health. It is not. Community is not inimical to medical care; it is inimical to the prevalent forms of control within medicine. It is also inimical to the forms of control which medicine mirrors. The health underservice of Appalachians, like the strip-mined mountains and the clogged, acidic creeks, is a negative externality of a larger system. While these externalities may be unintended consequences of the larger system of which they are part, their tolerance and continuation can only be explained by the power of those who benefit from them to prevent attempts to eliminate them. 34 The health of Appalachians, then, is another of the area's resources exploited or developed for the benefit of others and by the institutions whose control is far removed from the region. The experience with health innovations in Appalachia suggests to America that the pursuit of community and health are related and that both entail additional control over resources and services by those who need them. These innovations are indicative of paths to better health care and the reassertion of community in American life as well as the obstacles in those paths. They also indicate that the contradictions which may be observed in Appalachia are related to the forms of political authority and political economy of the system of which they are part. NOTES 1. Harry Caudill has portrayed these contrasts in Night Comes to the Cumberlands (Boston: Little, Brown, 1962) and A Darkness at Dawn (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1976). A more analytical approach to these contrasts can be found in Helen Matthews Lewis, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins, ed., Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978). Stephen L. Fisher has edited a work dealing with land ownership and Appalachian issues, A Landless People in a Rural Region: Reader on Land Ownership in Appalachia (New Market, Tenn.: Highlander Research and Education Center, 1979). 2. The starkest portrayal of need, generally, can be found in statements to funding sources. Thus we find the following in a report of the Appalachian Regional Commission to Congress: "people suffer and die most from diseases and conditions that have not been prevalent elsewhere since the first part of the twentieth century. In 1975 ... influenza, pneumonia and 'ill defined' conditions were among the leading causes of death in more than half the counties in Central Appalachia Virginia and West Virginia. None of these diseases have been among the ten leading causes of death for the U.S. in the paot fifty years." Medical lndigency in Central Appalachia (Appalachian Regional Commission Staff Report to the Senate Appropriations Committee, 1978). 3. For a discussion of the Frontier Nursing Service, see my review of Mary Breckenridge's autobiography, "Wide Neighborhoods: A Story of the Frontier Nursing Service," Appalachian ]ournal9, no. 4 (Summer 1982): 320-22. 4. David S. Walls, "Internal Colony or Internal Periphery? A Critique of Current

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Models and an Alternative Formulation," in Lewis et al., Colonialism in Modern America, PP· 319-49. 5. For background on this, see Coal Mines Administration, U.S. Department of the Interior, A Medical Survey of the Bituminous Coal Industry (Washington: Government Printing Office, 1947), pp. 118ff. Caudill offers some background information on this medical history in the mountains in Night Comes to the Cumberland, pp. 293-96. He offers more insight into this same history in his fictional account The Senator from Slaughter County (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1973). 6. Frederick D. Mott and Milton I. Roemer, Rural Health and Medical Care (New York: McGraw-Hill Book Co., 1948), pp. 159-60. 7. A Medical Survey of the Bituminous Coal Industry, p. 190. 8. Ibid., p. 133. 9. Ibid., p. vii. 10. Raymond Munts, Bargaining for Health: Labor Unions, Health Insurance and Medical Care (Madison, Wise.: University of Wisconsin Press, 1967), p. 46. For general background see Barbara Berney, "The Rise and Fall of the UMW Fund", Southern Exposure 6, no. 2 (Summer 1978): 96-102. 11. Bill Peterson, Coaltown Revisited: An Appalachian Notebook (Chicago: Henry Regnery Co., 1972), pp. 78-93. 12. Susan Jaworski Rhodenbaugh, "Death By Computer and Contract: The UMWA Health and Retirement Funds", Crossroads 1, no. 1 Ouly-August 1978): 22-26. 13. Berney, "The Rise and Fall of the UMW Fund"; also Matt Witt "Lessons from the Fund: Band-Aids Don't Cure," Southern Exposure 6, no. 2 (Summer, 1978): 103-4. 14. See K.W. Lee, "Catalyst of the Black Lung Movement," in DavidS. Walls and John B. Stephenson, eds., Appalachia in the Sixties: Decade of Reawakening (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1972), pp. 201-9; Mimi Conway, "Cotton Dust Kills, and It's Killing Me," Southern Exposure, 6 no. 2 (1978): 29-39; Barbara Ellen Smith, "Black Lung: The Social Production of Disease," International Journal of Health Services 11 no. 3 (1981): 343-59; and Daniel M. Fox and Judith F. Stone, "Black Lung: Miners' Militancy and Medical Uncertainty, 1968-1972," Bulletin of the History of Medicine 54 no. 1 (Spring 1980): 43-63. 15. Mott and Roemer, Rural Health and Medical Care, p. 3. 16. Social and Economic Trends in Rural America: The White House Rural Development Background Paper (Washington: the White House, 1979). 17. For background on Mud Creek health efforts see Richard A. Couto, Poverty, Politics and Health Care (New York: Praeger Publishers, 1975). 18. Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force, Land Ownership Patterns and Their Impacts on Appalachian Communities, (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian State University, Center for Appalachian Studies, 1981). 19. Karen Davis and Ray Marshall, "New Developments in the Market for Rural Health Care," Joint Session of the Health Economic Research Organization and the American Economic Association (December 1975), p. 22. 20. Mott and Roemer, Rural Health and Medical Care, pp. 15-30, 307-25. They conclude on p. 307: "At the very heart of all the inadequacies in rural health resources and the services received by rural people is the smaller purchasing power for medical services care in rural areas." 21. For data on utilization and finances of a sample of clinics see C. Swearingen, R. Schwartz, and A. James Lee, Study to Evaluate and Compare Four Organizational Approaches to the Delivery of Primary Care in the Appalachian Region (Washington: Appalachian Regional Commission, 1980).

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·~

22. Murray Edelman, The Symbolic Uses of Politics (Urbana, Ill.: University of IllinQii Press, 1967). Jeffrey L. Berlant offers an analysis applicable to Edelman's ideas withift medicine, Profession and Monopoly: A Study of Medicine in the United States and Great Britain (Berkeley, Calif.: University of California Press, 1975). 23. Tennessee Department of Public Health, Physician Visits in Tennessee, 197,3.4 (Nashville, Tenn.: 1978). 24. See Swearingen et al., Study to Evaluate and Compare Four Organizational Approaches to the Delivery of Primary Care in the Appalachian Region. 25. AI Ulmer, Cooperatives and Poor People in the South (Atlanta: Southern Regional Council, 1969). 26. The use of these stereotypes and indeed the whole challenge to the competence and authority of community residents reminds us that Appalachians have had their identity fashioned by outside forces and that their identity-making is often related to achieving specific policies or political outcomes. This is clearly related to the nondecisionmaking mechanism of the mobilization of bias and has been examined recently by Henry Shapiro, Appalachia on Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920 (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1978); Charles L. Perdue and Nancy J. Martin-Perdue, "Appalachian Fables and Facts: A Case Study of the Shenandoah National Park Removals," Appalachian ]ourna/7, no. 1-2 (Autumn-Winter 1979-80): 84-104; David E. Whisnant, Modernizing the Mountaineer: People, Power and Planning in Appalachia (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1981); Gordon B. McKinney, "The Political Uses of Appalachian Identity After the Civil War", Appalachian ]ournal7, no. 3 (Spring 1980): 200-209; John Gaventa, Power and Powerlessness: Quiescence and Rebellion in an Appalachian Valley (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1980). 27. Eliot Freidson, Professional Dominance: The Social Structure of Medical Care (Chicago: Aldine Publishing Co., 1970); Ivan lllich, Medical Nemesis: The Expropriation of Health (New York: Bantam Books, 1977). 28. l.imd Ownership Patterns and their Impacts on Appalachian Communities. 29. Stanley S. Wallack and Sandra E. Kretz, Rural Medicine: Obstacles and Solutions for Self-sufficiency (Lexington, Mass.: Lexington Books, 1981). 30. Julian Tudor Hart, "The Inverse Care Law," The Lancet February 27, 1971, pp. 405-12. 31. The following offer critiques of the economic and political organization of American medicine. Theodore R. Marmor et al., "Politics, Public Policy and Medical Inflation," in Michael Zubkoff, ed., Health: A Victim or Cause of Inflation?" (New York: Prodist, 1976); Davis and Marshall, "New Developments in the Market for Rural Health Care"; Robert R. Alford, Health Care Politics: Ideological and Interest Group Barriers to Reform, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975); Vincente Navarro, Medicine Under Capitalism (New York: Prodist, 1978). 32. Swearingen et al., Study to Evaluate and Compare Four Organizational Approaches to the Delivery of Primary Care in the Appalachian Region; James M. Perrin, David W. Dunlop, Carolyn K. Burr, and Susan L. McCammon, A Study of Quality of Health Care Delivery in East Tennessee Primary Care Clinics Supported by the Appalachian Regional Commission (Washington: Appalachian Regional Commission, 1980). 33. Maurice R. Stein, The Eclipse of Community: An Interpretation of American Studies, expanded ed. (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1960), p. 303. 34. For a discussion of negative externalities dealing with ecology directly applicable to strip-mining and indirectly applicable to health care see Barry Commoner, The Closing Circle: Nature, Man and Technology (New York: Bantom Books, 1971).

HEALTH CARE:

THE CITY VERSUS THE

MIGRANT

JOHN FRIEDL

THE Appalachian region has suffered from heavy emigration almost continually during the last half century, drawing young people away from the mountain communities and augmenting the economic stagnation resulting from the decline of the coal and timber industries and the growing insufficiency of the family farm in an era of commercialized agriculture. Those natives who left the predominantly rural areas of the region for the large industrial urban centers that encircle the Appalachian mountains have invariably encountered a broad spectrum of problems in adjusting to the urban world and the new lifestyle it imposes. The research reported upon in this chapter focuses on one aspect of this adjustment process, the problems faced by Appalachian migrants in obtaining health care services and using them effectively and efficiently. It will be clear from the outset, however, that health care, and personal and group health status as well, are inextricably bound together with the entire social and cultural context in which the Appalachians live, both in their rural place of origin and in the city. Research was carried out in 1976-78 among the Appalachian migrant population of Columbus, Ohio. The 1970 federal census lists a total population of 916,228 for the Columbus Standard Metropolitan Statistical Area (SMSA), which encompasses part or all of five counties. The city of Columbus, according to these same figures, includes 539,677 residents. It is estimated that 28.9 percent of the residents of the city of Columbus, or approximately 156,000 persons, are first or second-generation Appalachian migrants, that is, were born in a federally designated Appalachian county or are the offspring of a parent born in an Appalachian county. 1 For the most part, the Appalachian migrant population of Columbus is grouped into three residential clusters that form locally identifiable neighborhoods, and these were the target of our investigation. The vast majority of migrants to the city come from rural areas of the

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JOHN FRIEDL

Appalachian region. When asked, "Where were you born?" respo dents would frequently give the name of a small town, followed by · qualifying statement like" At least that was the nearest town" or "But'· as soon as Momma got out of the hospital we went back to the holler."). This is not surprising, since Appalachia is itself a predominantly rura{! region, with few large cities; more than one-fourth of the counties in. West Virginia have a population of less than 10,000. There is a notable difference in the education and job skills of migrants from rural Appalachia, compared to those who came from towns and cities. The better-educated, more mobile urbanites tend to find higher-paying employment within a short time and are able to move out of the port of entry areas of the city and into middle-class neighborhoods. The rural migrants, on the other hand, are more likely to remain in low-paying, low-skilled jobs that do not provide sufficient income for them to make such a move. Census figures for the three predominantly Appalachian neighborhoods of Columbus show a median of 10.1 years of schooling completed, with 39.7 percent having had eight years or fewer. Our survey sample included 46.4 percent who had not gone beyond the eighth grade, while only 3. 9 percent had any education beyond high school. However, even these figures can be misleading, for they do not address the quality of education, an important concern for rural migrants. This problem was borne out by one woman in our survey, who, although she had completed ten years of school in eastern Kentucky, could not read the consent form presented to her at the beginning of the interview. Furthermore, there is no way to evaluate statistics on education with regard to health-related topics. Health education has long been inadequate in rural Appalachia, and in West Virginia discussion of sex and reproduction is forbidden in the classroom. Thus, we must look beyond the amount of time spent in school and take into account the curriculum studied if we are to draw the correct conclusions about an individual's education and its value for his or her health. The low level of education, and the lower quality of much of the education received in rural schools in Appalachia by first generation migrants, limit their ability to take advantage of what the health care system potentially can offer them in a city like Columbus. Perhaps the most important consideration is the fact that limited education creates a serious barrier in communication between an Appalachian patient and a health care professional. Poor communication quite obviously can only detract from the quality of care received, and in many cases can lead to alienation that ultimately drives the patient away from the

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health care system. This problem will be discussed in more detail below. The rural background of the majority of Appalachian migrants to Columbus and other cities is of particular importance because of the health care experiences that form the basis for the migrants' expectations and actions in the urban environment. Many people described in vivid detail their dissatisfaction with the health care system in rural Appalachia. The most common complaint about rural health care was the distance one had to travel to get to a doctor, clinic, hospital, or other facility. Distance from a physician or hospital led to self-treatment to avoid the long and often expensive trip. One woman told of going twenty-eight miles on a dirt road to reach a doctor when she broke her arm as a child. Six weeks later, when the cast was ready to come off, her mother removed it herself rather than make the trip into town again. No further examination was ever made to see that the arm had healed properly. Distance to the hospital presented a problem not only in getting there, but in visiting a friend or relative. Thus, many people whose condition might have warranted hospitalization refused to go, not because they could not make the trip, but because they did not want to be so far away from home for a long time knowing that they would be alone without visitors. Sometimes a family would decide against hospitalization for one of its members, feeling that the daily trip back and forth would be too much of a hardship and the patient would benefit more from attention in the home by family members than from care in the hospital by strangers. In many remote areas of rural Appalachia, physicians' services were available only occasionally, often on a rotating basis. One respondent told of her childhood when the nearest doctor's office was more than twenty miles away, and the physician only came in once a week. Admittedly, this led to reliance on home remedies and a crisis-oriented pattern of health care. "You usually went to an older person who'd had your sickness or had seen it cured in others," she explained. For rural residents who did not participate in any third-party payment program, there was always the problem of having enough cash on hand to meet unexpected health care needs. A number of people told of being rejected by health care agencies--particularly hospitals-if they could not pay the entire amount in advance. One man bitterly recalled being turned away from a hospital emergency room when he could produce only $12.50 toward a $14.00 charge for an injection for his seven-year-old daughter. He had to take the girl with him while he

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drove to a friend's house some distance away to borrow the money, but as he said, "What could I do? There was nowhere else to go." These experiences are widespread among those migrants who grew up in rural Appalachia. When asked to compare their health care experiences "back home" with those in Columbus, in all but two cases the subjects of the study agreed that the quality of care in the city was far superior to that in the hills. The two who did not share this opinion both placed a high value on the personal nature of the doctor-patient relationship they had experienced with country doctors, and commented that they found the impersonal medical care in the city intolerable. Two areas of health care which are particularly striking in the experiences of rural Appalachian migrants are preventive care and childbirth. Prevention was understandably of low priority in a situation where access to medical facilities and personnel was difficult and often unaffordable. Although such agencies as the Frontier Nursing Service are well-known for their efforts in improving rural health care in the region, few informants mentioned any preventive health care measures taken during their own childhood. Those instances that were noted were usually part of a school health program and were limited for the most part to immunizations. Health-related behavior surrounding conception, pregnancy, and childbirth is an area that perhaps best distinguishes the quality of health care available in rural Appalachia from that in Columbus and cities like it. The process of childbearing received little attention from health care professionals in rural areas from which the migrants have come. Birth control counseling and devices or pills were uncommon at best, and one woman told of the obstetrician who performed sterilization procedures without her knowledge when he delivered her last baby, because he felt she would endanger her health by having any more children. As she put it, "I was glad he did it, because I didn't see any other way to stop having kids. But I sure was surprised when he told me what he did. He said if I had one more it would kill me." The assumption of the physician in this case that sterilization represents the only effective solution to the problem is indicative of the lack of alternatives available to Appalachian women. Prenatal care likewise seems to have been the exception rather than the rule. A number of women told of having children without ever consulting a doctor, and having been attended only by a midwife at delivery. Nutritional counseling, exercise, and other aspects of prenatal care, as well as periodic examinations, were simply not a part of the experiences surrounding childbirth for many Appalachian women. Those who chose to and were able to go to a hospital to deliver their

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babies often just "showed up" when their time had come, and were attended to by the staff physician on duty at the time. Others who delivered at home would call the midwife at the proper time, but it was unusual for a midwife to provide any prenatal care. Midwives themselves varied in their level of skill and training. Although in some states a formal licensing procedure is available, often in the past a person became a midwife merely by gaining a reputation for knowing what to do. One woman whom we interviewed had been a midwife in West Virginia before moving to Columbus. She had no training for her position, but "just started doing it." The country physician in the area wanted her to "get licensed," but she said she "just never got around to it." In time, she expanded her role to that of a general curer and healer, and even had some experience sewing up wounds and giving injections. She said that she had known several other women in neighboring areas of West Virginia who performed similar duties, although they were formally untrained and unlicensed. Despite what must seem like horror stories to one familiar with the more modern, "scientific" health care system of the city, there was another more positive aspect of the rural health care system in Appalachia. Physicians, midwives, and other health care personnel were generally praised for taking a personal interest in their patients. Often they knew them well, and had treated other family members in the past. Moreover, in the case of physicians, most were general practitioners who did a little bit of almost everything. Unlike the city health care system, there was little specialization among rural practitioners. Because of the problems of distance and travel, the country physician was likely to aim at a one-shot cure rather than a more drawn-out pattern of treatment involving follow-up visits. Drugs were frequently distributed by the physician, who knew it was unrealistic to expect the patient to take a prescription to the nearest pharmacy, which might be many miles away. And the fees for services were generally low, with flexible payment plans, particularly when the financial status of the family would not allow for a complete payment or did not include any type of health insurance. As a result of this type of experience with physicians, many migrants from rural Appalachia were exposed to a pattern unlike that in the city. They may have considerable difficulty justifying in their own minds the differences between country and city doctors and their practices, and they may look with suspicion upon a physician who charges a patient to write or call in a prescription, or who requires a follow-up visit (and the resulting fee) when there are no further symptoms. If the rural health care setting does not adequately prepare many migrants for what they are to find in the city, neither does the lifestyle

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of the port of entry areas of the city lead to rapid improvements in health and health care. Activities in the port of entry tend to be neighborhood-oriented, and often isolate the resident from health care and other agencies in the rest of the city. Organized social activities are lacking, and the major source of recreation and entertainment is found in the neighborhood bars. Local stores in the poorer areas of the city tend to have higher prices, lower quality, and less selection of foods and other goods. This fact, coupled with the lack of available space for garden plots in the crowded neighborhoods, has led to a lower quality of nutrition for many migrant families. Use of the media could serve a positive function in improving the health care of migrants in Columbus, but for many families this has not been the case. The neighborhood orientation of the port of entry areas makes it difficult for people to seek help any distance from their home, and the agencies that advertise their services on television often are identified as being aimed at the entire city rather than toward the specific neighborhood in which the migrants live. The combination of fear of the unknown and unfamiliarity with the rest of the city was offered by many subjects of our study as the reason why they had not sought help through an agency they had seen advertised on television. Another aspect of life in the Appalachian neighborhoods of Columbus which has a profound effect on health and health carealthough one that is perhaps not readily apparent-is the homogeneity of the neighborhood population. The fact that one's neighbors are all from "the hills" may mean not only that there is little pressure to adopt a lifestyle and value system more consonant with conditions in the city (which is not necessarily good or bad), but in fact there may be overt peer pressure to retain and even exaggerate aspects of personal behavior which are thought to be characteristic of the rural lifestyle "back home." One such commonly held value is the authority of the male in the household. The woman is the care-giver and homemaker, and she is expected to take care of her family. Associated with this pattern is the strong attitude toward modesty and privacy among women-an attitude found as often in men as in women themselves. One woman explained that she had not had a Pap test for several years because she did not like to take her clothes off to be examined, and she did not like people "poking at her." Another woman recalled being beaten by her husband after she told him about the gynecological examination she underwent at a local clinic. Apparently her husband felt that her motivation in returning for these examinations regularly was to "flirt" with the male physician. Also typical of the port of entry neighborhoods is a fondness for

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"home" and a pattern of frequent return visits among more recent migrants. In some cases this may adversely affect health care by creating the opportunity and motivation for migrants with health problems to wait until they can go back to their native community to receive care in a more familiar setting. Such an opportunity delays their entry into the urban health care system in Columbus and magnifies whatever inadequacies might exist in the rural health care they receive. Another drawback to the port of entry life style in terms of health care results from the fact that physicians, clinics, and other providers find it desirable to adjust their practices to the low-income population they serve: It is common to find physicians who treat large numbers of patients (many of them on welfare) each day and clinics with rotating staff members who see many patients for a brief period of time. From the patient's point of view, this means an impersonal experience in which they are "run through the mill" by someone who is not truly interested in them as a person. This approach flies in the face of one of the strongest values in Appalachian culture-that every individual should be treated as a person, not as a number. While this value will be discussed later in explaining the source of many problems in relations with health care professionals, it is important to note here that it is in part a result of the low-income conditions in the Appalachian neighborhoods themselves. All of these observations about Appalachians, both in the rural areas of the region and in the ports of entry in the city, point to the need to consider health-related behavior as taking place in the broader context of people's entire sociocultural environment. Migrants bring with them a set of shared experiences with a rural health care system that does not prepare them to deal with what they find in the city. Moreover, for those who settle in the port of entry and maintain (either consciously or unconsciously) much of their old way of life, there are barriers that often prevent them from taking advantage of what the city has to offer. In addressing the question of how and why the urban health care system does not work for the Appalachian migrant, we will consider several of these barriers in more detail. BARRIERS TO HEALTH CARE IN THE CITY

Probably the single most important barrier to health care among the subjects of our study was the cost. This is something that affects the working poor more than any other group, since they are not eligible for welfare, usually cannot afford adequate health insurance, and most certainly cannot afford the high cost of many medical services. For those on welfare the problem is less severe, but they are still restricted

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to those facilities and providers who will accept welfare payments. If the fees are above the ceiling allowed by welfare, the potential client must look elsewhere. It should be noted, however, that the financial barrier to better care is not a problem for Appalachian migrants alone, but one that they share with all low-income groups in our society. Likewise, the problem of transportation is not unique to Appalachians, although it is one that was mentioned frequently by our informants. Some indicated that they did not return to a physician's office for a follow-up visit because they were unable to find transportation. Several remarked that they were not happy with the physician they were seeing at present, but that it was the only office within walking distance of their home, and this limited their choice. Another problem raised in our survey had to do with appointments, although there was divided opinion as to whether they were desirable or not. Often clinics and emergency room services were preferred because the client could just walk in without an appointment. The emergency room was also popular with some because it was open in the evening hours, after other services had closed for the day. For others, however, a no-appointment clinic was not preferred because the waiting time was usually quite long. For people taking time off from work or paying a baby-sitter, waiting time can be a crucial factor in their choice of health care providers, or even in their decision to seek care at all. Additionally, many people indicated difficulty in keeping appointments, even though they preferred to have one. Those without a telephone or without a car had trouble keeping or cancelling appointments, since their ability to get to the office or clinic depended not only on their own reliability, but on the promptness or availability of a friend or relative to drive them, or the availability of a baby-sitter. Preventive measures that are either convenient or unavoidable were accepted with little opposition by the Appalachian migrant population of our study, but those that require extra effort or expense were frequently rejected. Screening of children in school is accepted routinely by children and parents alike. But preventive health care for adults and for children outside the context of the school system is noteworthy in its absence, as indicated by our survey and supported by the findings of the Benchmark study (see note 1). Many preventive measures are obtained in conjunction with other types of care more appropriate to the hospital setting and therefore are not the primary purpose for the contact with the health care system. Because many forms of health care are unavailable in rural Appalachia, migrants are often accustomed to viewing health care as something to be sought only when one is seriously ill. Prevention is not learned in the socialization process in rural Appalachia and therefore is

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not widely practiced among migrants in the city. The "wait and see" attitude is common even among some whose health insurance affords them the opportunity to do otherwise. For some, going to a doctor without being seriously ill is a sign of weakness, while for others it is a matter of inconvenience, but the overall conclusion from our research is that, whatever the reason, preventive care is very low on their list of priorities. Two aspects of the dental health of our survey respondents stood out in reviewing the information collected in interviews: few preventive or maintenance measures were taken to promote good dental health, and treatment was sought primarily in response to symptoms of dental disease. Even among families that indicated they had followed other preventive practices, often the attitude toward dental care was "don't go to a dentist unless you have a toothache." With regard to actual dental disease, the attitude of the majority of our respondents was that when a tooth started to go bad, it was best to have it pulled and "get it over with." In fact, several people complained about dentists who preferred to fill a cavity rather than pull the tooth, claiming that this was the dentist's way of prolonging the treatment and thereby increasing his own income. Reasons for the low rate of utilization of dental services are similar to those regarding health care among Appalachians. Dentists are even scarcer than physicians in rural Appalachia, and for many migrants there was no early socialization into dental hygiene practices and preventive care. Many migrants never saw a dentist until they came to Columbus-if even then-and are not accustomed to thinking in terms of preserving their teeth. Rather, there is the common expectation that one's teeth will go bad as a normal result of aging, and it is inevitable that in old age one's teeth will have to be pulled. Other medical care specialists are used infrequently by Appalachian migrants. Reasons noted for not using specialists varied but seemed to center on three main attitudes. First, many rural migrants retain in their minds the model of the typical country general practitioner, the jack-of-all-trades who attempts to treat almost every type of ailment. Informants tend to extend this model to the physicians they visit in the city and feel comfortable with a physician who offers a wider range of services. Moreover, by visiting the same physician for all of their health care needs, they are able to promote a closer personal relationship that would not exist were they to see a specialist. A second reason for preferring a general practitioner to a specialist is that many Appalachian migrants are suspicious of a situation where a "stranger" is called in. They may see such a referral as an extra expense, a way of having them pay two doctor bills for one ailment that

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ought to be treated by a single person. Thus, they may suspect that when a physician refers them to a specialist the two are engaged in some form of conspiracy, and as a result they not only will ignore the specialist but will not return to the original general practitioner. Many physicians are aware of this danger and may try to treat a few more cases that are somewhat marginal to what they regard as their area of competence. Third, much of the reluctance to seek treatment from specialists is grounded in a serious lack of understanding of the medical care system and how it is organized. Judging from the descriptions of specialists that were provided in interviews, few of our subjects were able to make informed decisions about the use of specialized medical services. The most commonly understood area was surgery, but few informants were aware of the large number of subfields within surgery, or even the fact that there was any specialization at all beyond simply being a surgeon. This lack of knowledge regarding the medical care system not only reduced the reliance on specialists, but created many problems in the normal course of treatment which led to frustration and disenchantment with that treatment. Perhaps the dearest example of the confusion and anger caused by such misunderstanding occurred in the emergency room. A number of informants complained vehemently that they were forced to wait for long periods of time in the emergency room when they could see one or more doctors or nurses "just sitting around doing nothing." In most of these cases, it appeared from the information provided by the individual that the problem required the services of a specialist and the wait was caused by the lack of the appropriate type of physician. Yet without an adequate explanation by hospital staff, most informants were not in a position to reach such a conclusion on their own. The use of specialists is closely related to the referral system by which an individual obtains information about available health care services and decides on a course of action. In seeking a physician, most subjects in our survey said they relied primarily on the advice of friends and relatives, both for initial contacts and for specific problems they felt their physician could not handle adequately. If an individual became dissatisfied with a physician, again the advice of a friend or relative would most likely be sought. Few individuals said they initiated contact with their family doctor in order to seek a referral to a specialist, although those who were relatively happy with their regular physician indicated they would accept a referral initiated by their doctor. Two informants said they had successfully used the Yellow Pages in order to find a doctor within their neighborhood. And several others claimed that when they needed

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medical care and their usual source (either a clinic or a physician's office) was not open, they would call the Medical Bureau and find out where the closest doctor was who would treat them. Another important factor in the pattern of inefficient and ineffective use of health care services is the high rate of utilization of emergency room facilities. Our research indicated that Appalachian migrants contribute more than their proportional share to the use of the emergency room facilities, and that in large part this is due to cultural factors such as values and attitudes toward seeking medical care rather than a higher rate of illness or accidents among that sector of the population. The main reason behind the high rate of use of emergency rooms is the crisis orientation of many Appalachians toward illness. Whether the problem is an illness or an accident, if the situation does not seem too serious the inclination of the individual is to wait and see if it improves. For minor injuries or illnesses, a physician is rarely consulted. If the condition does not improve, however, and in time becomes unbearable, the Appalachian tends to bypass the family doctor and go to the emergency room. A family without means of transportation may go to the emergency room rather than a physician's office either because they can use the services of the fire department emergency squad, or else because they can more easily justify asking a favor of a neighbor or relative if it is an emergency than if it is just a routine visit to the doctor's office. Often the lack of availability of other services will dictate the use of the emergency room. If a clinic is the primary source of care for members of a family, the latter may perceive the emergency room as the only alternative when the clinic is closed. Also, many people who use the services of a public or proprietary clinic recognize its limitations, perhaps even underestimate the services available at the clinic, and may turn to the emergency room if they feel their condition is "too serious" to be handled by the clinic staff. And of course there is a segment of the population that relies on the emergency room for its primary source of care, having neither a family physician nor a clinic that they go to when ill. Many staff members providing emergency room services resent the burden placed on them by those who do not really require emergency care. They blame those individuals for driving the cost of emergency room services ever higher, and for making their work more difficult. And even if they do not admit it, they often take out their frustration on those patients who do not meet their standards of requiring emergency treatment. From the point of view of the Appalachian migrant who has used the emergency room, it is more often than not a frustrating and highly

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unsatisfactory experience. Nearly every respondent who had been to the emergency room of a hospital in Columbus complained about having to wait too long. Several individuals who had been to more than one emergency room compared them, not so much in terms of the quality of care received, but according to the length of time they had to wait to be seen. However, the most common problem among those in our sample who complained of their treatment in the emergency room was the fact that the hospital staff never seemed to think their problem was as serious as they themselves did. A common complaint was that after watching a condition worsen for several days, an individual became convinced that it was serious-and this was equated with the belief that it was a true emergency. But when he arrived at the emergency room he was forced to wait for several hours, which indicated to him that his concern was not shared by the hospital staff. The result is that most Appalachian migrants who have used emergency room services are dissatisfied with the treatment they have received. Some who have been to more than one emergency room base their evaluation of the entire hospital on the treatment they received, even though the two or more incidents might not be comparable. For example, a man who took his daughter to one hospital's emergency room with a sore throat that had grown progressively worse for three days was told to take her home, give her aspirin, and have her gargle with hot saltwater and stay in bed for several days. This infuriated him, since that was what he had been doing all along and it had not seemed to produce any positive results. On another occasion, he went to a different emergency room with a severe cut in his hand and was treated right away. He feels that as a result of these two experiences, the second hospital is much better; he believes his daughter would have received better treatment had he taken her there in the first place. As an objective observer it is easy to understand the feeling of both patient and health care professional with regard to the use of emergency services. Patients who are discouraged from overutilizing the emergency room in their prior experiences with the health care system may either wait too long in seeking treatment, thereby creating an emergency that never had to be, or else they may convince themselves that something is an emergency when in fact it is not. On the other hand, physicians who see the emergency room in its most limited sense of providing only what they define as emergency care may be ignoring the social and economic reality of the lifestyle of their patients. In so doing, they miss an opportunity for a broader understanding of all that is involved in the provision of health care to those who need it most. Health insurance presented some interesting comparisons among

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our survey sample, and raised important questions about the quality and availability of care to various socioeconomic groups within the population. Of the families in our survey, 17.5 percent stated that they had no health insurance of any kind, including welfare; 9.6 percent were covered by Blue Cross/Blue Shield; 12.3 percent had Medicare; 5.3 percent had black lung disability coverage; 21 percent had some other health insurance plan but were not sure of the company's name or extent of coverage; 26.3 percent said they were covered by Medicaid/ ADC or had a "health card" or a "welfare card." The remaining 9 percent did not know whether they had any health care coverage or not. Of those individuals on Medicare, the most frequent complaint was that it was difficult to learn in advance what services would be covered and to what extent. One woman complained that her surgeon charged more than Medicare would allow, and she had to pay the difference, which she did not feel was fair. In fact, it made her so upset that she went to the hospital and asked one of the staff in the business office to explain her Medicare coverage to her but was told that the government changes the coverage so much that no one at the hospital really knows what it is all about. They just send the forms in and wait for someone in the Medicare office to correct them and send them back! Respondents receiving black lung disability benefits seemed relatively satisfied with their coverage, although two men did mention that they had some difficulty with physicians who would not accept their insurance and required them to pay the bills themselves. Another noted that he had to send out of state for prescription medications, which he felt was an inconvenience. Those with no insurance coverage represent the most serious problem in terms of health care, since they are at a distinct disadvantage by having to pay the full amount of any treatment they receive. The prospect of having to pay for health care severely restricts an individual in seeking treatment and can only have a negative effect on his or her health. The situations of individuals without health insurance vary, but they seem to fall within a few regular patterns. Several respondents were unemployed but refused to accept welfare, thereby cutting themselves off from the major source of coverage available to them. Other informants were employed but had to pay for insurance themselves and could not afford to do so. And a number of individuals were self-employed in various low-skill occupations, often part-time or with irregular or seasonal schedules. Most of these people could not afford health insurance and were not eligible for a group policy that would have reduced their rates.

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The overall problem of not having health insurance is serious, not only because it affects a significant proportion of the Appalachian migrant population, as indicated by our survey, but also because people in that situation are unable to afford health care on their own. Yet the alternative of accepting welfare, which would provide them with health care coverage, is repugnant to them and they resist it, growing more and more bitter about a system that rewards those who do not work and removes their incentive for being independent. For those who do receive support from welfare agencies, there is an entirely different set of problems, and almost all were critical of the system and their experiences with it. The "red tape" and bureaucratic jungle that surrounds welfare payments is incredible! One woman with two children complained that only one of the children was covered by her welfare payments, since her oldest son was born at home and did not have a birth certificate. Apparently no one had told her how to circumvent this problem, and the result was that he was not covered by her "health card." Also, several informants told of cases where they were advised that their welfare coverage would pay for a service and they subsequently found out that it did not, leaving them stuck with the bill. One woman had arranged for a tubal ligation after the delivery of a baby, having been assured that welfare would cover the entire procedure in the delivery room. Later she learned that only the delivery was covered, and she was outraged at having to pay the bill for the sterilization procedure. People receiving welfare were frequently upset about the treatment they received, not only from bureaucrats with whom they dealt, but also from others who provided services to them that were covered by welfare. Several complained about their experiences in attempting to obtain food stamps, when they were treated with scorn and disrespect. One man told of going to the office to apply for food stamps and being given a form to fill out. He has great difficulty reading and therefore asked the clerk to assist him with the form. He claims she snapped at him and jerked the form out of his hand, which resulted in a shouting match and the man going home without food stamps. Another informant offered similar testimony about his experience with the welfare office staff and suggested that perhaps they were trained to be nasty so as to reduce the number of people who tried to apply for benefits. Enough corroborating evidence was related by social workers, who deal with the welfare system daily, to raise serious questions about the way it is handled and the treatment clients are likely to receive. Within the health care system, welfare patients are often at a disadvantage in their relations with health care professionals. Several respondents on welfare felt they were not treated as well as "paying

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customers," and one actually recounted an incident when she complained to a physician about a long wait outside his office and was told, "You're not paying for it anyhow, so don't complain." In addition, a number of physicians refused to accept welfare cards in payment for their services, either because the payment schedule was considerably below their normal fees, or else because they had so much difficulty and delay in receiving payment in the past. This made these physicians in effect unavailable to a significant proportion of the neighborhood residents. In a positive vein, it should be noted that those who are eligible for and receive welfare support for health care have much broader coverage than most working people. With the exception of many union insurance policies that include coverage for dental and vision care and other more "marginal" services, most health care policies do not include the range of services covered by welfare. Again, this leads to considerable bitterness among working-class people who feel cheated by the system. It is neither a new dilemma nor a simple one, and it will not be solved quickly. It is important to understand, however, that the inequities of the welfare programs of the United States are particularly relevant for the Appalachian population, many of whom retain strong values of independence and self-reliance which make them reluctant to accept welfare. If these values are to be promoted, changes must be made to reduce the injustice in the present system. POPULAR AND PROFESSIONAL HEALTH CULTURES

Many of the barriers to health care for urban Appalachian migrants are structural in nature, that is, they are due to the economic and demographic realities of urban life. Oth~r barriers are a result of the differences between the rural health care system familiar to the migrants and the new urban system they must deal with. Culturally based expectations, attitudes, and priorities appropriate to rural Appalachia are out of place in the city, and the migrants are often ridiculed and even discriminated against on that account. It is these cultural barriers that are particularly relevant to our research, for they bring into focus the gap between the working-class, rural Appalachian migrant and the professional, urban health care provider. Every culture includes, in addition to the more accepted and orthodox body of medical knowledge, what is commonly referred to as a body of "folk medicine." Steven Polgar has provided a particularly valuable framework for looking at this dichotomy, by differentiating between what he calls "popular health culture" and "professional health culture." 2 The popular health culture refers to value orienta-

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tions and behaviors that form the basis for self-treatment or treatment by laymen and define the individual's role and the appropriate expectations in the formal health care setting. On the other hand, the professional health culture includes the values, beliefs, and behaviors that are held by health specialists, including the structure of the health care setting and the way in which professionals perform their roles. A closer look at some aspects of the popular health culture of Appalachian migrants may shed light on areas of conflict with the professional health culture they encounter in the city, and these in turn will help us understand patterns of health care utilization. Most urban health care professionals are not able to anticipate how their practices will affect their rural clients. Likewise, rural health care experiences provide neither an adequate basis for judging urban health care services nor an adequate model for taking advantage of the diversity of services offered. This gap in experience can cause misunderstandings regarding common urban medical practices, such as writing prescriptions (rather than dispensing pills) and referring a patient to a specialist; these misunderstandings lead the patient to reject the treatment. It is therefore necessary for someone in the health care setting to communicate with the patient and to explain even commonplace procedures. But to do this successfully requires first that the health care professionals have an understanding of the patient and his or her past experiences and expectations, as well as the reasoning behind them. The popular health culture of most Appalachian migrants does not include a thorough understanding of medical care organization in the city. For example, the Appalachian migrant typically expects that all health care agencies and professionals are in contact with one another and that information available to one would therefore be available to all. This misunderstanding hinders continuity of care, and further, repeated attempts to gain the same information about the patient by different practitioners and agencies become a nuisance to the patient. Appalachian migrants may expect urban physicians to conduct their practice much like rural physicians do "back home," dispensing pills rather than handing out prescriptions and on occasion even making house calls. While there may be valid reasons for urban physicians not to engage in such practices, these reasons are seldom communicated to the clients--it is falsely assumed that all patients understand the practices of the physician simply because such practices are widespread in the urban community. It may also be falsely assumed that the patient will follow instructions even when they are not understood. It would take very little time for a physician to explain to a client why he or she is referring that patient to another physician rather than treating the condition there in the office. But few physicians are aware of the

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potential for misunderstanding, since few have had personal experience with a rural health care system themselves. Within the popular health culture of Appalachian migrants are a variety of beliefs about illness, its causes and cures, and in some cases its inevitability. Many of our informants indicated a belief about the role of God in illness, or the role of personal faith in the curing of illness. Others described a concept of "poison" in the bodily system as a cause of illness. And a surprisingly large number thought that aging necessarily brought on incapacitating, chronic illnesses for which there was no cure and little reason for treatment. None of these beliefs correspond to accepted scientific medical practice, yet too few health professionals are sensitive to the fact that when they contradict and belittle the patient's personal beliefs they reduce the effectiveness of their own attempts at treatment. Perhaps some professionals think it is beneath their dignity to accept and work with the folk beliefs of their patients, yet in ignoring such beliefs they reduce the personal nature of medical practice. A case in point would be the Appalachian approach to dental care, a part of the popular health culture of the rural migrant population. Most of our informants considered it inevitable that they would lose their teeth. They therefore placed little emphasis on preventive dental care and thought an attempt at filling (and thereby saving) a tooth rather than pulling it was simply a way of increasing the dentist's income. This aspect of the popular health culture contradicts all that is sacred to the dental profession. Yet it poses a perplexing problem for the dentist who, when called upon to treat a patient who feels this way, may lose the patient if he does not perform the desired services. In contrast to the popular health culture, the professional health culture refers to the scientific-oriented medical care system as it is found among professional practitioners. It includes not only the values inculcated through medical education, but also the structure and organization of the various parts of the health care system. There are many areas of conflict between the professional health culture as it exists in a city like Columbus and the popular health culture and associated beliefs and values of the Appalachian migrant. One of te most important elements of any culture is language and communication, .and this is equally true of the professional health culture in a society. Unfortunately, the professional jargon and middle-class educated speech patterns used by health care providers create a cultural gap between them and many ·of their clients, including Appalachian migrants. It must be recognized that one need not have gone to medical school to be able to comprehend at least the basic elements of illness or a general sense of how the body functions. These

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concepts can best be conveyed by using lay terms and graphic explanations to assist patients in understanding the use of medications, not in the context of the professional health culture, but translated into the language of the popular health culture. After all, is it not an accepted principle of medical practice that the patient has the right to an explanation of his condition, treatment, and prognosis in terms he can

reasonably be expected to understand ?3 The importance of communication can be seen in the general attitude of the overwhelming majority of informants in our survey, indicating that the personal approach of the physician was the most highly valued factor in their assessment of the health care they received. Impersonal experiences often resulted in incomplete follow-up treatment, lack of continuity of treatment caused by the patient failing to return, or in some cases the alienation of the patient not only from the particular physician or agency but from the entire health care system. Several informants had switched from one physician to another in an attempt to find one with a more personable manner, and there was no discernible pattern to these changes indicating little if any concern over specialization, training, or degree. As one informant put it, summing up the preference for a casual and friendly physician over one more businesslike, "country doctors are better than clinic doctors." In stressing the importance of the personal contact between physician and client in overcoming this barrier to better health care, several informants pointed out that the best physician was one who cared about them as a person. They preferred a doctor who knew their family's history, which in turn meant that they liked the continuity of care from the same person. For this reason, respondents often indicated they would go to a private physician rather than a clinic, even though it might be more expensive, so that they could see the same person each time. Personal involvement with the client was the most common compliment paid to physicians by our informants. One father of a boy who had recently undergone heart surgery praised the surgeon for taking time to explain the operation using a plastic model of the heart and showing how it worked and what was wrong in this case. Another respondent said that he preferred it when the physician "does things himself" rather than delegating responsibilities to nurses and technicians-"it makes you feel like you're important." And several people voiced their appreciation for a physician who would take the trouble to save them money, possibly by advising them on where to have a prescription filled, or by prescribing generic drugs, or even by handing out "free" samples.

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The transmission of information about the patient's condition, prognosis, and treatment which is a necessary part of any health care contact is often absent from the Appalachian's experience with physicians and other health care providers. Several informants were illiterate, and others had limited reading skills, making it impossible for them to read instructions or labels on prescription medicines. Among recent migrants, different names for health problems are often used which are not understood by non-Appalachian physicians, nurses, and other professionals. Even accents and speech patterns can create serious barriers to effective personal interaction in the health care setting. Many patients are reluctant to ask for explanations of their condition or treatment, feeling that to do so would make them look ignorant. And many physicians mistakenly assume that if a patient does not ask for an explanation, it is because he or she fully comprehends what is said. Few of our informants were as aggressive as the one woman who indicated that she had switched doctors several times after "telling them off" for not explaining procedures and treatments to her satisfaction. But the sad part of the story is that many people who desperately want to do something to improve their health are unable to because they lack the necessary information and do not know how to get it. One woman told our interviewer that she had taken her baby to a well-baby clinic where they took an X-ray of its head. She was told that her baby "might not learn as well as other children." She indicated that she was very much concerned but did not know what was wrong with her child or what she could do about it. While we have no way of knowing what she was actually told in the clinic, it is clear that the communication was inadequate. Problems of communication hamper the health care professional in doing his or her job, just as they affect the patient in understanding and following treatment programs. One physician said he thought that his practice was particularly successful because he was able to talk with his patients on their level, using a simple vocabulary. But not everyone is able to make this adjustment, and for those who cannot it can be frustrating, if not impossible, to carry out necessary tasks such as taking a health history. Patients are often unclear and vague about symptoms and procedures, and their recall is rarely perfect. This fact came out time and again in the work of our research staff, as in the case of one informant who told of an infection in his head. He went to see a doctor, who "opened his head" right there in the office, and ever since he has had "white stuff coming out." Another informant told of a condition diagnosed by her physician as "sugar of the uterus," the symptoms of which bore no resemblance to diabetes (commonly

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associated with sugar). Cases such as these present a real obstacle to health care providers who require accurate information about the patient's past and present condition. In a hospital or clinic setting such difficulties can present even more serious problems for foreign-born staff members whose command of English is less than perfect, with a detrimental effect on the treatment of the patient. A recent survey by the Columbus Public Health Nursing Department indicated that the nurses were using "too high a vocabulary," which hampered communication with many patients. The problem is not limited to medical vocabulary, but includes nontechnical words that may not be understood. For example, a nurse may issue advice such as "contact agency X," but will the client take this to mean "go there in person" or "call them" or "write them a letter"? Finally, we might look at the patterns of use of emergency services as an example of a gap between professional and popular health cultures, and suggest some solutions for narrowing that gap. In evaluating the evidence from our study, one can only conclude that there is a strong tendency for Appalachians to delay treatment until an emergency arises, and then to seek treatment in an emergency room of a hospital with little regard to the time and schedule of clinics and physicians' offices. There is also a tendency to perceive health problems as more serious than they might actually be and to seek emergency treatment for conditions not requiring it. While from a professional point of view it would be desirable to promote greater use of preventive measures and early diagnosis and treatment, it is not realistic to expect to achieve this goal overnight. Thus, it is puzzling to note the continued negative pronouncements of hospital administrators and staff toward those who make frequent use of emergency room services rather than a clinic or personal physician. It is part of the professional health culture to view the services of the emergency room as necessarily limited and specialized, to be restricted to a specific type of case-as defined by a physician, not by a patient. This would explain a recent comment by a hospital administrator that "Such over-use [of emergency room facilities by the poor] clogs up the system and jeopardizes the quality of treatment of the critically ill or injured patient. " 4 With this attitude it is apparent that the narrow-minded professional approach to health care is not interested in the problems of the poor or in adapting the health care system to alternate lifestyles, but instead expects all clients to have enough "sense" to go out and get a family doctor and stop pestering the overworked emergency room staff. How sad that the response was not instead: "If we are treating more poor people in our emergency room facilities than anywhere else,

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there must be something about these facilities that appeals to the low-income patient. Let's take a close look at what we're doing right and see if we can't expand certain aspects of our facilities to serve more people better!" A number of reasons for the heavy use of emergency services have been brought out, and hopefully they can be applied to the problems involved in providing those services. If it is not desirable or feasible to expand emergency room facilities to meet the demand, then why not try to provide similar services that do meet the needs of the population but do not cost as much or operate under the same limitations as the emergency room must? Surely this is one of the more important ways in which the professional health culture can adapt to the popular health culture in an attempt to provide better and more extensive health care to all who need it. NOTES Research into the delivery of health care services to Appalachian migrants in Columbus, Ohio was conducted in 1976-78 with the support of the National Center for Health Services Research, Health Resources Administration, grant number HS 02218. I am grateful to Allen Batteau and Mary Friedl for critical readings of an earlier version of this article. 1. In 1972 the Benchmark Program was undertaken to produce a continuing social report on the quality of life within Columbus, based on a selected sample of 2,401 residents of the city who responded to a total of 407 questions on various topics. Included in this data bank are a number of items that serve as demographic indicators, enabling closer identification of the population of the city. See Columbus Area Social Profile (Columbus, Ohio: Academy for Contemporary Problems, 1975). 2. Steven Polgar, "Health Action in Cross-Cultural Perspective," in: Howard E. Freeman, ed., Handbook of Medical Sociology (Englewood Oiffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1962). 3. Cf. A Patient's Bill of Rights (Chicago: American Hospital Association, revised 1975). 4. Linda Stern Rubin, "The New Emergency Rooms," Columbus Monthly, 3, no. 11 (1977): 52.

LOWER PRICE HILL'S CHILDREN: FAMILY, SCHOOL, AND NEIGHBORHOOD KATHRYN M. BORMAN WITH ELAINE MUENINGHOFF

THE skills and abilities adults exhibit in their lives comprise a set of resources developed in several contexts including the family, school, and neighborhood. Most children in our society develop and mature in all three contexts. However, the nature and tone of these settings varies depending upon such featmes as region, ethnicity, socioeconomic status, and other features associated with urban as opposed to rural or suburban residence. In this chapter the focus is upon urban Appalachian children growing up in a diversity of settings having multiple, and at times conflicting influences. The. major purpose in this chapter is to describe and analyze these settings and influences as they figure in the lives of children. Although the contexts of family, school, and neighborhood are linked and, indeed, overlap in the experience of children, each setting is considered separately: each has its own distinctive, patterned set of roles, interpersonal relations, and activities. The principal argument is that later adult activities, values, and beliefs are related to the social activities individuals experience during their immature years. In the family, through child-rearing practices employed by their parents, children acquire dispositions and values which frame their orientations to school and later to work. A principal feature of children's development in families is their acquisition of an orientation to authority. Children either learn to be submissive or rebellious in the face of authority or learn to feel comfortable wielding authority. In the school, children develop capacities for problemsolving, following directions, and acquiring knowledge. They take on an understanding of the student role, including a self-image. Children learn either to see themselves as good students, competent in competi-

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tion with others for grades and recognition, or to see themselves as inadequate or alienated. Children become familiar with social resources and, perhaps, if conditions are favorable, learn skills to control and manipulate resources to their benefit. These skills are critical because they enable children to see themselves as masterful and competent. By examining children's social activities and experiences in family, school, and neighborhood, we can acquire an understanding of the direction their development is taking. Each context exerts a potent, formative influence upon development. However, children are hardly passive participants in the sets of relationships they encounter. A child gains responses from others according to his or her age, sex, ethnicity, birth order in the family, length of residence in the community, and other characteristics. The view of children taken in this chapter stands in contrast to a formulation of Appalachian child development derived from a culture-of-poverty perspective. A clear example of this formulation is David Looff's study, Appalachia's Children. 1 Emphasizing psychiatric disorder and coping failure, Looff's portrayal of eastern Kentucky children and youth was constructed from clinical casework with severely disordered children. Yet Looff' s analysis and, strikingly, his book's title appear to document the normal course of development among Appalachian children. The argument here is for a picture of development that emphasizes the adaptive success of children in the world of family, school, and neighborhood. At the same time, it must be acknowledged that culturally different children, including rural and urban Appalachian children, bear the burden of living up to a middleclass standard in order to achieve success beyond their immediate family context. The question raised in this chapter is simple: are urban Appalachian children led by their experiences to apprehend their worlds as controllable, rational, and affirming, or are they conveyed the image of a universe remote from their control, unsystematic and alienating? If they are learning the former, as adults it is likely they will possess skills and inner resources required for middle-class success in postindustrial urban America. If they are learning the latter, it is possible they will experience futility and frustration in the larger society. FAMILY

The family provides the first cradle for social learning. Parental childrearing practices emphasizing instrumental capacities, such as learn-

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ing how and why things work and stressing the acquisition of these capacities on one's own, are representative of urban middle-class orientations. 2 Urban middle-class values of self-control and studiousness are also tied to later middle-class success in school and work. First and second generation migrants to Cincinnati's Lower Price Hill convey a mixed message to their children as they rear them. The mixed message does not result from their confusion or ignorance but rather stems from their contradictory background experiences and hopes and expectations for their children. This was the conclusion reached in a study of twenty-four working-class and poor parents, including nine couples and six single parents having at least one elementary-school-aged child. 3 In this study, parents were asked to rank-order a number of desirable outcomes for their children. Their responses suggest that these parents' values reflect the effects of both traditional and modernizing influences. On the one hand, persistent Appalachian values of independence and individuality were apparent in the low rankings given to obedience to authority. As a rejection of the value of conformity in child-rearing this is consistent with urban middle-class practices. However, urban Appalachian parents in the study also value good manners and honesty in their children. These values are consistent with a traditional urban working-class stress on the importance of external behavior, presenting a pleasant demeanor to ensure a good public reception. Also consistent with a working-class orientation, these parents expressed little regard for self-control and studiousness in their children. Although parents did not value studiousness, which they might see as an unattractive bookishness, many did express a concern that their children attain high levels of education and subsequently enter professional occupations. No parent wished a child to attain less than a high school education, and some said they would like to see their children complete postgraduate work. When parents were asked how far they thought their children would actually go in school, a different picture emerged. None mentioned postgraduate schooling and fewer than 10 percent believed their children would attain a college degree. Just slightly less than 20 percent were unsure about the level of education their children would actually receive, an accurate reflection of the uncertainty facing urban Appalachian children who are enrolled in a public school system from which as many as 75 percent of their number drop out before finishing high school. 4 In assessing children's occupational outcomes, a large number of parents (42 percent) were unsure about the nature of work their children would undertake. Employment as a craftsman in an industrial

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trade such as construction or electrical work was most frequently mentioned as an occupational future. Approximately 30 percent mentioned such employment while fewer than 15 percent assumed children would enter professional jobs. Thus, in describing both educational and job-related outcomes for their children, parents express high hopes but less lofty actual expectations. They desire college degrees and professional employment as outcomes but realistically assume these aspirations may not be met. Parents may not value studiousness, but do place a premium upon their children's future educational and occupational attainments. Thus, although parents value success in school and in the world of work, they may be ambivalent about the student role itself. They may be unwilling to see their children sacrifice an engagement with life in the active, individualistic way that is seemingly antithetical to studiousness. Socially and economically, the parents interviewed in this study bear a close resemblance to the "ghettoized" West Virginia migrants to Cleveland surveyed by Photiadis. 5 Unlike migrants who lived in the suburbs and unlike West Virginia residents who had never migrated, the enclaved urban migrants placed family first and religion second in their values. Photiadis reasoned that family ties were more salient to the urban resident than the suburban, since the former was less likely to have the education, occupation, or income commensurate with middle-class success. Family dependencies create a web of relationships and obligations which make pursuing a career extremely difficult. 6 Breaking from long-established patterns of family reciprocities to achieve autonomy and middle-class success may be grossly undesirable to migrants and their children. For them, achievement is seen in remaining closely tied to one's kin, doing well as a craftsman in one's labor, and in not sacrificing a spontaneous engagement with life in one's leisure pursuits. Thus, there may be less frustration with and greater regard for a "ghettoized" life than professional social scientists usually allow. Indeed, Photiadis found the West Virginia nonmigrant to be more alienated than either the ghettoized or suburban migrant. Nonetheless, it is also the case that the larger society displays its benefits and rewards through media presentations seen by virtually all of its members. It is naive to believe there are no anxieties generated by perceived inequalities. Thus, families appear to build strong ties and dependencies among members in addition to affirming personal qualities in children which, were material circumstances in the larger society different, would likely ensure a positive sense of self in adulthood.

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SCHOOL

If families present a mixed message to children about their educational, occupational, and economic futures, the school's message to urban Appalachian children is direct and clear. Children learn early that they are poor performers of the student role. This realization has a profound impact upon their careers in school. The debate concerning the function of the public school in promoting social mobility for some groups to the exclusion of others is extensive and will not be reviewed here. However, it is important to note that schools are the chief link between children's experience in the family and their subsequent work and social roles as adults. Thus, schools have enormous importance as brokers between the urban Appalachian culture and the middle-class world of white-collar professional careers. The alienation of both rural and urban Appalachian students from the schooling process is marked, as expressed by their poor performance on standardized tests and their dramatic dropout rates. According to DeYoung and Porter, mountain schools have failed to provide personal "fulfillment, social mobility or useful integration between individuals and their communities." 7 Twice as many Appalachian youth drop out from school than the national average. In Kentucky, children in Appalachian school districts perform significantly more poorly than children in non-Appalachian districts on Kentucky's Comprehensive Test of Basic Skills. The situation for urban Appalachian children runs parallel to the experience of mountain children. In a study of Cincinnati schools enrolling predominant numbers of first, second, and third generation students of Appalachian origin, Berlowitz and Durand 8 identified a number of factors related to high rates of student dropout. Factors most strongly correlated with high dropout rates in these schools included low reading achievement, low math achievement, high rates of suspension, and high rates of absenteeism. By identifying specific variables related to student alienation from school, Berlowitz and Durand amplified the earlier finding of widespread student antipathy toward school documented in Wagner's 9 case study in three Cincinnati schools. In Wagner's study students reported nonparticipation in and lack of identification with academic and extracurricular programs offered by elementary and secondary schools included in the sample. In contrast students expressed a strong orientation toward neighborhood and family as described in their relationships with siblings and in the frequency of family visits to kin in the mountains and neighborhood. In their performance on standardized tests of basic skills, urban

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Appalachian children do less well than many of their school system peers. Approximately 16 percent of Oyler School students, residents of Lower Price Hill, attained scores at or above the median on the citywide administration of the lower test of Basic Skills in 1981. The reasons for widespread indifference to school among Appalachian children and youth are at the same time simple and complex and are rooted in the function of schooling in American society. Schools are an avenue of social mobility for those who learn the attitudes and skills valued by the occupational and political structures in place in our society. School personnel hold two fundamental assumptions: (1) There is a core set of behaviors, attitudes and achievements that mark the successful student; (2) Given social and individual differences among students in skills, interests and abilities, not all students will be successful. As a result of these two basic assumptions, the social organization of public schools has been structured to reflect expected variation in school performance. Schools differentiate among students by placing them from elementary school onward into groups for which differential expectations are held by school personnel. In elementary schools within each age-graded classroom, children are placed in reading groups that reflect their varied abilities and skills. In secondary school, the institutional organization utilizes a tracking system based upon an interrelated set of activities within the school. Individual testing, screening, and vocational guidance precede the sorting operation, which is itself highly dependent upon the former three processes of educational decisionmaking. A related process, labeling, results in the informal designation of students as "winners" or "losers," "high achievers" or "low achievers," and so forth. Thus, the school's expectations are established for a range of student outcomes. Expectations are strongly linked to the evaluations a student receives throughout his or her career. Also, early expectations predict later expectations so that a child seen as an academic "loser" in third grade will likely be placed in the nonacademic tract when he or she enters secondary school. Through processes of testing, labeling, sorting, and placement, the schools establish students in academic careers aimed either at academic success or academic failure. This can be seen in the results of one study of the school careers of urban Appalachian children residing in Lower Price Hill. 10 This study examined reading group structure and student performance in first grade. Placement in reading groups, according to perceived ability in elementary school is initiated in first grade. Reading groups are established in kindergarten but are not organized to reflect differential abilities. In first grade children are placed in reading groups on the basis of both the recommendation of

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the kindergarten teacher and performance on a standardized test administered early in the fall. Children typically are aware of the level of expected performance in each reading group and can readily describe which groups are composed of "smart kids" and which groups are composed of "dumb kids". Thus, the process of labeling and differentiation is formally instituted very early in the student's career. The usual practice in the elementary school classroom is for the "top"ranked reading group to cover five to six basic readers and accompanying workbooks during the academic year and for the "bottom" -ranked group to move through only two or three of the texts. Thus, some children establish a leading edge in the attainment of fundamental reading skills. Not surprisingly, given the general expectation that girls are better oriented to accomplishing the work and recitation required in reading group performances, top reading groups are often composed of larger numbers of girls. This stigmatizes high-achieving boys, who may be considered sissies. In one neighborhood school first grade classroom, Willie was the only boy among five girls in the top reading group. His performance was consistently marked by his alienation from the ongoing activity in the group. His alienation was directly linked to his teacher's definition of the successful student role. Her definition incorporated the following comments: (1) student as willing but docile learner and (2) student as limited participant in the learning process. In this classroom, responses to the teacher's questions were consistently brief and immediately forthcoming; one particular student was usually the first with the correct single-word response to a teacher's question, and received the most recognition. In the other first grade classroom the teacher defined the student role in line with her primary concern with the child and her correspondingly less immediate concern with the curriculum. In her classroom, the successful student role included very different components as compared with the other teacher's characterization of the successful student: (1) student as child whose experience and interests shape his or her willingness to learn and (2) student as active, engaged participant in learning. In this classroom, responses to teacher questions were detailed and often physically dramatized: students were observed to leave their seats, approach the board, and draw a line through a word, dividing it into two component syllables. As implied in the preceding analysis of the successful student role, differential processes of labeling occur between classrooms as well as within classrooms. Students in the top-ranked reading group in one classroom were encouraged to adopt very different profiles of classroom behaviors and attitudes toward schoolwork than students in

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top-ranked reading groups in another classroom. The first teacher's children are learning to be passive (but not so passive as to appear to be asleep!), quick rather than reflective in responding, and either bored or anxious during reading group lessons. Those who are not ready with a quick response are labeled as discourteous, inattentive, or worse. In contrast, the other's children are learning to be actively engaged with learning, and thorough and reflective rather than merely quick. One teacher sees her role as the purveyor of the knowledge inherent in the curriculum; the other sees her role as the interpreter of the curriculum in light of children's developmental needs and experience. At the secondary school level, academic and comprehensive programs provide contrasting vehicles for learning the student role. By the time they are in the tenth grade, children have experienced a long line of classroom teachers who hold varying ideas of teacher and student roles. What is fixed for all children is the process of labeling, sorting, and placement itself. In a study of the careers of fifty-two urban Appalachian secondary students, Mueninghoffl 1 investigated patterns of achievement, school attendance and other related factors for children placed in academic and comprehensive tracks. All of the children were from Lower Price Hill and were enrolled in the tenth grade at Hills High School located approximately six miles from their neighborhood in a white middleclass community. Mueninghoff examined school records data, observed in several classrooms, and conducted a series of interviews with teachers and children during the spring of 1979. The study was designed to determine which factors were linked to variation in achievement while these students were enrolled in grades 9 and 10. Several findings suggest the decreasing relevance of schooling for most of these children, regardless of track placement. First, of the eighty children from Lower Price Hill who began the academic year at Hills, only fifty-two remained enrolled in the spring. Twice as many boys as girls left. In addition, absenteeism was marked for the remaining students. Moreover, absenteeism was pronounced for both highachieving academic track students and students enrolled in the comprehensive program. One top-ranked, academic track boy in the ninth grade missed more than twenty-six days during the school year yet managed to receive a grade of B or better in English for all three marking periods. Judging from absences, even the most academically oriented students appear to be alienated from school. Among girls in the academic track, a slight majority (57 percent) were doing well, obtaining a letter grade of B or better in English. This group of eight girls were consistently high achievers since their records show similar marks for course work in ninth grade. However, grades

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in English for other girls suffered a decline. Of the total number of girls (n = 14) assigned to the academic track, 43 percent were doing worse in tenth grade than they had in ninth grade. For both girls and boys enrolled in the academic program, the general trend was for grades to stay the same in tenth grade if the student had performed at average or poor levels in ninth grade. None of the students in the academic program received better grades from one year to the next. Thus, if there was a change it was experienced as a decline. A majority of both boys and girls in the comprehensive track were doing poor work. Seventy-four percent of the boys and 67 percent of the girls received grades of D or worse throughout the tenth grade year. Mueninghoff found that teachers generally felt good about having "academic" students. They expected different values, different behavior, and higher achievement from these students than from their "comprehensive" students. They admitted that they structured their classes differently, varied the content, and changed their own behavior. One teacher said, "It is a pleasure to teach my academic classes. They come in ready to work. You can count on them to have completed the required reading and homework assignments. Nothing seems to distract them from their academic goals. They compete with each other for high grades and they keep me on my toes, too. I'm free to really teach; I'm loose since I never have to worry about discipline here." When asked about comprehensive classes, another teacher replied: "Well, first you must establish control. Otherwise, you might as well forget about teaching. These kids usually aren't real excited about school, so you really have to keep things moving so they aren't too bored. Variety helps. I try to do a lot of different things. I don't give much homework; they don't do .it anyway. There are some who really don't do much of anything." Evidence from Mueninghoff's classroom observations indicated a large discrepancy between "on task" and "off task" time in a fifty-five minute class period. "On task" behavior was instructionally oriented activity as opposed to "off task" behavior taken up with distribution of materials, cleaning up, and goofing off. Mueninghoff concluded that the classroom climates in the academic and comprehensive programs were different. A significantly larger percentage of time was spent "on task" in the academic classes than in the comprehensive ones. Thus, instruction was easily accomplished in the academic classes. Mueninghoff's interviews and observations supported school records data. For the most part, students in the academic programs in junior high who were doing well dropped in achievement levels in the tenth grade. Adjustment problems, changing interests, and added

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responsibilities at home were contributing causes. Students were questioning the importance of school in their lives, doubting that they would attend college as some of their middle-class peers planned to do. The number of students doing poorly in the academic program greatly increased in the tenth grade. The decline in achievement levels occurred in academic settings despite the atmosphere of intensive learning that characterized academic classrooms. In the entire group studied, only eighteen were in the academic program, only three were doing well, and none were boys. The other thirty-four students in the study were in the comprehensive program. Only two were performing well. Twenty-five of the thirty-four were doing poorly. By March, twenty-eight students had dropped out of school. The perceived irrelevance of school when weighed against other problems facing these adolescents is clear in these data. Students in academic classes drop in achievement levels despite the relative academic rigor in the classroom. Students drop in achievement levels in comprehensive classes where the climate inhibits concentration on subject tasks. High absenteeism further ~ontributes to a decline in grades and points up the alienation of these children from the schooling process. THE NEIGHBORHOOD

The foregoing discussion has emphasized both the ambivalence that enclaved urban Appalachian parents express to their children about children's futures and the straightforward message of inadequacy that the public schools convey to these same children. Parents express cautious hopes about their children's school and work careers while the school generally transmits an image of success alien to the values of urban Appalachian boys. It is easy to conclude that values and social orientation conferred upon the developing child in the family generally serve to estrange the child from the socialization of public schooling. Although it would be foolish to argue that schools are not the principal avenue for social mobility in American society, there do remain other avenues for learning competence and achieving mastery than formal schooling. The neighborhood provides a setting for gaining political knowledge and a sense of mastery and control over one's environment. 12 This can be seen in the political participation of community residents and in the manner in which children gain mastery of their community's topography. This mastery, however, does not enable them to manage community resources that are administered by municipal agencies.

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Compared to other residents in Cincinnati, families in Lower Price Hill are not doing well economically. In 1970 the average family income for households in the neighborhood was $6,000 as compared to a median income of $10,871 for all city families. Perhaps even more revealing, 29 percent of the families in the neighborhood had incomes at or below the poverty level compared to 12 percent of families in the city at large. Mobility from the neighborhood has been difficult for two reasons. According to Fowler, 13 "Residential segregation and poor housing for the migrants was the result of real socioeconomic disadvantages as well as discrimination against 'hillbillies' by native Cincinnatians, especially German Catholics. " 14 Fowler points out that in the 1970 census, three of five neighborhoods in Cincinnati with the lowest socioeconomic status indicators were Appalachian settlements along the Mill Creek Valley, a heavily industrialized basin adjacent to Lower Price Hill. One of these three neighborhoods was Lower Price Hill which, along with the other two, "had experienced extensive public demolition especially for highway construction, public housing development and industrial expansion." 15 Traditionally, low-income city residents generally have been less likely to participate in community life by joining civic or fraternal organizations, or voting. 16• 17 Urban Appalachians especially have been characterized as apolitical and nonaffiliative. 18 Yet, Appalachian residents in Cincinnati surveyed in 1980 by Obermiller join and participate in neighborhood community councils. In his analysis of survey results, Obermiller made a series of comparisons between nonAppalachian and Appalachian white residents who varied along dimensions of age, education, socioeconomic status, and length of residence in the city. The urban Appalachians most likely to join and participate in community council projects were those who had been residents in the city ten or more years but who were not high in socioeconomic status. Especially likely to join and participate were urban Appalachians who were high school graduates and who were between the ages of thirty and sixty-four. These trends contrasted with those for non-Appalachian whites, for whom there was a linear relationship between years of schooling and rates of participation with those who had attended college and who were also in the highest SES group most likely to affiliate. It is difficult to interpret these data since reasons for community council participation were not provided by respondents; however, the data do suggest that participation in civic life at the neighborhood level is attractive to urban Appalachians residing in long-established and low-income Appalachian neighborhoods such as Lower Price Hill.

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Community councils are composed of local neighborhood residents who control agendas of council meetings, which are organized around issues of immediate and longer-term importance to the local neighborhood. From time to time candidates seeking office in municipal government and delegates from agencies such as the Urban Forestry Office in City Hall appear at council meetings. It may be that local residents see the community council as a useful forum in which they are free to air particular grievances, establish neighborhood policy, and channel their concerns to city agencies and offices. The critical dimension appears to be control: when policy and procedures are created by local residents, urban Appalachians join and participate in neighborhood affairs and are likely to benefit psychologically from their active roles in the community. Moreover, in Cincinnati there is a contrast between non-Appalachian and Appalachian white residents in patterns of affiliation and participation on community councils, suggesting differential political identities between the two groups. Appalachian whites are more politically active at the neighborhood level if they are not economically well off. Lower Price Hill's residents have settled in the neighborhood over a period of twenty-five to thirty years, migrating in a clearly identifiable, coherent, and consistent stream from eastern Kentucky coalfields and adjacent farmland. 19 The pattern of settlement in the neighborhood is similar to patterns characterizing nearly all urban Appalachian communities. Close kin tended to move to the same location in the city and subsequently provided shelter, support and access to jobs for kin arriving later. Among the twenty-four parents interviewed by Borman et al., one named thirty relatives living in the neighborhood. Only one respondent had no relatives living close by; most had seven or more. As a result of settlement patterns and subsequent sustained interactions, children in Lower Price Hill grow up in a context of familial ties. Contributing to the close integration and sense of isolation from the rest of the city is the neighborhood's topography. Observers regularly characterize Lower Price Hill as an urban ''holler.'' Lower Price Hill's geography makes it an enclaved community since a steep, unpopulated hill encloses it to the north and highways, major thoroughfares, and a viaduct spanning the Mill Creek Valley surround it in other directions. Because the community has natural, close-in boundaries, children in Lower Price Hill develop a clear sense of their community. 20 Muth interviewed a group of ten children (aged seven-fourteen) and their parents and asked both groups to provide an outline of their neighborhood on a city street map. Children responded by drawing a more circumscribed space than that drawn by their parents. All chil-

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dren agreed upon a core space that included frequently used social spaces such as the elementary school and surrounding yard, the Bible Center, a social service agency housing a community council meeting room, the locally controlled community school, and other offices accessible to the neighborhood. Borman, Mueninghoff and Piazza21 in a related study investigated children's use of neighborhood social services to gain an understanding of their involvement in neighborhood social life during the summer months when they were not in school. Three basic assumptions guided this research. First, children who spent recreational time outside their homes were seen as gaining important knowledge about patterns of social participation in community activities. Involvement in local activities apparently generates satisfaction with one's role in the community for adults. 22 A second assumption was that children who were active participants in neighborhood life were building strongly positive feelings about their neighborhood. A third assumption, following from our knowledge of settlement patterns, was that kin groups and informal friendship networks were important in determining knowledge and use of community resources by neighborhood children and youth. Therefore, their involvement in neighborhood life would not only reflect children's perceptions of benefits from such involvement but would also be highly dependent upon their integration into a network of neighborhood friendships and family relationships. Several findings in this study bear comment. First, children appear to have a working knowledge of their neighborhood and its resources on the basis of their responses to the boundary-drawing task mentioned above. Second, it was also apparent that by the age of seven children had developed generally positive and strongly felt emotions about their neighborhood. In response to the question, "If you had to explain to someone where you lived, what would you say?" the youngest respondent replied, "I live over there [pointing across the street] where my cousins live." A slightly older [aged eight] child responded, "Here, the school yard by Oyler, my house and my friends'." A twelve-year-old said, "To me it's the only community I've ever lived in. It's my life." Finally, children learn of ongoing activities in the neighborhood by word of mouth. Many informal activities, street games, and the like are undertaken by children who live in the same buildings and spontaneously gather after lunch or in the evening on street corners or playgrounds. Other activities such as events at the Bible Center are more regularized since they are scheduled at specific times. A thirteen-year-old newcomer to the neighborhood was representative in naming the Bible Center, open weekdays from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m., as the primary social center for children: "I met a kid down the

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street who brought me up here [to the Center]. So far, I've been here-I like to play ping pong." The Bible Center's attractiveness was based on two features, both important to an understanding of political socialization in the neighborhood. First, the supervisor was a local resident, the eighteen-yearold daughter of a prominent, civically active neighborhood family who provided activities appealing to children of an extensive age range. Although her salary was paid by the local social service agency, the pool table and ping-pong equipment used by older children had been donated by her family. Art supplies were also available and used in the projects of younger children. Second, since the facility was located in the geographical center of the neighborhood, it served as a convenient place to meet other children. In summary, children in Lower Price Hill, informed by their working knowledge of local geography and by word of mouth information, do make use of neighborhood resources. Social services formally provided for them are particularly favored but are most popular when supervision is locally based. The supervisor's role at the Bible Center contrasted with supervision at the local swimming pool, situated on the public elementary school grounds and operated by the City Recreation Department. During the summer of this study, the early closing of the public pool was widely discussed by children and their families. The official account was that the closing was prompted by a lack of sufficient city funds to cover operating costs. However, parents and children cited difficulties in maintaining control by city employees at the pool. One child (aged seven) remarked: "They're closing it [the pool] next week. Somebody got mad." A twelve-year-old said, "Yeah, I go to the swimming pool when it's open, but they're closing it early this year. The lifeguard couldn't control the kids. What a bummer." A fourteen-year-old added, "You can go swimmin' when the pool's open but it's closed now. Somebody was fightin' somebody." When community resources are neither controlled nor regulated by the clients served, general dissatisfaction and misunderstanding concerning resource operations can occur. Enclaved urban Appalachian children are likely to gain at least a partial sense of personal efficacy in their neighborhoods where family and public institutions intersect. They learn to negotiate their immediate surroundings at an early age, because a supportive network of kin and family friends provides information and because the geography of a relatively confined space is easily mastered. Although they may be influenced and modified by politically active community residents, public services remain in the hands of city employees who, like school personnel, serve the conflicting concerns of local clients and civic

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organizations. Thus, unless a service is under the direct control of locals, children frequently experience a lack of control over social resources. CONCLUSION

The question raised at the beginning of this chapter cannot be answered until the full text of children's lives is chronicled, an impossible task. However, the contexts of family, school, and neighborhood in the lives of urban Appalachian children in Lower Price Hill reflect the varying influences of rural and metropolitan definitions, values, systems of authority, and social structures. These varying influences, taken as a whole, do not provide developing children with a notion of a society they can easily and directly influence and with which they can hope to interact as adults with a sense of efficacy. Rather, the bureaucratic structures of society define families as institutions for instrumental learning, schools as institutions for selective sorting, and neighborhood residents as "clients" lacking personal autonomy. In the family, urban Appalachian children learn to value occupational work that demands creative physical effort and to aspire to careers as craftsmen. More bleakly, they also learn that professional jobs valued by the larger society (and also valued by their parents) are not for them. A career as a doctor or lawyer is not for these children, in part because their parents see the role of the student aspiring to a professional career as inherently uninteresting and antithetical to a spontaneous, "real" engagement with life. In the school, urban Appalachian children learn that most elementary school classrooms reward the docile, compliant student who provides the answer the teacher has in his or her head during recitation. By junior high school, most urban Appalachian children have come to see school as a place to log required hours in classrooms that are either buzzing with confusion or focused tightly and unremittingly upon "academics." In both settings, children appear to feel enough estranged to be frequently absent from school. For many, dropping out becomes the solution to the problem. In the neighborhood, urban Appalachian children learn that although they may learn competence in terms of navigating the social and physical space that defines their community, resources are managed by individuals who may be only remotely connected to the daily fabric of their lives. As a result, even in the context of their neighborhood, children may feel estranged. In the three social contexts considered here, there are varying mixes of mainstream and urban Appalachian values, emphases, issues, and

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outcomes. This is hardly surprising since cultural standards, such as the persistent emphasis in our society upon managerial rationality, are reflected in the legal system, the political system, and in other large order institutional systems. These systems knit social contexts together with contradictory ideological threads. An emphasis upon capitalistic ingenuity exists alongside the valuing of cooperation. The outcome of these ideological contradictions is especially fragile for culturally different children. These children must bear the burden of deciphering contradictory messages in varying contexts, often without the encouragement of an empathetic, knowledgable adult, especially one who has an understanding of the social complexities facing the developing individual. Gaps in social understanding are left untended, and alienation and withdrawal or rebellion become likely outcomes. Those who are the appointed teachers, social workers, recreational staff, and the like generally serve as delegates from the larger society to urban Appalachian communities such as Lower Price Hill. These individuals must be committed to comprehending the legitimacy of the cultural experience and world view inherent in the lives of the community's children.

NOTES 1. David H. Looff, Appalachia's Children: The Challenge of Mental Health (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1971). 2. See Melvin L. Kohn, Class and Conformity, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977). 3. Kathryn M. Borman, Nancy S. Lippincott, and Christopher M. Matey "Family and Classroom Control in an Urban Appalachian Neighborhood," Education and Urban Society 11, no. 1 (November 1978): 61-86. 4. Michael E. Maloney, "Conclusion: Prospects for Urban Appalachians," in The Invisible Minority: Urban Appalachians, ed. William W. Philliber and Clyde B. McCoy (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1981), pp. 163-73. 5. John D. Photiadis, "Occupational Adjustment of Appalachians in Cleveland," in The Invisible Minority, pp. 140-53. 6. Carol B. Stack, All Our Kin: Strategies for Survival in an Urban Black Community (New York: Harper and Row, 1974). 7. Alan J. DeYoung and Julia Damron Porter, "Multicultural Education in Appalachia: Origins, Prospects and Problems," Appalachian Journal 7, no. 1 (Autumn/Winter 1979-80): 125. 8. Marvin Berlowitz and Henry Durand, "Beyond Court-ordered Desegregation: School Dropouts or Student Pushouts?" in Marvin Berlowitz and Frank E. Chapman, eds., The United States Educational System: Marxist Approaches (Minneapolis: M.E.P. Press, 1980), pp. 37-53. 9. Thomas Wagner, "Urban Schools and Appalachian Children," Urban Education 11, no. 3 (October 1977): 283-96. 10. Kathryn M. Borman and Nancy S. Lippincott, "Classroom and Playground

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Contexts of Soda) Control" (paper presented at the American Educational Research Association Annual Meeting, San Francisco, April1979). 11. Elaine Mueninghoff, A Study of Achievement Levels of the Urban Appalachian Student in a Local High School" (unpublished manuscript, Cincinnati, 1979). 12. Marc Fried, The World of the Urban Working Class (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1973). 13. Gary L. Fowler, "The Residential Distribution of Urban Appalachians," in The Invisible Minority, pp. 79-84. 14. Ibid., p. 88. 15. Ibid. 16. Fried, The World of the Urban Working Class. 17. Donald I. Warren, Black Neighborhoods: An Assessment of Community Power (Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press, 1975). 18. Harry K. Schwarzweller, "Parental Family Ties and Social Integration of Rural to Urban Migrants," Journal of Marriage and the Family 26 (November 1964): 410-16. 19. Clyde B. McCoy and Virginia McCoy Watkins, "Stereotypes of Appalachian Migrants," in The Invisible Minority, pp. 20-31. 20. Helen J. Muth, "Children's Preference for Familiar Lnrge Scale Environments" (Unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Cincinnati, 1981). 21. Kathryn M. Borman, Elaine Mueninghoff, and Shirley Piazza, "Participation in Neighborhood Life by Urban Appalachian Children" (paper presented at the American Anthropological Association Annual Meeting, Cincinnati, November 1979). 22. Fried, The World of the Urban Working Class.

EXPERIENCES OF IN-MIGRANTS IN APPALACHIA MARY ANGLIN

THINGS are changing in Appalachia, and rapidly. Areas once overlooked because of their remoteness are now the focus of considerable attention-by prospective developers as well as people who are discontented with urban (or suburban) living. No longer is the rugged terrain regarded as a drawback. Instead it is part of the appeal the region holds for outsiders. With this change in image has come a change in population. People are moving to Appalachia in ever greater numbers, to the extent that those who move in more than compensate for the number of those ~eaving. 1 In effect, not only is the population growing-thus reversing the pattern of the last thirty years--but the._fharacter of the population is _<_:_ha,nging as well. While those who move out tend to be young and relatively welleducated, those who move in seem to come from a variety of backgrounds. Retirees, white-collar workers, and young people trying farming for the first time are moving to the country. In addition, there are blue-collar workers relocating as some factories move in, and people returning to their native counties after a stint in the city. In effect, the broad range of people moving to Appalachia and other rural areas has created a diversity of experience within local communities where once there was greater uniformity in background and understanding. Although the shift in population has been developing over a period of time, it has not been evident until recently. And now, given the host of other changes that have occurred in the past twenty years, the effect is overwhelming. Between massive highway-building, state and fede!~lprograms, and intensified private investment, the region has been opened up to the outside, to a greater degree than ever before. Thus it is not simply the fact of so many people moving to Appalachia, but the

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context of their arrival, which has polarized outsiders and local people into different groups. However, it is a polarity that takes many forms and that need not lead to conflict within the community. It would appear that the tension is the strongest in those areas that are just beginning to develop a sizeable population of in-migrants and are now coming to terms with the impact of their presence. Furthermore, when tension exists between outsiders and local persons, it may exist more at the level of the community than in private interactions. It often seems the case that in-migrants can be accepted on an individual basis, although they may be distrusted as a group. Yet, because in-migrants bring expectations and understandings with them that speak to their experience outside the area and which set them apart from the community, they are inevitably perceived as a group by local people. Likewise outsiders tend to group local people together because of their ties to the area. Thus, on a crude level, there is a polarizing of outsiders and local people into different camps. In the two counties in southern Appalachia that I have studied, newcomers find it deceptively difficult to establish themselves as part of the community. This is particularly true of one county (County A), which is still strongly oriented around the tradition of the family farm. Because the other county (County B) has developed more of a tourist industry, it has had to accommodate the seasonal migrations of outsiders--campers, resort dwellers, second home owners-as well as those who move to the area on a more permanent basis. However, even in the latter case, there are sharp distinctions drawn between outsiders and locals, and the outsider who wishes to fit into the local community also must work hard to overcome the stereotypes about tourists and outsiders. Both counties have grown substantially over the past decade, reversing population trends in the preceding period. County A grew by 5 percent and County B by 18 percent. In both instances in-migration accounted for the bulk of the increase. 2 This area has not, as yet, been rigorously industrialized, as the terrain is too steep to allow for the building of large facilities. Nor is there the type of extractive industry that one finds in central Appalachia, although timbering and mining have been important in the past and still play a small role in the present economy. Tourism, as noted above, and light industry currently provide much of the revenues for the area. In addition, many of the residents continue to farm on a small scale, growing tobacco and sometimes tomatoes as cash crops. Less obvious, perhaps, but no less important is the role of federal and state governments as financiers for rural development programs of various

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kinds. For example, funding by the Appalachian Regional Commission has helped to establish and support health care facilities in both counties. Not only do these facilities provide needed services, but they also employ a substantial number of employees. With recent cutbacks in federal subsidies, and the impending dismantling of the Appalachian Regional Commission, some of these jobs and services will be destroyed. However, for the present, they remain an important part of the local economy. The economic resources of the region, then, are fairly limited-for established local people as well as recent in-migrants. Although there are jobs to be had, they are by no means abundant. One of the two counties studied, County A was within commuting distance of a metropolitan area, and many of its residents drove into town for work. People in County B also traveled a good distance to get jobs in factories situated nearby. Thus, unless financed through some other means, the prospective resident must be willing to be somewhat flexible in terms of job choice and working conditions. One notable exception is, of course, the professional who comes into the region in order to take a specific job. However, even there the situation is somewhat limited, in terms of considerations like job advancement, salary, and so forth. Because there are relatively few white-collar jobs and a great deal of competition over those available, the professional coming into the area cannot afford to be too adamant about these issues. In short, it seems reasonable to assume that there are other motives b~s~<J~s economic gain which attract people to the region. One obvious drawing point is its_physical beauty. It is an area of old, densely wooded mountains, with long, narrow valleys nestled in between. As it is rich in water, from rainfall as well as streams and rivers, the foliage is lush and abundant. Indeed, the area is well known for the wide variety of plant and animal species which live there. And because the ruggedness of the terrain militates against any major construction efforts, the natural beauty of the area remains largely undisturbed. Scenic beauty notwithstanding, there are other, more specific reasons for moving into the region-depending on the person questioned. For the most part I have interviewed people in their twenties and thirties, who have been in the area for less than ten years. Many of them, myself included, have come in within the last couple of years. Some are professionals who came with a specified job or task orientation, frequently related to rural health care. Others have moved in as part of a group whose intention is to establish a particular type of community within a rural setting. Still others have moved here because they tired of city living and wish to live on a farm. And there are, no doubt, other reasons for migrating to this area.

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Once new people move in, however, new issues and problems come to light. Many of those who relocate in the country are illprepared for the difference in values and customs they encounter. This is not necessarily a conflict between "hippies" and the local people, although sometimes it takes this form. For example, one man described the reception he and some of his friends were given upon arriving in the area. After being there for a week or so, they found a note on their door to the effect of "leave now or face the consequences." Only he remained. When he talked to some of his neighbors, he found it was one family who was behind the threat and that, basically, the others in his settlement were ready to accept him if he was friendly to them. Yet if one talked to the men who left, you would probably hear that "people around here don't like long-hairs." A lot appears to depend on the concession one is willing to make as regards public image. Moreover, in an area such as this, in which family ties and community are one and the same, the distinction between one's private life and public roles very quickly gets blurred. One simply does not have the anonymity of the city although it is possible to live in a great deal of seclusion. Thus, adjusting to the area and its social codes forces the in-migrant to make certain changes in his or her personal life as well. This problem is particularly acute for those functioning in a professional capacity. Their status as professionals highlights other aspects of their lives-such as educational background, salary, personal powerwhich set them apart from other members of their community. Furthermore, their professional identification with certain personal values and beliefs may intensify public scrutiny of their lives. Thus, the person who wishes to work effectively in the community must take pains to diminish potential conflict by adhering to approved codes of behavior. Matters such as dress and personal style can be used as means of discrediting people who are regarded as threatening to the community. For example, members of a team project, which included social workers and health care professionals, came into disrepute with school authorities in County A because of inappropriate dress and failure to be punctual in their visits. It also did not help their cause that they chose not to work through the established power structure when they made referrals and suggested changes. As a result, they were temporarily denied access to the school system and were permanently kicked out of two of the schools. By contrast a public health nurse who is well accepted by local people attributes her popularity to the fact that she first moved to the area as a farmer and heeded the advice of her neighbors on methods of farming. Then later, when she found work as a nurse, she maintained

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her identification as a farmer and a farmer's wife. It is also significant that the members of the team project were single women, whereas the nurse moved to this area as a wife and mother. Local people, especially local women, are more receptive to outsiders who come in as part of families than to single people. The latter are construed as threats to family stability in the community. For in-migrants who do not hold high status positions, becoming part of the community can be less complicated. First and foremost, Qtltsiders who are not in positions of power are regarded as less of a threat to the community. They have less influence in community affairs and are more easily controlled through local channels of power. In addition, their motives for coming to the area probably appear less suspect than those of persons who move in with professional responsibilities. In the latter case, it is not clear what the outsiders feel about the community as it currently exists. Have they come because they want to change the community or because of personal ambition? Those who move in without prestigious jobs, who are willing to scrape by with whatever work they can find, are more obviously interested in living in the area because they like it. Then, too, outsiders who do not create a strong public presence have a greater opportunity to be known through informal encounters-with neighbors, people tending stores, and the like. They are known first as individuals, and not perceived in terms of their public, and sometimes controversial, roles. As one person who works in a mental health center told me, she cannot travel anywhere in the county without running into clients or people with whom she has had professional contact. Within the county, her identity is that of a mental health worker. On the other hand, someone without professional affiliation is known by where he lives, what he does and how hard a worker he is, and whether or not he goes to church. If one has the opportunity to move slowly, to let people learn about him, and to learn about what is important to them, it is possible to become more deeply a part of the community. He will always be an outsider, and in certain instances will feel the division between outsiders and local people, but he will be accepted and not merely tolerated . .It is certainly easier for an in-migrant to be accepted if he moves in as a l_cmdowner, as this implies a greater commitment to the community than that made by someone who is renting a house and/or farm. The latter is seen as a short-term arrangement and is regarded with some suspicion. Given the high degree of mobility that in-migrants demonstrate, and the rapid rate of turnover within the in-migrant community, it does not seem unwarranted for local people to seek assurance that the newcomer intends to settle in the region before they fully accept him. Nonetheless this

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puts the burden on the in-migrant to prove his loyalty almost before he knows what he has gotten himself into. One of the best ways to establish credibility is by working the land, growing tobacco and other crops. In so doing the outsider manifests the same regard for the land that has long been part of local custom. Particularly if he farms in the established way, by asking neighbors' advice on when to plant and how to tend the crops, the outsider will demonstrate his concern. Since local people in both counties have been heavily inundated with the teachings of the agricultural extension service, they typically use a large amount of chemical fertilizers and pesticides in farming. Local people do not always understand or appreciate the methods of organic farming. But they do appreciate hard work, especially if it leads to good results. What matters most of all is that the outsider be willing to listen and take advice and not act as if he knows it all. If local people sense this, they will be more sympathetic. One anecdote that illustrates this point is a story told to me by a local man. He pointed out an outsider who raises horses and mules in the county and remarked that the man was being made a fool of by some local people. They had asked him how he was going to get more mules. The outsider went along with the joke by responding that he would breed them. They all laughed about it, and my friend said of the outsider, "They think they're making a fool of him and he don't know it. But what they don't know is, he's patching them with their own cloth." What the outsider told the local people in that exchange was that he was not above them. He could stand to learn a few things, too. Having said this, the outsider was warmly received by his local friends. However, to become an active participant in the community, one ~~st also observe the teachings of the Baptist Church, which remains a 1llajor influence in the area. One of the first questions people ask a newcomer is, "What church do you attend?" And they follow it with, "Will you come to ours?" Although it is preferable that one attend the church in his or her settlement, thereby indicating to one's neighbors that one is well-intentioned and God-fearing, the significant factor is that one belongs to a church and lives in accordance with its values and practices. This means, among other things, that one does not drink or dance, nor publicly allude to participating in such activities. Moreover, one does not work on Sunday, at least not visibly. For many in-migrants, these sanctions constitute a major departure from the manner of living to which they are accustomed, and they respond to them in various ways. In County B, which has become more heavily inundated by tourists and second-home owners, there is less pressure on migrants to become part of a church. Because of the heterogeneity of the population, the local community feels itself less

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able to exert influence on these matters. Thus, in-migrants in this county have some choice as to how they will resolve this issue and can be more overt about that decision than outsiders in the other county studied. In the latter, in-migrants have the choice of conforming to local expectations or of remaining more peripheral to the community. Another issue that in-migrants must confront is the way local people define sex roles, viz, the division of labor, standards of conduct, and so forth. Although some assumptions about sex roles are changing, there are some firmly affixed rules of behavior. Those who do not follow these rules are seen as deserving the consequences they meet. For example, it is assumed that segregation of the sexes is necessary for the protection of women in the community. A man and a woman cannot be left alone lest the problem of sexual desire should emerge. However, for women who come from outside the region, this seems a ludicrous overstatement of the power of sexual drives as it has been part of their experience to have nonsexual contact with men. And yet one quickly finds that if she allows the possibility of being alone with a man of whatever age, this is regarded as license for him to take sexual liberties. Since the woman is seen as the initiator of the interaction, she is considered to be a threat by other women in the community. The problem is exacerbated by the fact that in the last ten years women have moved in to the county as· single persons or as part of consensual unions. This, coupled with local lore about the loose mores of hippies, has bolstered the image of in-migrant women as free and available. Several women have told me of their need to prove, by threats and rifles, that they were not open to sexual interaction with their male neighbors. Those who did not overtly disclaim this image more often than not found themselves dealing with unexpected callers, and tension within their community because of it. For example, one woman told me that when she first moved into her community she had to threaten several men who had come over to her house late at night. The next day she told her neighbors of the problem, so that they would understand her attitude towards that kind of behavior. While she did not doubt that rumors would still be spread about her and that she might have to deal with more uninvited visitors, she could assume that most people would know her position. By contrast a friend of hers was more naive and would allow men to visit her. Nothing was ever said, but later on the woman was asked to move. That is the way such matters are handled. If one takes an overt stance in upholding local customs, things go smoothly within the community. However, if the outsider fails to recognize and uphold local custom, he may face indirect pressure to change or to leave.

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Generally speaking, there seems to be an impetus among outsiders to present themselves in a conservative light. This is partly in response to local pressure, particularly in the county where the local community still exercises a good deal of power. But, more than that, it seems that outsiders are themselves concerned to fit into their new surroundings and attempt to do so by conforming their interests and activities to what they believe are rural standards. As such, they display a certain self-consciousness, if not dogmatism, in what they consider the proper way to do things. Because farming and doing without the conveniences of the city are novelties for them, they enter into this life with exaggerated energy and conviction. As one person noted, "people think they are 'hip' if they live on bad roads." The more rustic the life, the better it is. Furthermore, they are often strongly condemnatory of those who advocate any kind of substantive change from the "traditional" way of doing things. They have escaped (sub)urbia and do not want to see it creeping into rural areas, nor do they wish to see vestiges of that mentality in their peers. At times, this makes for a curious conflict between outsiders who have chosen to become farmers and others who do not feel as positively about farming, be they outsiders or local people. Particularly in the latter case, it seems as if the outsider-turnedfarmer almost feels betrayed by people who have moved away from farming and the kind of self-sufficiency that represents. The conflict appears to be focused around what one considers to be emblematic of rural life. Is it the fact of working the land, or a certain attitude towards the land? Many of the outsiders work so diligently at farming precisely because it is something they have not done and do not take for granted. For those who have grown up on a farm, however, there is nothing glamorous about hoeing corn or putting up food. It is just part of surviving. And how does one regard religious values or the strength of the extended family? These, too, are part of rural life, although they are not necessarily important to in-migrants. Some outsiders do become members of local churches, but this is viewed as a personal decision and certainly not necessary to living off the land. Yet for local people, religious beliefs and reverence for the land are closely intertwined. For example, belief in an all-powerful, all-knowing creator lends deeper meaning to their appreciation of the seasons and the fruitfulness of their gardens. It also makes it possible to accept the hazards of farming-<:rop failures, bad weather, and the like. Although this is something of an oversimplification, there is nothing trivial about finding some means of coping with the disasters that can suddenly arise and make chaos out of months of effort. In the same vein, family ties and

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community interdependence become important sources of aid when farmers face a bad year, or just when they need help at peak times during the year. Although these customs may have lost their "functional" significance for those who no longer work the land, they are nonetheless important to local people. Even those who have been greatly influenced by their contact with outsiders still affirm religious beliefs and family solidarity as integral to community life and, in that sense at least, a valuable part of their own experience. And yet, as noted before, while outsiders recognize the strength of these practices in the local community, they do not feel compelled to adopt them. Thus, it would seem that there is a note of arbitrariness in what is perceived as the traditional or authentic way of living in the country. It should be reiterated here that the problem of authenticity, or of being appropriately rural in one's manner, exists more for those who move to the region to become farmers than for those who have political or humanitarian reasons for being in the area. For those with these other motives, local tradition becomes something to be contended with rather than adhered to. How well they respond to this setting translates rather directly into how long they will last in the area, not to mention the kind of reception they will be given during the time of their stay. As might be expected, those who can show respect for local custom and earnestness in their own intentions are the most successful in adjusting to the area-be they professionals or farmers. Those who make too much or too little of rural culture wear themselves out and leave more quickly, either because of local pressure or because of personal needs that cannot be met under such conditions. This is not to belittle the very real commitment to rural life which some outsiders have made. Those who elect to live under rudimentary conditions-without electricity or running water, not to mention heat, and miles away from the nearest neighbor-must put a lot of energy into sustaining themselves, emotionally as well as physically. Nor is it easy for those who work professionally, even for a short period of time. Frequently they must compensate for shortages in staff and equipment by providing extra services themselves. What I am suggesting is that this type of life is often entered into with a certain naivete, and sometimes even an arrogance, which comes from knowing little about it. It is as if outsiders come in with preconceived notions of rural, or specifically Appalachian, culture but have little understanding of how local communities operate. They are eager to participate in rural culture, to farm and to learn traditional crafts, but they do not want to get caught up in the politics of the community. It does not seem necessary to their new way of living. Moreover, outsiders soon learn that many

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members of the local community do not maintain the traditional ways and sometimes even spurn them. Some local people, especially those in their twenties and thirties, do not want to quilt or put up food but would rather provide for their families by buying these things in the store. For them, that is the sign of a better life. So outsiders who want to learn about the traditions of Appalachia go to the old-timers, who may not be active participants in the community, and they separate themselves from the workings of local society as much as they can. In effect, this decision perpetuates this mystique of Appalachia. It also has the consequence of bolstering the distance between outsiders and local people. Those who have come to Appalachia for professional and/or humanitarian reasons take a different stance on the community, but it is no less arbitrary. They choose to interact with local people in certain contexts-for example, the health clinic-but not in others. While they have made the decision to help the community, this does not necessarily mean they want to become part of it. In addition, they may feel the need to protect themselves from too much scrutiny of their private lives, lest this jeopardize their professional work. Thus, although their reasons for being in the area may differ from those of in-migrants who have come to farm, the outsider/professionals share with them the desire to limit their dealings in the local community. Sooner or later, however, it becomes evident to outsiders that they cannot separate rural life from local society. Whether they are interested in political or cultural aspects of living in Appalachia, outsiders find themselves involved in, and affected by, the community they have moved into. For one thing, outsiders soon find out that everyone is related, by blood or marriage or experience, to everyone else. What one does in the privacy of one's farm or says to one's neighbors becomes public by virtue of the fact that family and community are one and the same. It is simply impossible to keep the details of one's life private and distinct from social interactions. This is, perhaps, the biggest departure from urban or suburban living that outsiders face. It can lead to problems when outsiders depart from the traditional lifestyle (i.e., family centered, Baptist, and conservative), as many outsiders do. Sometimes rumors fly, to discredit outsiders by referring to the inappropriateness of their way of living. It may be said, for instance, that someone is living out of wedlock with another person, or that he drinks, or something entirely different. Other times outsiders are surprised by suddenly being asked to move by their landlords, or losing a job for no apparent reason, only to find out later that they did not fit in with the values of their employer or landlord.

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When these kinds of problems arise, as inevitably they seem to, outsiders feel stunned, and almost betrayed, by the community. It seems as if their adjustment to the area, and concern for life there, is overlooked because of a minor difference in values. "Where, then, is the traditional Appalachian regard for the individual?" they ask, and, "How can these people talk about different lifestyles when they've changed so much from the way their parents and grandparents did things?" But the point is that Appalachian culture lives on, in fragmented form, in the people who have grown up there. One issue that has not changed is the importance of family and community solidarity. There are widening rifts within the community, some of them created by the presence of outsiders, but the importance of a sense of loyalty, as a cultural value, is still strongly affirmed. So too are religious values upheld by local people, even though they may not go to church or live in strict observance of religious practices. Many local people maintain these values as their sense of connection with the past, even though their lives have changed and are changing still. For these people, the presence of outsiders, who unwittingly challenge the viability of their beliefs, is considered a threat. For other local people, who are trying to expedite the process of change in Appalachia, the outsiders who move in may appear as models to emulate since they come from a more enlightened (i.e., middle-class) perspective. On the other hand, they may also regard outsiders as threatening because they have, or seem to have, financial and educational advantages over local people. Whatever the case may be vis-a-vis its attitudes toward outsiders, this group of people is more focused on becoming middle class than maintaining Appalachian values. Then there is the older generation, some of which still live the self-sufficient life thought typical of the mountains. Some hunt for ginseng and other herbs. Some bootleg whiskey. Some farm. These people still exist, although their number is dwindling steadily. However, there are enough of them for outsiders to cultivate a sense of Appalachian traditions, and often they are heartened by the fact that there are young people who want to learn about the old ways. These different groups are all part of life in Appalachia, although some are more active in the community than others. Yet the fact remains that it is through them that Appalachian values live on. In some cases this may only mean, as seems to be the case in County B, that local people are reacting to what they see as the deprivations of the past. They want changes that will remake their community, improve their lives. Conversely, it may mean, as in County A, that people want

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change, but in a way that maintains local control and some sense of local tradition. In either case, these people are the representatives of Appalachian tradition, in its present form. While outsiders may want to cling to some romanticized notion of Appalachia, they must ultimately confront the fact that there is no Appalachian culture apart from what is lived out in the community. What they find there are, at best, fragmented and inconsistent versions of Appalachian tradition. Of course outsiders can still find old-timers who will speak of the old customs, but these people are the exceptions, the relics. They may inspire some outsiders to learn crafts or to become interested in customs, but that is the most they can give them. In the face of the hardship of working a farm and/or living in a small community, this may not seem very fulfilling. For some outsiders, it is simply not enough, and they leave. For others it is a hard, but powerful, way to dispel some of the myths about Appalachia. NOTES 1. Community Research Center, "Analysis of Population Projections for U.S. Census" (unpublished report, 1979). 2. Community Research Center, "Analysis of U.S. Census Data" (unpublished report, 1980).

FRoNTIER CuLTURE, GovERNMENT AGENTS, AND CITY FOLKS JAMES WILLIAM JORDAN

IT has been only quite recently that forest managers, particularly many in the USDA Forest Service, have recognized a need to focus social science research on communities contained within the boundaries of forests as an important factor in many forest management decisions. In this approach, the research effort is directed toward an analysis of communities, located in or near forests, as organisms and functioning social systems in themselves. This focus on the community replaces the older, more traditional focus of research on a specific problem (e.g., vandalism of recreation areas, incendiary activities, overuse of facilities). The value of this newer type of community study research is that an early acquaintance with the social and cultural structure of a group of local residents in a forest may so sensitize managers that some predictable situations of conflict with local communities can be avoided through informed and judicious decisionmaking. Prediction and avoidance of intergroup conflict is frequently a more efficient management strategy than is mitigation and attempted resolution of conflict. 1 Anthropologists have used the community study method to analyze many different types of communities in the United States and in many other cultures. The anthropologist usually lives in the community for an extended period of time, participates in many local activities and attempts to develop an "insider's" view of the community. From this anthropological tradition have come a number of widely cited case studies of American culture. During the 1930sCarl Taylor of the United States Department of Agriculture organized studies of approximately seventy communities in the United States. 2 These community studies proved to be of great value in the work of thousands of agricultural extension agents who were attempting to introduce some new, eradicate some old, and modify many farming practices in isolated rural areas. Recently some anthropologists have been conducting field research

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in tourist-oriented communities. In the anthropological analysis of tourism, there are five generally accepted different types of tourism; a visit to a large forest in the United States like, for example, any of the 154 National Forests under the supervision of the United States Forest Service would probabll expose the visitor to each one of the five types of tourism. These are: 1. Cultural tourism. Deals with the picturesque, the quaint, local"color." Examples would include observation of a vanishing style of life, old-fashioned ways of doing things, and rustic and handmade objects of material culture. 2. Historical tourism. Stresses the joy and pleasure of a valued past. Activities would include visits to prehistoric or historic sites, prepared presentation and interpretation for visitors, and possible reenactment of key events of the site on a scheduled basis. 3. Environmental tourism. Emphasizes the geographic and the relationships between humans and the land. Unusual local agricultural, mining or manufacturing activities are often key attractions. 4. Ethnic tourism. Focuses on behavior and appearance of groups of people seen as exotic by most visitors. Witnessing of "native" dances, ceremonies, art work and typical behavior are central factors. 5. Recreational tourism. Promoted by full color posters that are designed to lure visitors to the lake, the beach, the golf course, the campground, the duck blind, the trout stream or the hiking trail.

Both anthropologists and foresters should be concerned with the process of tourism. As workweeks become shorter and vacations become longer and more elaborate, and as the presence of vacationers becomes more common in many places in the United States and elsewhere, it is important to know what the process of vacationing holds for both the tourists and the hosts. The focus of this type of research is, furthermore, distinctly anthropological: "Certainly the tourist is today more ubiquitous than the missionary, the technical assistance agent, or the trader, all of whom have been considered as agents of diffusion and acculturation in past studies". 4 Tourism is now "the largest scale movement of goods, services and people that humanity has perhaps ever seen". 5 Tourism in a forest setting has been observed to have certain predictable effects on the forest and on communities of local residents within the forest. Vandalism is perhaps often perceived as a most important effect. A second effect of tourism in forest settings has been to supplement the income of local communities and provide an alternative to migration to jobs in urban areas. 6 A third effect is that the local residents in forest communities come to conceive of the tourists as a resource to be exploited rather than as individual persons.

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The focus of the research reported in this paper is not primarily on the effects of forest tourism on forest communities; here the focus is on the social structural and cultural characteristics of forest communities which can have important effects on the process of tourism, vacationing, and other outsider uses of the forest. This paper describes the organization of two different types of forest communities in a National Forest in Tennessee and shows the effects these types of community organization have on use by outsiders of the National Forest areas near these communities. Fieldwork for this paper was carried out June to August 1978 in the communities of Coker Creek and Reliance, Tennessee, both located in the Hiwassee Ranger District of the Cherokee National Forest. The Cherokee National Forest is 604,000 acres (241,000 hectares) of rugged mountain terrain along the Tennessee-North Carolina boundary. It is administered by the Forest Service, Department of Agriculture. The Forest takes its name from the Indian group that once occupied the area. Logging, sawmilling, and providing services for tourists gives direct livelihood to about 600 families who live within the Cherokee National Forest. The remainder of this chapter will focus on the different types of community organization shown by Coker Creek and by Reliance communities, the cultural patterns that are a part of this community organization, and the implications these two differing cultural patterns have for the interaction of locals and outsiders in Coker Creek and in Reliance. Eastern Tennessee, where the Cherokee National Forest is located, is in the geographic center of the Tennessee Valley. Accidents of geography, history, and policy of various governmental agencies have created an enclave community in Coker Creek, Tennessee. The approximately 400 residents of this unincorporated community, which covers about one square mile of the Cherokee National Forest, perceive themselves living in a shrinking little town. The local residents in Coker Creek say that each year the outsiders who visit the Forest seem to absorb an additional stretch of woods, or field, or piece of stream bank, by the simple process of using it. As the outsiders "take over" a spot, the natives "surrender'' it, and the native enclave shrinks a bit more. The psychological effect on the natives, the feeling of retreat this engenders, appears to be a more powerful factor than the loss of actual physical use of the land they have given up. There are three primary cultural patterns of interest to us here which shape thought and behavior in the enclave of Coker Creek. They are (1) a frontier mentality, (2) a defended neighborhood ideology, and (3) the dog as a cultural symbol. These three cultural patterns "make" Coker Creek residents different in comparison to other communities in the Cherokee National Forest. They have also earned for the residents of Coker Creek a

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reputation among Forest Service personnel in the forest as a "mean and unpleasant" group of people. This meanness is demonstrated in the relatively large number of incidents of harrassment of visitors by locals in the Coker Creek area and the notoriety of Coker Creek as a hotbed of incendiary forest fire behavior. I will discuss each of the three culture patterns of Coker Creek in turn and show the implications of them for recreational use of the forest near Coker Creek by outsiders. The residents of Coker Creek act and speak as though they feel threatened by the world and people around them; this is a frontier mentality. They say the world is a dangerous place and a wise person is suspicious of most other people, especially outsiders. It is in the family where one can feel most comfortable, and most socializing occurs in this setting. When Coker Creek families use forest picnic or camping areas, as they do on many weekends, there may be twenty-five or so people at one site. This large number looks "unusual" to Forest Service personnel and other outsiders who observe such family outings and may be a cause for the misinterpretation of a Coker Creek family picnic as an unruly "bunch" of hillbillies up to mischief. Residents of Coker Creek believe they should and can police themselves in all matters relating to public and private behavior. They resent "outside" supervision in most matters and do not usually distinguish the activities of different levels or types of governmental agencies. Thus the designation "Big Bear," derived from Forest Service Smokey Bear posters, is applied to agents of the Forest Service, to agents of the Tennessee Department of Conservation, the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency, the State Agricultural Extension Service, to Tennessee Game Wardens, and to deputy sheriffs from Monroe County. Local residents believe that, in relation to agricultural and forestry matters, their folk beliefs and practices are more sensible than other possibilities. They are quite willing to believe that, in other circumstances, other perhaps more "modern," "scientific" practices may be usable, but in their frontier situation, understandable to no one but themselves, their folk models are best. Coker Creek residents attempt to seal themselves off from the threatening world of outsiders by a forbidding reputation. They form what is called in anthropology a defended neighborhood. 7 The forbidding reputation of Coker Creek is built of beliefs, propagated by residents of Coker Creek, in their free and easy use of personal violence and of wildfire in the settlement of disputes. Local law enforcement agents and Forest Service personnel substantiate the opinion of Coker Creek residents that they engage in a relatively large number of incidents of deviant behavior when measured against other communities of similar size in the Cherokee

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National Forest. This corroboration from "official" sources is used by Coker Creekers as a social control apparatus to keep informed outsiders at a distance. "What they indicate is the general apprehensiveness of (Coker Creek residents) ... and the necessity for each of them to bound off discrete areas within which they can feel safe and secure." 8 The setting of wildfires is used by some people in Coker Creek as a weapon against other community members or against outside agencies. People would talk about "burning someone out." Fire is power in isolated rural settings where help is far away in miles and time. Violence is talked about a great deal in Coker Creek. During the time of the fieldwork for this paper, four teenaged girls who were hiking the Appalachian Trail through the Cherokee National Forest were raped by men who were residents of the Forest but not of Coker Creek. Some men in Coker Creek said that the girls were foolish to be hiking through the mountains, that any reasonable outsider would know the dangers of encountering "mountainmen" like themselves, and that, although it was too bad these girls had to get hurt, it was a valuable lesson for other outsiders to learn. The assistant district attorney of Carter County, where the rape occurred, added official sanction of a sort to this feeling when he stated, "I wouldn't think about walking the Appalachian Trail unarmed anymore than I would think about walking through Harlem at midnight." 9 Some people in Coker Creek talk a great deal about hunting boar in the mountains around the community. They refer to the boars as "Rooshians" since it is believed locally that they originally were imported from Russia. In the past, boar was hunted in the area surrounding Coker Creek. 10 The stories told about boar-hunting are exaggerations according to outside observers of the Tennessee hunting scene. The significance of such stories is that they enhance the aura of violence that surrounds Coker Creek. In the cultivation of this cultural pattern of the defended neighborhood ideology, the residents of Coker Creek, through the symbols of incendiarism and violence, are getting back at the outside world. The intellectual and physical challenges provided by the defense of their neighborhood through fire and violence are a significant enrichment of their lives. In a sense, the residents of Coker Creek, through defended neighborhood ideology, are responding to pleas like that in a recent Journal of Forestry article 11 that local publics participate in forest management decisions. Coker Creek is participating in forest management decisions in the Cherokee National Forest, but in cultural terms understandable only in the perspective of their defense of their neighborhood. This, of course, does not make Coker Creek incendiarism or violence or harassment of

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outsiders any more appropriate or acceptable as behavior; it does make this behavior intelligible to outsiders as more than merely mindless, antisocial hooliganism. The third cultural pattern of Coker Creek is the symbolism of the dog in their social system. 12 The rural white Southerner is depicted frequently as being surrounded with animals, especially dogs. The dogs are kept for specific purposes or simply because they are a habit. Much as Luomala found elsewhere, "the dog was a companion, a pet, a scavenger, a sentinel and guardian, and an aid in hunting and war" for his humans. 13 A certain facet of behavior of many dogs proved to be of great advantage to the rural Southerner, operating as he did, and does, largely without benefit of locks, tight storehouses, or secure cupboards. That facet is the dog's tendency to assume a selfish control over those areas and artifacts his humans habitually use. "I have never. made him a scientific study, but I think he is the only animal that takes a joint ownership in all his master's property so far as he can comprehend it, whether it be personal, portable or realistic; in other words, the man owns the dog and his other property, and the dog seems to claim or own the man and all of his other effects ... " 14 Apart from this seemingly "natural" ability of the dog, there are a number of specific uses for which a dog may be trained. Historically {and even today in some areas) in the rural South, cows were grazed on a relatively open range. Rural mountaineers frequently raised and trained "ketch dogs" whose task was to assist in rounding up the cattle. The commonly held view that dogs are kept primarily for hunting appears to be valid in many instances: "And then there were the hunting dogs-the pride of many families. Stories abound concerning this dog or that, legendary in a community because of their ability. The hunting stories reveal that sometimes a man would be invited along on a hunt, not so much because of his hunting skill as that of his dog." 15 Training a good dog for hunting is apparently a difficult task, and one perhaps beyond the talents of a man working alone. Mann Norton, one of the contacts for the "Hunting" section of The Foxfire Book, maintains that the most effective way to train a dog is to stage a hunt with several skilled dogs and simply allow them the opportunity to train the novice dog. The authors of this section conclude: "The more we researched this chapter, the more valuable an asset we found a good dog to be. Nine times out of ten we found the dog to be at least half responsible for the success of a hunt. That's one reason why dogs are now outlawed in our part of the country for deer hunts. They just got too good at it." 16 Some specially rugged and robust dogs are trained as "hawg dogs"; Downs says that these dogs are unique to the rural South where, in some isolated areas, razorback hogs roam the woods foraging for themselves

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and are sometimes rounded up for food or for the protection of the human animals in the region. 17 Hodges offers another, more unusual use of the dog in the rural South. Along the Gullah Coast of South Carolina and Georgia, dogs are employed to track down "renegades," fugitives from the law living in isolated and inaccessible swamps, pine forests, or offshore islands. The dogs are perceived by the renegades as "formidable opponents-which have the ability to follow an invisible scent, which can run at least three times faster than a man, and which have tremendous stamina-and a voice, a bark which relays to the sheriff information such as the direction of the fugitives' flights." 18 I have developed this section on the role of the dog in such detail because the dog is an exceedingly important cultural symbol in Coker Creek. Therefore, when rumors travel among the men of the community, as they did in the summer of 1978, that "game wardens are killing dogs in the Forest," the dog-owners of Coker Creek get upset. Since the role of dog-owner includes almost all adult males in Coker Creek, there is probably no other point so sensitive to cultural conflict as tampering with, or being believed to be tampering with, the natives' dogs. Even when dogs simply do not return from a night's hunting and there is no apparent reason to believe they have been killed or trapped by any government agent, men in Coker Creek are likely to assign that cause. From this analysis it is clear that the dog is a crucial cultural variable in the world view of the residents of Coker Creek. The image of themselves, and of Coker Creek, which is held by the natives is logical and consistent in structure. I have constructed the image, which follows, from behavior I observed in Coker Creek; no native said to me that these were the elements of that image. Nonetheless, the behavior of the natives is such that it appears that they normally act in accordance with it. To this extent, the image serves as the public ideology of Coker Creek. The tenets of this public ideology are: (1) the natives of Coker Creek are a small, select group with a special heritage, traditions, and identity; (2) Coker Creek is a place of violence and action; and (3) life in Coker Creek is a continual struggle pitting the natives against the outsiders for control over the land and the way of life of the natives.

The result that the natives fear is that most of Coker Creek will eventually be owned by outsiders, who will allow natives to serve as managers and caretakers for the property, which will function as an elaborate playground for tourists.

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If the key word to describe the culture of Coker Creek is "enclave," the key word that characterizes the community of Reliance, Tennessee is ''business." The culture of Reliance is business. As accidents of geography, history, and policy have shaped Coker Creek's culture, so have similar accidents molded Reliance, but in a different cultural configuration. The keys to the business and openness of Reliance are (1) the Hiwassee Scenic River and (2) the tourist trade it has attracted. The Hiwassee River originates on the northwest slope of the Blue Ridge Mountains in northern Georgia, and flows into North Carolina before turning west through Tennessee. It drains 750,000 acres (300,000 hectares) of mountain land which is 95 percent forested. That portion of the Hiwassee River which is designated as a scenic river is located in Polk County, Tennessee, within the boundaries of the Cherokee National Forest. The community of Reliance is situated on the Hiwassee River near the geographical center of the scenic river area. The Hiwassee Scenic River is managed cooperatively by the Tennessee Department of Conservation, the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency, the United States Forest Service, and the Tennessee Valley Authority. The scenic river provides picnicking, camping, hiking, fishing, float trips, raft trips, white water sports, nature trails, and horseback-riding for visitors. The community of Reliance is perfectly situated to reap the rewards of this attraction. The coming of the scenic river development to Reliance caused some difficulties for local residents at first: "The only problem I've had is with the government. It's gotten into a bad habit of sticking its nose in people's business where it doesn't belong. "Take a look down there," Mr. Webb smiled as he pointed to the fertile river bottom land between the mountains. "My granddaddy settled this area 115 years ago. It's a beautiful site. "A couple of years ago the government came along and said this was going to be a scenic river. It always has been a scenic river. But they made it a law ... they even went so far to say that the cows couldn't go down to drink. "That's sorta stupid if you ask me. It's gonna be mighty hard to change the drinking habit of a cow because of some law." 19

Other local residents remember that "Reliance was a mean place before all this camping and floating and fishing business came along. Now we're all real nice to these furriners because we have to be to get their business." While Coker Creek has one general store and two gasoline service stations supported almost entirely by business from community residents, Reliance has four general stores, three service stations, and seven specialized business establishments that cater to the tourist trade

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on the river. The specialized businesses include campgrounds, music festivals, and a transportation service for rafters and floaters. Logging and sawmilling are not important in Reliance. The community's population of 297 persons derives the bulk of its income from outsiders. The mercantile atmosphere of Reliance makes the community feel more "open" than Coker Creek. There are five locations in Reliance where daily newspapers from Chattanooga and Knoxville are sold. There are no such outlets in Coker Creek. The main shopping and servicing center for the residents of Reliance is the city of Cleveland, Tennessee, population 19,000, located thirty minutes away over mostly four-lane highway. By contrast, the residents of Coker Creek look to Tellico Plains, Tennessee (population 1,900) for their needs. Tellico Plains offers none of the colleges, hospitals, large retail stores, or other metropolitan facilities that are found in Cleveland. Of course, because of their enclave ideology, the residents of Coker Creek do not feel the need for these facilities so strongly as do the locals of bustling Reliance. The world view of most people who live and work in Reliance is summed up nicely in the title and first sentence of a newspaper article written about the community. 20 Remote Village About to Boom Reliance, Tenn.-The screen door opens wide into an unusual world of common sense, a mixture of modern-day commercialism and old-fashioned honesty and native beliefs ....

By understanding the important cultural characteristics of Coker Creek and similar communities, and of Reliance and similar communities, we may see how these two different patterns of culture affect the relationships of local residents with outsiders. A model that shows the basic possibilities for cooperation and conflict between groups in the Cherokee National Forest might look like: AGENTS OF VARIOUS ~-------------,~~-G_O __ V_ER_N_M __ EN_T__U_N_IT_S__~ LOCAL COMMUNITY RESIDENTS

~

OUTSIDERS AND VISITORS TO THE FOREST

When we apply this model to a Coker Creek type of community culture pattern, we find considerable tension and stress, and many possibilities for conflict, along Arrow 1. Residents of Coker Creek have learned

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that there are serious dangers in escalating this particular conflict to actual behavior, since all levels of government can retaliate, however slowly and clumsily, with officially sanctioned force. One way to deal with this situation, and the solution I believe the residents of Coker Creek have hit upon, is to channel this Arrow 1 stress onto a more favorable target. That target is the group of outsiders and visitors to the forest. Although there is suspicion of outsiders in the culture of Coker Creek, as we have seen, there is no real hatred of them built into Coker Creek culture. The harassment of outsiders around Coker Creek in the Cherokee National Forest is the means community residents have found to deal with their perceived grievances against agents of various governmental units. The new target serves Coker Creek so well because the target consists of a transient group of people who are unlikely to be able to retaliate effectively. Unlike government agents who are frequently familiar with aspects of the local scene, outsiders can probably only complain to government agents when they are harassed by locals. Thus, the wheel comes full turn. The local community with a Coker Creek type culture perceives a threat to itself at the hands of government agents. The community responds with unpleasant behavior directed toward visitors. These visitors complain to the government agents they believe to be responsible and the cycle is complete. When we apply the model to a Reliance type of CQmmunity culture pattern, we do not see much potential for conflict. The local community residents in a Reliance type community do not feel stress along Arrow 1 because it is an agency of the government which has provided the framework for the community's newly found prosperity. Similarly, there is scant room for conflict along Arrow 2 because Arrow 2 is the pathway to a comfortable livelihood for Reliance type community residents. What we see then is that conflict in these two situations is generated or muted, by the cultural patterns produced and maintained by types of community organization. It is not the particular persons in Coker Creek or in Reliance who are "naturally" mean or who are "naturally" pleasant. Rather it is the behavior and way of thinking about the world produced by the Coker Creek image of the world which makes residents of this type of community difficult subjects for forest managers to deal with. In the same way, the Reliance image of the world makes residents of this type of community cooperative and pleasant in day-today relations with the forest managers. The difficulties encountered by forest managers in the Cherokee National Forest, and other similar situations, should be viewed as conflicts between cultures rather than as conflicts between people.

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The images of forest managers held by the people of Coker Creek and of Reliance are basically the same despite the fundamental differences we have seen between the cultures of these two communities. There are four elements of this image of foresters held by locals. The first is the belief that things were better in the mountains before the coming of modern foresters. This is an attitude summed up nicely by Frome: 21 They resent Government regulations that deprived them of unrestricted hunting and fishing. They recall how they would burn the woods in order to "green the grass" and to kill off snakes and ticks. In those days, when they managed the land, the woods were full of small game. Chestnuts were plentiful, which they could use at home or haul to market as a cash crop. Then came the Government, with its rules and "book learning." What happened since? The mysterious chestnut blight struck. Small game isn't what it used to be. Neither is fishing. All of this, of course, they attribute to the way the Government runs the mountains.

The second element is that too many people involved in forest management are "furriners," outsiders. As the Forest Service continues its process of professionalization and bureaucratization, it is inevitable that the transfer of personnel will give substance to this element of the image held by locals. The demands of professional competence and "well-roundedness" conflict with the demands of community and continuity. The third element is the belief that many professional foresters are inept in their duties. In both Coker Creek and Reliance, many people delight in recounting tales of the bumbling behavior attributed to Forest Service employees. The fourth element is the feeling that the policies and behavior of the Forest Service are inconsistent and arbitrary. Some people in Reliance complained that the Forest Service is forever talking about maintaining good watersheds while, at the same time, the Hiwassee River is regulated in an unpredictable manner for the efficient operation of the Appalachia power plant. Local hunters told stories, like the following one that actually occurred in another National Forest, about the contradictory nature of wildlife, as opposed to timber, management decisions: Squirrel hunting is one of the major sports of the local hunters. So when we started a program in some areas of converting the hardwoods to pine, because pine was a faster growing crop and softwoods were in demand, there was a great resistance to this program by squirrel hunters, at least in the early stages. The Forest Service later came to a better multiple-use approach to meet the local demand, but the first attempts anyway, in the early thirties, were to just skim off the old hardwoods and then plant pine. But there was a poster put up

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by local hunters that said, "You've got the money, but we've got the time. You cut the hardwoods, and we'll burn the pine." 22

Residents of both communities say that when they burn the woods as a hunting tactic, to destroy underbrush, to prepare the ground for farming, to kill insects or snakes, or to fertilize the soil with ash, they are considered lawbreakers. But, as they say, professional foresters are allowed to do the same things under the label of "prescribed burning." For purposes of this chapter, we are not concerned with the "truth," "accuracy," or "fairness" of the four elements of the image of the forester among people in Coker Creek and Reliance. What matters is that this is the image perceived by residents; this is their definition of the situation. This is the way they want to see the forester because this view fits well and complements the image the local people have of themselves and their own communities. It is not apparent what the Forest Service, or other forest management agencies, can do when they find themselves already caught up in the cultural web of conflict in Coker Creek type communities. In view of the powerful and long-standing geographical, economic, and historical factors at work in many such situations, perhaps little can be done by forest managers alone. This sort of anthropological community study has value nonetheless. This study, and others like it carried out in different settings, can sensitize us to the cultural patterns of local communities with which agencies of the broader society must deal. Conflict resulting from contradictory cultural definitions of the same situations can be predicted. The prediction and avoidance of conflict among the managers, residents, and users of the forest is preferable to the mitigation and attempted resolution of such conflict after it has begun. The anthropological community study can assist the forester in foreseeing the "people problems" that the role of professional forester will surely present. NOTES 1. Thomas R. Waggener, "Community Stability as a Forest Management Objective," journal of Forestry 75 (1977): 710-14. 2. The best-known of these include: Waller Wynne, Harmony, Georgia (Washington: Bureau of Agricultural Economics, 1943); Earl H. Bell, Sublette, Kansas (Washington: Bureau of Agricultural Economics, 1942); Kenneth MacLeish and Kimball Young, Landaft, New Hampshire (Washington: Bureau of Agricultural Economics, 1942); Walter W. Kollmorgen, The Old Order Amish of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania (Washington: Bureau of Agricultural Economics, 1942); Edwin Moe and Carl Taylor, Irwin, Iowa (Washington: Bureau of Agricultural Economics, 1942); Olen Leonard and Charles Loomis, El Cerrito, New Mexico (Washington: Bureau of Agricultural Economics, 1941).

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3. Valene Smith, ed., Hosts and Guests: The Anthropology of Tourism (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977), pp. 2f. 4. Theron A. Nunez, "Tourism, Tradition and Acculturation: Weekendissimo in a Mexican Village," Ethnology 2 (1963): 352. 5. Davydd J. Greenwood, "Culture by the Pound: An Anthropological Perspective on Tourism as Cultural Commoditization," in Smith, Hosts and Guests, p. 129. 6. Lewis Deitch, "The Impact of Tourism upon the Arts and Crafts of the Indians of the Southwestern United States," in Smith, Hosts and Guests, p. 184. 7. Gerald Suttles, The Social Construction of Communities (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972), pp. 21-43. 8. Ibid., p. 25. 9. "Four Sought in Rape of Girls Elude Manhunt," Knoxville News-Sentinel, June 20, 1978, p. 7. 10. Cf. Michael Frome, Stranger in High Places (Garden City: Doubleday, 1966), pp. 273-82. 11. J. A. Wagar and William Folkman, "Public Participation in Forest Management Decisions," Journal of Forestry 72 (1974): 405-8. 12. James William Jordan, "An Ambivalent Relationship: Dog and Human in the Folk Culture of the Rural South," Appalachian Journal2 (1975): 238-48. 13. Katherine Luomala, "The Native Dog in the Polynesian System of Values," in Stanley Diamond, ed., Culture in History (New York: Columbia University Press, 1960), pp. 190f. 14. Alexander Majors, Seventy Years on the Frontier (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1893}, p.21. 15. Elliott Wigginton, The Foxfire Book, (Garden City: Doubleday, 1972), pp. 252£. 16. Ibid., p. 254. 17. James Downs, "Domestication: An Examination of the Changing Social Relationships Between Man and Animals," Kroeber Anthropological Society Papers 22 (1960): 23. 18. H. E. Hodges, "How to Lose the Hounds: Technology of the Gullah Coast Renegade," in J. Morland, ed., The Not So Solid South (Athens, Georgia: University of Georgia Press, 1971), p. 68. 19. "Remote Village About to Boom," Chattanooga News-Free Press, city ed., August 11, 1974, Al. 20. Ibid. 21. Frome, Stranger in High Places, p. 302. 22. Hamilton Pyles, "Fire Prevention Strategy in the East," Forest History 16 (3) (1972): 22-23.

PARTICIPATORY RESEARCH ON LAND. OWNERSHIP IN RURAL APPALACHIA PATRICIA D. BEAVER

THE Appalachian region of the United States is a region of contrasts: great poverty, lack of local control over local institutions and development processes, and high rates of emigration of the young exist in the midst of vast wealth of natural resources, great economic development potential, and wealth of scenic beauty. Although antipoverty programs, efforts of citizens groups, and regional social and educational institutions have tried to address the problems of extreme poverty, lack of or poor quality of public services, health services, housing, and abuse of the environment, a major stumbling block to social change is the ownership of the region's resources by absentee and outside corporate interests. In 1978 a group of citizens and scholars in the Appalachian region began a major research project on land ownership in Appalachia. The research was concerned with the collection and analysis of data on land ownership patterns, and the impacts of these patterns on rural communities. A major goal of the project, however, was the use of the research process and the findings for educating and mobilizing a wider constituency of local groups concerned with addressing local landrelated problems. The research was unique for the involvement of both academic and non-academic researchers in a decentralized, participatory process. 1 While the impetus for the study was provided by local citizens, they were joined in the research process by members of the academic community. Local citizens were attuned to local resource issues and power relationships, and the research process provided research skills and education for action on land-related issues. The project provided a data base and methodology for further research on land-related issues, as well as a model for projects involving the cooperative effort of academic and nonacademic researchers. While academic research findings so often are unavailable to the

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citizenry affected by the research problem, the land study demonstrated both the importance of, and the means by which, research can be used not only to describe problems, but also to begin to address their solution. The rigorous methodology gave credibility to the research, whose findings are profound for the field of Appalachia:r\ Studies. REGIONAL HISTORIC TRENDS

By the tum of the century, the natural resources of the region, particularly the central and southern Appalachian timber and minerals, had been discovered by the outside industrializing society. Speculation in mineral and timber lands, begun much earlier in the region's history, intensified during this time. By around 1910, the railroads had opened up the mountains to commerce in a major way, and a rapidly industrializing society began gnawing at the natural resources of the region. The availability of a cheap labor force began to attract manufacturing to the mountain fringe areas. Between 1900 and 1930 over 600 company towns sprang up in the southern Appalachians, 2 drawing mountain families from the farm and into factory towns. Coal and land agents appeared in rural farm communities in central Appalachia around the tum of the century with offers to purchase mineral rights to coal from farmers whose livelihood was precarious and whose interest was on cultivation of the surface. "The first load of coal was shipped from southwest Virginia in 1892 and from Harlan County, Kentucky in 1911 .... There were large and rapid population increases in the coal mining counties .... To house and serve these workers and the families, the mining companies, lumbering interests, and railroads built 'encampments' for the newcomers .... " 3 Acquisition of coal lands by outside corporations meant outside control of local communities and local services and ultimately local and state political processes. For example, "through the land acquisitions of the early 1900's, a very near majority of Harlan County [Kentucky] has fallen into the hands of absentee corporate owners. Seventeen out-of-state based corporations own 48% of the privately held surface land of Harlan County. . . . Light taxes and little resistence have enabled these corporations to extract quite a profit from the hills of Harlan. 4 Likewise, "in places. like Mingo County [West Virginia] up to 85% of the land is corporate and absentee owned ... .''5 For Mingo county and others like it, "Out-of-state corporations whose prime concern has been to extract the mineral wealth at the lowest cost to themselves, often leave in the wake of their profit a landless people, staggering death and injury toll in the mines, environmental ruin, and particularly low property tax revenues to county governments. " 6

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Corporate ownership of land in coal counties leaves little land available for housing, and "existing land for housing-usually along creek and river bottoms-has been subject to severe flooding in recent years, much of it likely related to land misuse, such as unreclaimed strip mining." 7 Resort land speculation and development progressed to a limited degree during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in exclusive resort areas in southern Appalachia. During the 1960s the mountains witnessed the rapid acceleration of land speculation and the development of a full-scale tourist industry. Land prices and local property taxes began skyrocketing, leading to the decline in the viability of agriculture, particularly for the small farmer. Coupled with the rapid industrial development of the region by these major industries, concentration of land ownership by the federal government has become extensive. The United States Forest Service is the largest single owner of Appalachian lands, with control of well over five million acres of land in the six states of Georgia, Kentucky, North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, and West Virginia. 8 Federal ownership of land means lost property tax revenues to local counties and higher tax rates for local owners, limits on productive capacity and development potential, outside manipulation of timber revenues, and high poverty rates. 9 Despite the land and mineral wealth of Appalachia, the region's local governments remain poor. Part of the reason for the lack of county revenue ... lies in the failure of the property tax system to tax the region's wealth adequately and equitably. The failure to tax minerals adequately, underassessment of surface lands, and revenue loss from concentrated federal holdings has a marked impact on local governments in Appalachia. The effect, essentially, is to produce a situation in which a) the small owners carry a disproportionate share of the tax burden; b) counties depend upon federal and state funds to provide revenues, while the large, corporate and absentee owners of the region's resources go relatively tax-free; and c) citizens face a poverty of needed services despite the presence in their counties of taxable property wealth, especially in the form of coal and other natural resources. 10

Concentrated absentee and corporate ownership of Appalachian land and minerals is characteristic of southern and central Appalachia. "With absentee ownership, the wealth derived from the land and mineral resources is drained from the region; with concentrated ownership, a few, primarily corporate owners, can dominate the course of a county's development." 11

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PROJECT HISTORY

The year 1977 was a time of flooding in the mountain south. In West Virginia, hillsides denuded of vegetation by strip-mining and soaked to capacity began to give way under the onslaught of more rain; creeks became rivers, rivers became torrents, and 20,000 people were left homeless in the wake. Federal relief trailers were provided, but there was no available land on which to put them. The land was not owned by individuals, but by coal companies whose interest did not lie in the housing market. The Appalachian Alliance formed out of this crisis as a coalition of citizens groups and civic organizations in the region with a mission of looking into various questions related to community wellbeing. The Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force was formed in 1978 by members of the Appalachian Alliance, who were joined by other regional citizens and scholars. Highlander Research and Education Center and its staff became a central forum for a series of meetings in the summer of 1978 by the Task Force. Composed of individuals from eight Appalachian states, the Task Force began to work on land and taxation issues. Since the early 1970s, various citizens groups have tried to deal with the effects of ownership patterns, including "the wanton strip mine destruction of the land, the lack of land for housing, low tax base and poor services, flooding, loss of agricultural land, broad form deed and land leases." 12 Also during this time a number of studies of land ownership and related impacts were beginning to appear, although they were scattered and tentative. Policymakers have on the whole, however, refused to acknowledge the extent to which land ownership itself is a basic, central issue in regional economic and social problems. The Task Force learned that the Appalachian Regional Commission was preparing to conduct a major study of settlement patterns in the region. ARC policy has encouraged the expansion of growth "centers" and the movement of people away from their rural communities, leaving more land "for continued and even greater corporate exploitation." 13 However, as recently as October 1977 the ARC Appalachian Conference on Balanced Growth and Economic Development had recommended a study of land ownership. The Jobs, Income and Human Services Task Force of this conference, chaired by former Secretary of Labor Willard Wirtz, recommended that the ARC review the extent to which unusually extensive ownership of Appalachian land and natural resources by large corporations, and the conse-

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quent transfer of profits from their development outside the Region, affects the tax base and the opportunities to provide human resources through local programs and institutions. 14 While this recommendation seems to have been ignored, the research on the settlement study was described as follows: The research study will examine and document the changes in settlement patterns and assess their impacts on the need for and ability to provide public services. It will consider what strategies could be followed to respond to these different patterns. The study consists of two major parts. One will develop data to define more clearly the distribution of "urban" and "rural" residents within the Region and set forth proposals for the application of the data to federal grant program eligibility, requirements and fund allocation policies. The other will investigate the effect of settlement patterns on the net cost of providing public services and will develop alternative program policies to respond to, or influence, emerging settlement patterns. In August 1978 members of the Task Force confronted the ARC Research Committee during a meeting in Washington over its failure to address land ownership questions. The Task Force felt that the more basic issues influencing settlement patterns, the quality of services, and the quality of life in the region were the pattern of ownership of the region's resources, the associated structure of taxation, and the patterns of service delivery resulting from these economic factors. The relationship between the Task Force and the ARC began initially as one of confrontation between Task Force members and the ARC Research Committee. Task Force members attended the Research Committee meeting, not with the intention of conducting a land ·ownership study, but rather to challenge the settlement project the Commission was developing, and to urge serious consideration of the land ownership question. Following a series of meetings, the ARC Research Committee made a surprising offer that the Task Force submit a proposal to conduct a study of land ownership itself. The Task Force met and accepted this offer, recognizing not only the importance of collecting the information, but also the significance of the ARC funding of regional citizens to conduct regional research. If funded, the project would represent the first time ARC had funded a local research project by local researchers, despite the millions of ARC dollars spent on research projects conducted by outside consultants. In retrospect, the Appalachian Land Ownership Study is, in fact, the only ARC research project conducted by regional researchers. The Task Force was notified in January 1979 of funding in the amount of $100,000 for the study. Based on the amount of funds, the

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Task Force decided to conduct research in selected representative counties in six central and southern Appalachian states. PROJECT ORGANIZATION

Of the group of twenty-two Task Force members, eight came from academic institutions, including Appalachian State University, University of Alabama, University of Kentucky, Mars Hill College, and Emory and Henry College as faculty, staff, or graduate students. The remaining fifteen Task Force members represented a variety of citizens groups and organizations concerned with local, state, and regional human issues. However, a distinction between academic and nonacademic participants was never relevant to the research process. Instead, as the issues which needed to be addressed became more defined, and as the possibilities of actually getting the research process underway through funding by the ARC became a reality, the enthusiasm for the project allowed little room for other concerns. Of common interest to everyone involved were the goals of establishing as broad a data base as possible from the tax rolls, getting the maximum amount of human input from the broadest representation of the local constituency, and relating the research findings to as many specific communities as relevant and feasible, so that the findings of the study could be used by local and regional groups in solving local problems and by later researchers in addressing other research questions. After the Task Force had planned and negotiated funding for the project, Task Force representatives from each of the six target states met with individuals and groups in their state who were interested in forming a working state group. Task Force members from each state chose a full-time state coordinator and recruited researchers for the state research teams. Some researchers were students from Appalachian Studies programs, while the majority of researchers were native to or had moved to the areas in which they conducted research and came to the project through their involvement in other community groups or their interest in finding ways to address land issues in their own communities. A shared concern over the quality of life in the region and with gathering information which would shed light on regional problems motivated involvement in the research process. Each state team became a working unit with its own internal dynamics and concerns. Each state group evaluated the issues in its local counties and selected the counties in which to conduct research. The regional Task Force, with its representatives from each state, synthesized the state research plans and refined the specific research methodology so that county and state research would be uniform and would

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lead to regional as well as state analysis. "Through this decision making scheme, and with a number of fruitful meetings, the group decided upon a research design which would help gather data broad enough for regional impact without losing the specificity needed for local action." 15 Each state contributed vast amounts of in-kind assistance to the project. Highlander Center provided facilities and personnel for training workshops and planning sessions, office space, and John Gaventa's time as research coordinator. ASU, other academic institutions, and citizens groups provided office space, supplies, travel funds, and personnel. Each state group recruited volunteers; fieldworkers camped, slept on floors, and refused the full government travel reimbursement. Since most of the researchers did not have research experience, training workshops dealt with proceedures for finding data, filling out coding forms, and conducting interviews. During the first workshop, fifty participants were trained in collecting information from courthouses, government agencies, and corporations; on analyzing land ownership and taxation issues; on power structure research; and on conducting community surveys. Follow-up sessions were conducted at the state level on specific state-level procedures and research problems to be encountered. Throughout the summer months state coordinators and state Task Force members worked closely with field workers in troubleshooting as specific problems arose with local records. The regional coordinators kept in contact with state coordinators and researchers through additional workshops, meetings, and visits. A follow-up workshop in September provided state researchers the opportunity to report to each other on their findings and to plan follow-up activities. This workshop gave researchers from different settings the opportunity to appreciate the relationship between their local findings and the common problems, and the value of exchanging information through networks. As the reports were being made by each person involved, it became clear that one goal of the project had been attained: a number of people, with a little training and support, had uncovered tremendous amounts of information. In the process, they had already begun to acquire knowledge which they were relating to their own lives and communities. With the sharing of the findings with one another, connections were made between one's own situation and that of others. Regional patterns began to appear, while simultaneously, important linkages began to be made amongst people facing common issues. While the workshop thus helped with the final report, it also began to build the network of people who would work to implement the report's conclusions. 16

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While ownership data were to be collected from county courthouse data in all eighty counties, in-depth case studies were to be developed for select counties in each state. The specific format of the case studies was left open-ended so as to avoid biasing the data through prior assumptions about community. A check list of relationships to explore, of types of people to interview, and data sources to use provided the basis, yet researchers were encouraged to use their own research findings and local expertise to complete the study. The state research was coordinated at a regional level by John Gaventa and Bill Horton, working at Highlander, who coordinated the research plans, data collection, training, and writing. The Center for Appalachian Studies at ASU coordinated administrative procedures and computer analysis and served as fiscal agent for the project. PROJECT DYNAMICS

While the sheer magnitude of the research task, and the need to specify and clarify the directions, methodology, and so forth necessitated long dialogue and thoughtful discussions, the group's relationship with ARC affected the process in dramatic ways. Although ARC funded the proposal, ARC caution about the potentially controversial nature of the data and uncertainty about the group's capabilities translated into detailed phasing of the project, with release of funds conditional upon completion of various phases, as well as state-by-state appproval by each governor's office before researchers could even begin. Discussions with ARC continued through the snowy winter months of 1979 and well into the spring. ARC stipulated that a "mutually acceptable framework of analysis," or more detailed research methodology, be worked out with their staff and completed before funds for the actual data collection would be released. The Task Force was faced with the dilemma of working within ARC's phasing design, but more immediately problematic was that, although the research was to take place during the summer months, guarantees of funding met delay after delay. The Task Force was also concerned that the momentum which had developed among the more than sixty researchers would be lost, as people were forced to get on with their other projects. Researchers had quit or had not accepted summer jobs and were gathered for a training workshop at Highlander when approval finally came at the "twelfth hour." However, even though the ARC gave the Task Force a go-ahead signal for the collection of data, approval actually to begin gathering the requisite data in each state slowly filtered in during the summer months, in some states

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county by county, even as researchers were already in the field. The unique partnership between federal and state levels of government on which ARC is based means that ARC is accountable to and functions at the will of both the President and the governors of the thirteen states composing the ARC-defined Appalachian region. The Washington staff are thus accountable to those elected officials at the state level who are particularly responsive and susceptible to criticism from major corporate interests in the region. Thus, in order to further legitimize the research process, and to protect their position, the Washington staff required approval of detailed plans for every stage of the research, and the extensive approval process for data collecting within each state. The Data Collection Progress Report, submitted to ARC in midsummer, reports that "major problems" in the data collection "involved slowdowns caused by delayed approval in some states." In Virginia, for example, the lack of any approval was listed as "the most obvious and devastating because it has meant not only losing time, but also suffering from loss of momentum generated at training workshops. The lack of certainty is very difficult for most researchers to cope with because of other professional demands and job alternatives. The reply 'Maybe we'll hear some good news tomorrow. . . .' has ceased to hold any promise." Research was conducted in eighty counties in six Appalachian States: West Virginia, Virginia, Tennessee, North Carolina, Alabama, and Kentucky. Over sixty reseachers collected ownership and tax data from county courthouses, using 1978 tax records. All land and mineral owners of over 250 acres and all corporate or absentee owners of over twenty acres were looked at for information on size and value of parcels, land use, taxes paid, and type of ownership. A total of twenty million acres of land were recorded (including 13 million surface and an additional7 million acres of mineral rights), representing 47 percent of all the land in the eighty counties. Here, the citizens' based research easily proved its merits. Procedures were clear; the importance of the data for local purposes widely understood. Page after page of property figures which would have been tedious, meaningless numbers for the outside expert became items of great intrigue for the citizen researcher. To them, the numbers and names represented power and power holders they knew. The data quickly gave them insights into local community affairs. With such motivation, the citizen often took time to search out information that investigators who were simply in it for "the job" would not have pursued or would have reported as missing. Within two months, the basic data had been gathered for most of the 80 counties. 17

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In nineteen of these counties, in-depth case studies that examined the impact of ownership on economic and social development were also conducted. Case studies were based upon statistical data, historical sources, interviews with a variety of local informants, and other sources of relevant information. Because of the structured, yet openended design of the case studies, and because of the local citizen involvement in the case study research, "a picture of the impacts of land ownership developed which could not have been attained through the standardized research design." 18 The findings of the study are found in Land Ownership Patterns and Their Impacts on Appalachian Communities: A Survey of 80 Counties, vol. 1: overview, vol. 2: Alabama, vol. 3: Kentucky, vol. 4: North Carolina, vol. 5: Tennessee, vol. 6: Virginia, vol. 7: West Virginia. In general the study found ownership of land and minerals in rural Appalachia to be highly concentrated among a few absentee and corporate owners, resulting in little land actually being available or accessible to local people. 1. The ownership of land and minerals in Appalachia is highly concentrated in the hands of a few owners. Only 1 percent of the local population, along with absentee holders, corporations, and government agencies, control at least 53 percent of the total land surface in the eighty cou~ties. 19 Forty-one percent of the 20 million acres of land and minerals owned by 30,000 owners in the survey are held by only fifty private owners and ten government agencies. The federal government is the single largest owner in Appalachia, holding over 2 million acres. 2. Appalachia's land and mineral resources are absentee-owned. Nearly threefourths of the surface acres surveyed are absentee owned, i.e. by out-of-county and out-of-state owners. Four-fifths of the mineral acres in the survey are absentee owned. In one-quarter of the survey counties, absentee-owned land in the sample represented over one-half of the total land surface in the county. Contrary to expectations that absentee ownership would predominate only in the coal counties of central Appalachia, the study found a high level of absentee ownership throughout the eighty-county survey area. 3. Large corporations dominate the ownership picture in much of Appalachia. Forty percent of the land in the sample and 70 percent of the mineral rights are owned by corporations. Forty-six of the top fifty private owners are corporations. Of these, 19 are principally coal and coal-land corporations owning 1.5 million combined surface and mineral acres, 11 are oil, gas, and diversifiedenergy companies owning 1.2 million acres, 9 are timber companies owning 1 million acres, 8 are steel corporations and metal corporations owning .8 million acres, and 4 are railroads owning .6 million acres. 4. Little land is owned by or accessible to local people. Less than one-half of the land in our sample is owned by individuals, and under one-half of that is

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owned by local individuals. Corporate ownership, often for energy and resource exploitation, and government ownership, with associated tourism and recreation development, threaten the access people in the region have to the land and the control they exercise over its use.

These ownership patterns are a crucial underlying element in explaining patterns of inadequate local tax revenues and services, lack of economic development, loss of agricultural lands, lack of sufficient housing, the development of energy, and land use. Besides the collection and analysis of the land ownership data, the project had other equally important goals relating to the research process and the application of the research findings: 1. To provide a model for citizens doing their own research, growing out of their own local needs and concerns, rather than for professional consulting firms doing research based on needs and interests of government agencies; 2. Through the research process, to train local citizens and groups in obtaining information they need; 3. Through the research process, to develop a network of individuals and groups who would be concerned with land-related issues and who would be committed to using the results of the study for constructive action; and 4. Using the results of the research process, to begin to educate and mobilize a broader constituency of local groups for action on land questions in their own communities, as well as at the state and regional level.

The research process was structured in a decentralized, participatory way in order to foster an awareness of and action on the issues among local groups, and to develop networks of individuals and groups in local communities and in the states concerned about landrelated issues. The data collection, citizen-based research, training, and networking laid the groundwork for the most important part of the project: using the information to empower local communities and groups for further education and action on land-related issues. 20 The strategies for addressing the land-related issues vary from state to state depending on the issues, the organizations already in place, and the level of awareness of the issues among local citizens. Following final approval by ARC of the study and release of the findings by the Task Force and ARC, extensive news coverage both within and outside of the region gave visibility to the study and allowed access to the research findings by a wide audience. ARC provided a limited number of copies of the regional report, and ASU printed additional copies of the regional report and copies of each of the six state reports for distribution to interested individuals and groups. Activities resulting from the study, and consistent with the broader

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goals of informing local communities of these issues, were begun by citizens in each state. Task Force members, researchers, and interested citizens representing local groups began looking at local issues such as school finance, housing, property tax and mineral tax reform, severence tax collection, leasing of new mineral lands, underassessment of corporate land, and new land-use strategies. Information from the land study was presented to local counties through "Who Owns ---County?" local forums, workshops, newspaper articles, and mimeographed sheets. Local citizens met with parents' groups, boards of supervisors, county administrators and tax assessors, community development corporations, legal service organizations, county planning boards, and a variety of other local groups and citizens' organizations concerned with specific land or tax-related issues. Researchers made presentations for local, regional, and national professional and academic organizations. Over sixty individuals were involved in the research process, and the participatory, decentralized organization of the research has led to the creation of dialogue, networking, and mutual trust among academic and nonacademic residents in the region. Scholars have been addressing regional issues for decades, yet only since the late 1960s have scholarly research activities begun to address regional policy issues in a systematic way. Academics have been rightly accused by nonacademics in the region of either avoiding public policy issues or of supporting through scholarship a point of view that justifies exploitation of the region's people and resources. The land ownership study emerged from the commitment of various citizens and citizens' groups to basic human concerns in the region. The energy to carry out and complete the study was provided by these same citizens. The academics strengthened the research dimension of the project; in turn, the scientific approach to the issue legitimized the task, the process, and the findings for the academic community. While the ARC requirements of at times tedious attention to detail created frustration for the group, the very process probably gave credibility, through the manipulation of the concept of scientific rigor, to the research project, for the academic community. In addition to the impact of current land ownership patterns, the study has found that rapid changes are occurring in the ownership and control of energy resources which will have additional consequences. These developments include: 1. Takeover of coal resources in the traditional coalfields by larger energy conglomerates, primarily multinational oil and energy conglomerates. The new

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owners bring with them new levels of capital and technology, including such developments as strip-mining on a larger scale than ever before in the region, the growth of a synthetic fuels industry, and massive pump storage facilities. 2. Expansion of absentee and corporate control to new areas: Absentee and corporate ownership and control of land and mineral rights, which has long characterized central Appalachia, is extending to new areas, such as central and northern West Virginia, midwest Virginia, southern Tennessee, and northern Alabama. Related energy developments are likely to have major effects on these primarily agricultural areas. 3. Search for new minerals: The expansion of corporate and absentee interests in the region also involves the acquisition (through buying or leasing) of rights to millions of acres of new minerals and energy sources, including oil shale, oil and gas, uranium, and bauxite. The extraction of these minerals is also likely to have major environmental consequences for the rural areas in which they are located.

In sum, this study has found that the patterns of concentrated, absentee and corporate ownership of land and minerals in Appalachia have major effects upon how the land is used, and to whose benefit. Systematic land-use planning and regulation are virtually nonexistent in most rural Appalachian counties. In their absence, decisions over use of the land are made de facto by the larger and more powerful owners in terms of their own interests. While such decisions can affect dramatically the course of an area's development, the affected public has little say in how these decisions are made and often derives relatively few benefits from local land and resource wealth. The study provides a number of recommendations for dealing with land ownership patterns and their effects, based upon a three-fold strategy: 1. Land Reform. Actions must be taken which deal with the underlying problems of concentrated and absentee ownership. Mechanisms must be found by which people of the region can gain more access to, control over, and benefit from the land and its resources. 2. Mitigation of Impacts. Actions must be taken which mitigate the adverse effects of ownership patterns, even though they do not address directly the underlying structures of ownership. Policies should insure patterns of land use beneficial to the entire community, provide adequate property tax revenue for the delivery of services, promote diverse economic development, provide adequate land for housing, and insure energy development that is not destructive of local communities. 3. Land Retention. Policies must be developed to prevent the rapidly occurring loss of local land for local use, including economic and housing development, as well as agricultural use.

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To begin to assess the degree of success of the project goals is, as of this writing, premature. However, as John Egerton notes, the project gave people the data to legitimize knowledge based on living and working in the region: Appalachia has been studied to death by academicians, consultants, experts. They have discovered what the people knew instinctively but their findings have usually been carefully couched in unthreatening terms, and have had all the impact of falling stars. The Appalachian Land Ownership Study is different: more comprehensive, more authoritative, more pertinent, more powerful. What the people of the region have always known in a general way about their land, they have now documented in specific and overwhelming detail. What the rest of us have occasionally seen through a glass darkly, we can now see spelled out with unmistakable and irrefutable clarity. 21 NOTES 1. For additional information in participatory research, see "Selected Bibliography on Participatory Research," Convergence 14, no. 3 (1981), available from the International Council for Adult Education, P.O. Box 250, Station F, Toronto, Canada. 2. Ronald Eller, "Industrialization and Social Change in Appalachia, 1880-1930," in Helen M. Lewis, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins, eds., Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978), pp. 35-46. 3. Helen Lewis and Edward Knipe, "The Colonialism Model: The Appalachian Case," in Lewis, et al., Colonialism in Modern America, pp. 10-11. 4. Joey Childers, "Absentee Ownership of Harlan County," in Steve Fisher, ed., A Lilndless People in a Rural Region: A Reader on Lilnd Ownership and Property Taxation in Appalachia (New Market, Tenn.: Highlander Center, 1979), p. 86. 5. John Gaventa, "Land Ownership in Appalachia: A Proposal for Education and Action" (unpublished proposal submitted to funding agencies, 1979). 6. "County Mirrors Appalachian Patterns," in Fisher, A Lilndless People in a Rural Region, p. 106. 7. John Gaventa, "Land Ownership and Coal Productivity," in Fisher, A Lilndless People in a Rural Region, p. 113. 8. Si Kahn, "The Forest Service and Appalachia," in Lewis et al., Colonialism in Modern America, pp. 85-110. 9. Ibid.; Cathy Efird, "Public Land Ownership: Its Impact on Swain County, North Carolina," in Lindsay Jones, ed., Citizen Participation in Rural Lilnd Use Planning for the Tennessee Valley (Nashville, Tenn.: Agricultural Marketing Project, 1980), pp. 62-66. 10. Appalachian Land Ownership Task Force, Lilnd Ownership Patterns and Their Impacts on Appalachian Communities, 7 vols. (Boone, N.C.: Center for Appalachian Studies, 1981), 1:20. 11. Ibid, p. 4. 12. Gaventa, "Land Ownership in Appalachia," p. 2. 13. Ibid. 14. Willard Wirtz, "Task Force III: Jobs, Income and Human Services, Recommendations," Appalachia 11 (October-November 1977): 41. 15. John Gaventa, "Land Ownership in Appalachia, U.S.A.: A Citizens Research

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Project," in Thord Erasmie, ed., Research for the People/Research by the People (Linkoping, Sweden: Linkoping University, 1980). 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid. 19. Using 1978/79 property tax records, the survey recorded all local individual owners with holdings above 250 acres (representing 1 percent of the local population) and all corporate, public, and absentee owners with holdings above 20 acres in the unincorporated portions of the counties. The survey covered 53 percent of the total surface of the eighty counties. Percentages are based either on the total land in the counties or on the total land recorded in the survey (specified in each case). 20. Gaventa, "Land Ownership and Coal Productivity;" Ray Moretz, "Blue Ridge People: A Proposal for Community Research, Education, and Action Organization" (unpublished paper, 1980). 21. John Egerton, "Appalachia's Absentee Landlords, The Progressive 45 Oune 1981): 45

CoNFLICT, CoNFRONTATION, AND SociAL CHANGE IN THE REGIONAL SETTING THOMAS PLAUT

THE previous chapters have discussed the Appalachian region, its people and resources and how they have been affected and sometimes afflicted by the forces and trends in the nation that surrounds the region. Here we will suggest a systematic means for understanding ongoing relations, struggles, and processes in this, or any other, region in change. Appalachia has been viewed in a variety of contexts: as a "deficient," regressive culture within a progressive industrial nation, 1 as a colony of and for outside capital, 2 as a myth invented by the larger American society for its own aggrandizement, 3 as an internal periphery maintained in a less developed status by the surrounding industrial economy for continued exploitation of natural and human resources, 4 and as an area in the throes of "modernization." 5 These perspectives have been most useful in classrooms or college seminars; however, they have found little application in the field. In part, their limited utility is due to the fact that they focus at the broadest theoretical levels in discussions of meanings, symbols, norms, and overall worldviews. These theoretical positions have been supported with individual case studies and vignettes whose limited capability for generalization has prevented the mapping out of roles, assumptions, and relationships one might expect to find upon entering a new, ongoing situation. What follows is an attempt at this kind of mapping. This effort covers theory (in which the cultural systems approach is explained}, worldviews and value orientations of particular cultural systems and the behaviors and definitions found when two cultural systems clash, and the clash of differing value systems in a single workplace. The goal then is to provide the reader with a means of analyzing potential and ongoing conflict in the office, the community, and the region.

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Data have been gathered from policy statements and regulations of agencies, corporations, and other groups defined as cultural systems. Information for the discussion of values conflict within the workplace was generated in interviews and encounters with the staff of a primary medical care program in Appalachian North Carolina. THE THEORETICAL PERSPECTIVE: THE CULTURAL SYSTEM

A cultural system organizes the social and physical world of its members into an understandable matrix of objects and ideas which suggests acceptable responses and value orientations. At its core, a cultural system takes things and provides them with meaning thereby transforming them into objects toward which its members "know" how to act (having been socialized to respond according to a specific normative system). The eyeball of a sheep is a great delicacy among the Bedouin; but what induces salivation in the Arab induces nausea in the Yankee. And, of course, the opposite is also true. Whether we enjoy something or vomit is not a physical but a cultural response. In the most general and sweeping terms, there are two sociocultural systems at work in the rural areas of Appalachia (and in rural areas anywhere). The first is what is often labeled the "traditional" system, the gemeinschaft of Ttinnies' typology-the relatively small human group bound in kinship and tradition to a rather well-defined piece of geographic territory in which the cycle of life repeats itself in a relatively conservative fashion. To suggest that such a system still exists as a social system in Appalachia is distorting, if not romantic; there have been too many changes in patterns of ownership, marketing, production and media contact, and migration to suggest that isolated, selfsufficient human communities still operate in remote mountain coves. But the cultural value preferences born of such social systems still do exist in contradistinction to the preferences of the cultural systems of the "modern," urban world that surrounds the region. The second cultural system at the broadest level then is the "modern" world. It is the product of what Roxborough calls the "original transition" from the traditional modes of rural life to the large, complex, specialized, and hierarchical forms of social organization found in urbanized, industrial areas today. 6 Rural Appalachia provides the spectre of human social and cultural organizations both before and after this transition. It also shows what happens when groups from either side of the transition encounter each other. Placing the dichotomy of traditional and modem cultural systems in the context of American community theory, Appalachia today incorporates the

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world both before and after what· Warren has called "the great change": the 'great change' in community living included the increasing orientation of local community units toward extra community systems of which they are a part, with a corresponding decline in community cohesion and autonomy .... 7

Warren sees the "great change" increasing a community's systemic ties and relationships to the larger society, continuing processes of bureaucratization and impersonalization of life, reorganizing human endeavor into profit enterprise and government, changing values and causing urbanization. He portrays America before the change as a place of relatively independent geographic areas marked by horizontal and multistranded relationships among people and among institutions, relationships that forged a sense of common community identity, obligation and purpose. In the course of the change, the community is supplanted by the large organization. The locally owned store becomes an outlet for a national merchandizing chain. Churches come to think according to denominational rather than community priorities. Locally owned manufacturing plants give way to national and multinational corporations. Maintenance of public facilities and services is taken over by state and federal agencies, 8 which, as we shall see, become cultural systems in and of themselves. There comes a point in this process of change where individuals realize that their interests and opportunities in life are no longer determined by community and kin but by their position in the transcommunity agency that employs them. The truly radical nature of this switch in allegiance from community to organization is most visible in rural areas such as parts of Appalachia, where people with traditional and modem loyalties and self-definitions live, work, and struggle with each other. How do individuals struggle within themselves and with others? How do the corporations, government agencies, and other "large, formal organizations" that make up "the modem world" assert themselves in the region? What are the costs and benefits of these incursions? Elsewhere I have referred to these agencies as "vectors," borrowing from physics' concept of the vector as having properties of mass and velocity. An energy corporation, for example, is not only big, but highly mobile in the pursuit of its goals, as opposed to traditional human communities, which function within a single geographic area. 9 How do the different parties in a conflict define the situation? How do they define each other? What are the functions of those definitions? What are the forms of encounter and conflict? In the case of conflict,

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what elements contribute to the victory of one group over another? What forms of encounter best lead to compromise, accommodation, and consensus? Cultural systems analysis is designed to enable the user to ferret out answers to these sorts of questions. It begins with the assumption that both the traditional community and the large formal organizations-the vectors-are cultural systems in and of themselves. They are also the basic unit of analysis in this theoretical approach, chosen because they are very concrete, very "real," and subject to empirical study. The approach enables the researcher to apprehend the modus operandi and accompanying definition of an agency in contrast to those of other agencies or communities. It also enables clarification of intraorganizational difficulties arising out of conflicting values and world views of employees. The designation of large formal organizations as cultural systems should not be seen as frivolous or simply convenient for analytical purposes. These organizations have considerable control over the lives and life chances of their employees, not unlike the family, clan or moiety in tribal societies. In terms of populations they can be as large as, and often are much larger than, traditional societies. They have very definite ideas about what the world is and how people should move in it; in short, they have their own value systems and world views which are adjusted to their ultimate goals. Their power in training their employees to their values and world views is obvious and is what social psychologists refer to as "adult socialization." They can "make" a "good company man," and define who is "really sharp." The organizations can pressure the doubter and punish those who deviate from assigned views and roles. They can grant or withhold status and a measure of class position to an individual employee. By defining significant issues (and what issues will not be considered significant or simply not considered as issues) and by having the power to hire, fire, promote, physically relocate, and assign tasks, they exercise what political scientists describe as the "three faces of power": first, they can punish or threaten punishment to an employee following an undesirable line of thought or action; secondly, the fear of sanctions prevents their employees from articulating what might become a matter of concern, and, finally, they define the world in terms that prevent a situation or event from being perceived as an issue or problem. 10 On-line employees in a mining operation, for example, define the task at hand as the efficient removal of minerals, not as a potentially damaging process to a water supply. Finally, large formal organizations can and do define other agencies or groups who challenge their goals, world views and values as de-

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viant. Challengers can be subjected to a wide range of sanctions, from denigration to acts of intimidation and violence. UNDERSTANDING LARGE FORMAL ORGANIZATIONS IN THE FIELD

At the outset of an analysis of a particular corporation or agency it is helpful to remember the analogy to the concept of "vector" mentioned previously. Like a meteor hurtling to earth, these cultural systems leave their marks on the social and physical landscape they invade. Abandoned farmlands, coal towns and timber camps, strip mines, parks, dams and highways are the marks of entities of mass and velocity, skipping across the Appalachian landscape like a flat rock on the surface of a pond. Each is desirable or undesirable according to the cultural system to which the beholder offers her or his allegiance. What an agency does and what marks it chooses to make are born in the subjective views of its leadership and/or authorizing body. These are often most simply found in enabling legislation or articles of incorporation. The American Association, Ltd., for example was incorporated in England in 1887. Among its stated objectives are found the desire 1. to acquire certain coal and iron properties in the United States of America .... 3. to search for, get, work, raise, make marketable, sell and deal in iron, coal, ironstone, brick, earth bricks, and other metals, minerals, and substances and products (including oil, salt, and natural gas) .... 5. generally to purchase, take on, or in exchange, hire or otherwise acquire any real or personal property, and any rights or privileges which the company may think necessary or convenient for the purpose of its business.U

Subsequently, the Association acquired some 80,000 acres of rich mineral lands in the Cumberland Gap region of eastern Kentucky and Tennessee, by the most efficient means possible. Some people sold family farms for as little as 50 cents an acre. Others were deprived of their lands by court action, manipulation of landholding records, intimidation and violence. John Gaventa notes that "even now it is not uncommon in the area to hear statements like 'see that mountain, the 'sociation stole it from my daddy.' " 12 Land acquisition was followed by development. By the turn of the century 5,000 people lived in Middlesborough, the "Magic City of the South," where only three years earlier sixty families had inhabited in pastoral fashion the lands bordering Yellow Creek. Farms were re-

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placed by sixteen operating industries (with more than forty more in various stages of planning and development). There were streetcars and six banks. And there was coal: Production in Claiborne county jumped from zero in 1889 to 135,558 tons three years later. 13 The new owners not only transformed the physical but the social and cultural landscape as well. Caste-like distinctions of class and culture were emphasized in the naming of places. Workplaces retained Appalachian names familiar to those who labored in them. Mines, for example, carried names like Mingo Mountain, Fork Ridge, andReliance. The residential and cultural habitats of the newcomers were provided names from foreign cultures: Yellow Creek became Middlesborough. Street names recalled England: Exeter, Amesbury, and llchester. Hills were renamed "Arthur Heights" and "Queensbury Heights." Those unfortunate enough to have been born of local stock were offered reprieve from the station of their birth through "Harrow School," later to become Lincoln Memorial University, where they could observe and adopt the conduct, manners, and techniques of the "city man." 14 In sum, the entire landscape-economic, social, cultural, and political-was reshaped by the American Association. Yellow Creek was permanently transformed by a cultural system with enormous resources of capital, knowledge and technology. There are a number of similar tales of power from the public sector. An agency is given a mission and comes to the region to carry it out. For example, the Weeks Act of 1911 established the United States Forest Service, authorizing the Secretary of Agriculture to "examine, locate and ... purchase ... lands within the watersheds of navigable streams [and] ... to accept on behalf of the United States title to any lands within the exterior boundaries of any national forests." 15 The Forest Service has carried out its mandate to the point where today it owns five and one-half million acres in Appalachia, a land area larger than Connecticut, Delaware, and Rhode Island combined. The impact of this transfer of title has been enormous. Five and one-half million acres have been removed from local tax roles and thus income for schools and other services has been denied local units of government. Decisions concerning land use and access has moved from the local to the federal level. The earlier chapter by James Jordan reflects the sense of powerlessness and bitterness engendered at the local level by management and policy decisions made within the context of the Forest Service's mandate and consequent world views. Equally significant is the Forest Service staff perception of itself in relation to the public it is

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mandated to serve. A "Public Information Officer" asserted in an internal memorandum for the Asheville, North Carolina, office, I believe we have largely exceeded the public's capacity to absorb and understand National Forest management issues .... We need to make some calculated judgements as to how and when we broach issues to the public. 16 DEFINITIONS: THE PEOPLE AND THE LAND

Staff definitions of the folk beyond the social border that defines membership in the agency or corporation are reminiscent of tribal society chauvinism that leads to proverbs like "he who lives more than seven miles from the village is evil." The author of the Forest Service memorandum cited above reported "hostile crowds" of people with an "incendiary heritage ... a bomb ready to go off" at public hearings on proposed forest management practices. He notes that agency staff is made up of astute observers of these dangerous natives: "We believe also that we have identified an element in the Southern Appalachian Mountain philosophy which . . . is now resulting in major confrontations with our management techniques .... These confrontations are based on both the traditional life style of these people and the perception of bureaucratic and arbitrary actions by an impersonal and unreachable government. ... They recount in our meetings the affronts to their rights and their traditional way of life." 17 Are these people attending public hearings life-threatening barbarians or simply citizens participating in the democratic process? The answer seems to depend on the cultural system of the observer. A description of the mountain people (some 500 families in all) removed in the 1930s from the 200,000 acres that became the Shenandoah National Park also shows the tendency to denigrate mountain people. Statements by Park Service officials and their supporters emphasized the "otherness" of these enclosure victims by describing them either as "sturdy people" who enjoyed a "noble home life [and] strength of character" or as "ignorant, usually having a chip on [their] shoulder, (but) docile ... improvident, listless and often undesirable from many angles." 18 Such descriptions of mountaineers parallel those provided by American Association people in the Cumberland Gap area. Members of the traditional community were found to be "usually not attractive . . . rather yellow and cadaverous looking, owing to their idle and shiftless ways." 19

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"Unattractive" and "undesirable" people are treated with disdain at best and sometimes with outright hostility. In 1971, the Atlanta Constitution reported: On February 22, men of the US Forest Service broke into Vernon (McCall's) trailer house, dragged out a bed and a few other belongings, and then dug a hole with a bulldozer, rammed his home, lean-tip, his pig pen, and his little barn into it and buried the whole thing ... The Forest Service claimed the government owned the land, not Vernon, and that they had been trying to get him off it since 1968. 20

Although true, the story obviously represents an extreme case. Far more common is the kind of response given a student researching strip mining in West Virginia. He asked a spokesman for AMAX Coal Company what the corporation planned to do with some 20,000 acres it had purchased in the county: "Tell us what you want to know, kid, and we'll tell you how to get along without it." This response is particularly striking in that it shows one doesn't have to be poor or rural or a hillbilly to be dismissed as insignificant by an organization's staff. All he needs to be is outside the cultural system and thus perceived as not having the rights and respect accorded to members. Definitions and understanding of key concepts provide strong clues to the goals and interests of a particular cultural system. In Appalachia, a region of farming, extractive industry, recreational development, and massive Federal ownership (national parks and forests) and developmental projects (TVA, highways and dams), land has special significance. In recounting the struggles over land use in Appalachian North Carolina, a researcher noted that resort developers "think of land as a commodity and not as a resource. The government says the land resource should be developed for its optimum use. While the private developers and government planners appear to be at odds over what generally amounts to environmental issues, both eliminate farmers with their growth plans. The only question is how fast the elimination."21 Isn't farming a prime candidate for the "best possible use" category? What is the "best possible use"? That depends on whether you're a forester, a miner, a park planner, or a farmer and whether you have the power to make your definition stick. For the American Association, land has been "real property," a source of extractable resources and a wilderness to be "civilized." For the National Forest Service, land provides the space to "develop and administer the renewable surface resources ... for multiple

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use and sustained yield of the several products and services attained therefrom. " 22 Land is a problem for the AMAX Coal Company, separating it from the coal it wants to market. Thus land is defined as overburden: "Thanks to modem technology, surface mining today has become a science that ... remove(s) overburden above the coal seam." 23 For the staffs of development agencies like the Tennessee Valley Authority and the Appalachian Regional Commission, land is a tool awaiting human ingenuity: "Soil is used for farming; it is frequently a mineral resource (as in the case of sand, gravel and clays): and it plays an important role in the construction of buildings and highways and in the operation of many systems of waste disposal. " 24 The contrast between all of these definitions and those ascribed to traditional rural Appalachian communities is vast and stark. From his research in the South Toe Valley, George Hicks concludes "holding legal title to the land, while it is important to the residents of the valley, is only part of their attachment.... Far more significant, it appears, is their sense of the valley as a matrix for their lives. " 25 Hicks, Opie and Parlow join Jordan in this volume in concluding that for the traditional rural Appalachian community land is not simply a tool or commodity for use or trade but a carrier of social history and relationships. Geographic places are frequently pointed out as places where an event occurred. Status is accorded a family in part by place of habitat. And a sense of "commons" extends across the properties of all community members. An informant told Parlow: "Land that was used for hunting and shortcuts isn't ours anymore, and there are so many signs you need a plat to tell where you can go." 26 In a separate study, Hicks was told, "These Florida people come in here and buy a little patch of land and stick no trespassing signs all over it. This country (valley) use to belong to everbody. Why, a man didn't care at all to have people walking through his woods and hunting on his land." 27 Opie asserts that the home plot of land for the mountaineer is a tremendous magnet. ... His place contains his personality .... To dig and plant and hoe the land is an intense personal, psychological and spiritual experience .... his place is the center of the world .... His close association with the land extends the American frontier experience into the present day. " 28 Even though some may feel Opie overstates his case, his position underlines the concept of land as personal, social and cultural space, filled with symbolic meaning for the traditional mountain resident. Land is not something to be assigned a simple monetary value, a

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commodity for exchange or a tool to be employed in obtaining something else. It is significant in and of itself. Given the variations in the definitions and meanings ascribed to land, is it surprising that mountain people and the staffs of government agencies and corporations have trouble understanding each other? COMPETING CULTURAL SYSTEMS

When a cultural system defines land primarily as the crucible for continuously unfolding life, the idea of it as property or object to be manipulated for profit on a scale that damages or destroys that crucible is at first inconceivable. But with time an awareness develops among local people which calls forth various responses. One response is to jump systems, to shift allegiances to the newer system. Maybe the other fellows have the right idea. Some people define this approach as "progress." Others agree and go even further and work for a company or agency even when it preys on their own communities-as did a second-hand farm equipment salesman who used his kinship network to gain control of land for a coal company. Such trading of traditional community values for those of incoming systems has not been uncommon in the mountains and in part accounts for the development of "local elites" in industrializing areas. 29 This process of cooperation and cooptation has been greatly enhanced by the larger society's control of educational institutions and the public media which routinely deprecate Appalachian values and lifestyles. Branscome argues that network television portrayals of Southern mountain life have "to be the most intensive effort ever exerted by a nation to belittle, demean and otherwise destroy a minority people within its boundaries. . . . If programs even approaching the maliciousness of these were broadcast on Blacks, Indians or chicanos, there would be an immediate outcry." 30 Going back nearly a century to the American Association's takeover of the Cumberland Gap area, Gaventa found the supporters of the Middlesboro boom exaggerating the attractiveness of the new, industrial order while at the same time denigrating the cultural and society of the mountaineers. 31 Made over and over again year after year, such comparisons have instilled a sense of shame and helplessness which makes the mountain person especially vulnerable before other cultural systems and their agents. People embarrassed about their values and way of life cannot defend their interests or respond critically to people and organizations which they have been told repeatedly are somehow more advanced or superior.

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When local opposition does develop, what forms can it take? Conflict in the social world of the corporation and agency often ends up in the courtroom, where the rural person feels not only out of place but outgunned and deprived of justice. For example, a series of cases involving the American Association's land acquisition efforts fill courthouse records from the 1880s to the 1930s. The company routinely won at the expense of mountain farmers. 32 For many local people, courts became the unjust tools for new cultural systems seeking to transform the region. The people therefore had to tum elsewhere to redress their grievances. One traditional mode of restoring balance following an offense in mountain society has been measured violence against the offender's property. Burning, "incendiary activity," has been a commonly employed form of violence up to the present day. For example, during recent public hearings that considered the appropriateness of making parts of the National Forests "Wilderness Areas" and thus off limits to specified activities, several speakers threatened "the forests will burn" if local people were to be denied access to them for hunting and gathering activities. Forest-burning became a common phenomenon during the Depression in the 1930s, when the Forest Service and the Park Service were buying large tracts of mountain land. Many Appalachians were returning to their old family farms as mills and mines closed, and federal land acquisition was seen as another threat to survival in those difficult years. 33 A conclusion drawn by Jordan in his study of an "incendiary community," discussed in a previous chapter, bears repetition here: In a sense, the residents of Coker Creek ... are responding to pleas like that in a recent Journal of Forestry article that local publics participate in forest management decisions. Coker Creek is participating in forest management decisions in the Cherokee National Forest, but in cultural terms understandable only in the perspective of their defense of their neighborhood [emphasis added]. 34 CULTURAL SYSTEMS ANALYSIS AND THE DEFENSE OF RURAL LIFE

Violence against the programs and facilities of government agencies and corporations is not an effective means of participation in the policymaking process. Those people involved in incendiary activity and other forms of property destruction find themselves not only without impact but dismissed as uncivilized anachronisms, not worthy of "the New Age." Their behavior is used as a justification for their continued exclusion from decisionmaking. The central, strategic question for citizens seeking to maintain traditional, local cultural systems

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challenged by incoming organizations centers on how to gain access to the policymaking process. Some answers to this question are provided by cultural systems analysis. At the outset must be the realization that what some people call "progress" comes in the form of large formal organizations searching for new areas of endeavor. These organizations are cultural systems-mobile human communities with their own definitions of the world, values and agenda. While their mobility makes them insensitive to the orientations of a traditional, geographically rooted cultural system, their financial, technological and political resources overwhelm whatever the opposition can place on the field. The courts, the legislature, the media, the "experts" all tend to be "on the side of progress" (which is why the few victories local groups have in the statehouses and courthouses are so celebrated). But what about values? There is no inequality of resources here! As every body has blood, every cultural system has values. By comparing their values, world views and consequent goals to those of an incoming corporation or agency, members of a local community can find answers to questions such as "Do they want what we want?" and "Will their project benefit or harm our way of life?" Forewarned and armed with answers to these questions, citizens can then look for places in the policymaking process where discussions of values can change the course of events. Such places will vary from case to case. One good arena for the airing of value orientations is the county planning board or commission. A recreational development scheme for the Max Patch area of Madison County, North Carolina was blocked when the planning commission recommended that the county commissioners not grant a zoning variance to the developer. The recommendation followed two hours of testimony by local community residents who argued that the development would irrevocably damage their way of life. Another possible arena is the corporate stockholders' meeting. The significance of input at these gatherings was recently underscored by efforts of the Blue Diamond Coal Company to exclude communityoriented shareholders from its annual meeting. In deciding a threeyear court battle in favor of the community people, the judge said they "simply intended to legally exercise routine stockholder rights in order to lobby their views to management." 35 The planning offices of an organization may be another place for some community input. Informal discussions with agency planners can sensitize them and perhaps in some measure resocialize them to community views.

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Another important asset of cultural systems analysis is that it provides a means for local people to neutralize or avoid the disarming techniques of denigration so often employed by corporations and agencies. Energy previously spent coping with feelings of shame and inadequacy can be refocused on research, articulation of issues and differing value orientations, and action. CULTURAL SYSTEMS ANALYSIS IN THE WORKPLACE

Cultural systems analysis can not only help open up public and private planning procedures to a more democratic process, it can be employed to improve the work environment and service-providing setting in service delivery systems. In this context, the cultural system is not of a particular organization, but of a larger subsystem of a national culture, the "mass" or "middle-class American" culture so often used in contradistinction to Appalachian, rural, or "folk" culture. Batteau has pointed out that distinguishing Appalachian from "American" culture can be harmful in that the former is a part of the American cultural and social system. 36 But for purposes of analysis in the workplace, the concept of the larger cultural systems (which to a large degree incorporate the orientations of smaller, organizationbased systems) is an important analytical tool. Lewis's and Friedl's research and work in health delivery systems join Couto's piece in this volume to document the confusion, misunderstanding and, often, pain that result when people from differing American and rural Appalachian cui tural sys terns confront each other as providers and clients. 37 I was recently asked to work with the staff of a rural health program plagued with tension and repeated misunderstandings between local and in-migrant personnel. The differences in values, labels, and styles of interaction seemed insignificant as they emerged in the course of interviews and workshops. But they proved to be sufficiently irritating to threaten the program's effectiveness. Among the differences uncovered are those discussed below. Women professionals who had come from urban areas felt that being called by their first names was a "put down" and denial of their hard won status. In contrast, local women felt that not using first names was impersonal and a denial of basic equality and community among the staff and of the friendship between staff and clients. Local people defined one of the doctors as "cold," while another physician was seen as being "one of us." What was the difference between the two? In part, it stemmed from how each of them walked in the door every morning. The favored physician stopped and chatted

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with each staff member, from the van driver to the receptionist, sometimes taking twenty minutes to get to his office. By contrast the "cold" doctor said "hello" to everybody when he came to work but "didn't even break his stride" until he got to the drug cabinet (which he unlocked) before proceeding to patient records and his office. The behavior of this doctor, quite acceptable in the context of an urban professional"going to work," caused hurt feelings and resentment in a rural setting. Differences in the way the two men stood were also noticed, the accepted doctor being more settled back on his hips while the other leaned forward. If the former walked into a wall his belly would have touched first; the latter would have had first contact with his forehead. The "belly-first" posture, along with other body language such as firmly planted feet and lack of movements, was interpreted as meaning he "really listens to you." The forehead first posture was somehow disquieting. A walk about the community revealed most men appeared to stand in a posture similar to the popular physician. A staff member who had moved into the community three years earlier (and who was a real"forehead man") recalled that a frustrated client had once abruptly told him: "Buddy, I don't even like the way you walk down the street." The importance local people placed on the ability of the service provider to listen was emphasized repeatedly: They don't know how to listen to us. We know this area. We're from here. We know how people feel and what's going on. They don't listen to the patients: When Mrs. S. came in and said she had high blood pressure, the doctor asked how she knew that. She described her symptoms and he said "that's impossible: those symptoms aren't related to high blood pressure." But she turned out to have high blood pressure. When I drive somebody in to the clinic, often he's talked to me for 20 minutes about what's wrong. Now he doesn't talk with the doctor like that .... I could tell the doctor a lot ... if the "doc" would only listen ... . The doctors should respect the home remedies people talk about ... like lard and soda, or potatoes, or vinegar for burns. But they don't pay attention to any of these things. Patients just don't talk after awhile ....

Local people valued listening, not talking, to each other and thus were comfortable with silence. In contrast, the polite chatter of inmigrant staff members seemed odd and proved to be a source of ridicule: Person A: They don't know how to be quiet. If it's quiet before a meeting, Mr. R. can't stand it. He gets real nervous.

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B: You don't need to talk all the time. Why you can plant a field and never say a word. (laughter)

Local people felt a person should work hard when there was work to do, but resented the idea of having to appear busy during lulls: Person A: You don't have to pretend you're busy every moment either. B: When a man's plowing, he can stop for a moment when he comes to the end of a row. He can look at the morning ... look at the sky. C: Why you can even stop in the middle of a row! (laughter)

Staff who had migrated into the area saw blue jeans as comfortable and even fashionable. Local people identified jeans with farm work and manure: Old clothes say (to the client): "We don't think you're very important." I'm tired of apologizing for a doctor who looks dirty.

Local people resented instructions requiring them to call clients "Mr." and "Mrs." I can't call someone I've grown up with "Mr." Why, when I got back home, he would say, "What's wrong with you? You gettin' a big head up there at the clinic?" I just can't do it.

The social life of the local people was centered in the family, while in-migrants, having left their families elsewhere, had formed other patterns of association. They think that we have nothing to do, that we have no recreation. They always want us to go to their parties .... They're always having pot luck suppers (group laughter) .... But really, I've got enough with my family.

Finally, local people took religion and church seriously. When asked about significant figures in their everyday lives (figures whose opinion about them mattered), in-migrants mentioned family and colleagues. Several local people started their lists with "God." Bringing the local people and the immigrants' staff together to share the data generated in interviews provided some intense encounters. The world view of the local people proved to be quite surprising to the young professional, clad in Calvin Kleins, who would see nothing wrong in saying "Oh Christ!" at a mishap in the office or the volleyball game after the Sunday potluck. Although each side had to learn from

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the other, the newcomers especially were faced with the realization that if they wanted to be effective service providers they could no longer take their own folkways for granted. From the vantage point of the local cultural system, those folkways were offensive and thus problematic for the operation of the health program. Before the workshops, staff refused to talk with each other, derogatory rumors about various service providers circulated in the clinics and community, and potential clients refused to patronize the clinics. Much of this was alleviated through a process of encounters in which cultural meanings were clarified and discussed. Cultural systems analysis provided a means for determining how agency goals could be achieved within the context of acceptable and familiar behavior and symbols. In this instance, the work was done in the area of health services delivery, butthere is no reason why it could not be extended to any endeavor. In summary, by providing the means to determine how a sociocultural system defines its world and objectives and acts on those definitions, cultural systems analysis is a useful tool not only for academics in various pursuits but for people seeking a measure of control and selfdetermination in the processes of planning and change. By focusing on value orientations, cultural systems analysis enables one to see significant differences not only between agency and agency or agency and community, but among subgroups within an organization. Who wins how much in the struggles between factions is ultimately a matter of power, but often power can only be amassed and strategies developed in the light of the usefully organized and focused data that conceptual frameworks such as cultural systems analysis can provide. NOTES 1. Stephen L. Fisher, "Victim Blaming in Appalachia: Cultural Theories and the Southern Mountaineer," paper delivered at the Southern Political Science Association, 1975 Annual Meeting, Nashville, Tenn., reprinted in Bruce Ergood and Bruce Kuhre, eds.,Appalachia: Social Context Past and Present (Dubuque, Iowa: Kendall/Hunt Publishing Company, 1976). Fisher provides an overview and critique of this analytical approach taking to task especially Jack Weller's Yesterday's People (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1966) and Harry M. Caudill's Night Comes to the Cumberlands, A Biography of a Depressed Area (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1962). 2. Helen Lewis, "Fatalism or the Coal Industry?" in Mountain Life and Work (December 1970): 6. Also see Helen Matthews Lewis, Linda Johnson, and Donald Askins, Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978). 3. Henry D. Shapiro, Appalachia On Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920 (Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1978).

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4. David Walls, "Internal Colony or Internal Periphery? A Critique of Current Models and an Alternative Formulation" in Lewis et al., Colonialism in Modern America: The Appalachian Case, pp. 319-49. 5. Ronald D. Eller, "Miners, Millhands and Mountaineers: The Modernization of the Appalachian South, 1880-1930" (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of North Carolina, 1979). 6. Ian Roxborough, Theories of Underdevelopment (Atlantic Highlands, N.j.: Humanities Press, 1979), p. 1. 7. Roland L. Warren, The Community in America (Chicago: Rand McNally and Co., 1972), p. 53. 8. Ibid., pp. 53-94. 9. Tom Plaut, "Appalachia and Social Change: A Cultural Systems Approach," Appalachian Journal6 (Summer 1979): 250-61. 10. Peter Bachrach and MortonS. Baratz, "The Two Faces of Power," American Political Science Review 57 (December 1962): 947-52; Steven Lukes, Power: A Radical View (London: Macmillan Press, 1974); john Gaventa and Richard Couto, "Appalachia and the Third Face of Power" (paper presented at the American Political Science Association Annual Meeting, 1976). 11. John Gaventa, Power and Powerlessness. Quiescence and Rebellion In an Appalachian Valley (Urbana, Ill.: University of Illinois Press, 1980), pp. 52-53. 12. Ibid., p. 55. 13. Ibid., p. 56. 14. Ibid., pp. 66-67. 15. Forest Service Manual section 1021 as amended August 1977 (Washington: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1977). 16. Walter W. Rule, Jr., "RARE 11-Reactions in North Carolina," USDA/FS Memorandum, August 29, 1978. 17. Ibid., pp. 6-7. 18. Charles L. Perdue, Jr. and Nancy Martin-Perdue, "Appalachian Fables and Facts: A Case Study of the Shenandoah National Park Removals," Appalachian Journal7, no. 1-2 (Autumn-Winter 1979-80): 88-89. 19. Gaventa, Power and Powerlessness, p. 65. 20. Atlanta Constitution, May 12, 1975. 21. Anita Parlow, "The Land Development Rag," in Lewis et al., Colonialism In Modern America: The Appalachian Case (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1978). 22. Forest Service Manual, section 1021 as amended August 1977. 23. AMAX Coal Co., The Power of Coal (undated brochure). 24. Hugh B. Montgomery, "Environmental Analysis in Local Development Planning," Appalachia, November-December 1969 as reprinted in the Appalachian Regional Commission's Challenges for Appalachia: Energy, Environment and National Resources (1976) p. 223. 25. George Hicks, Appalachian Valley (New York: Rinehart and Winston, 1976), p. 2. 26. Parlow, "Land Development Rag," p. 189. 27. Hicks, Appalachian Valley, p. 53. 28. John Opie, "A Sense of Place, The World We Have Lost," An Appalachian Symposium (Boone, N.C.: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1977), pp. 113-17. 29. H. Dudley Plunkett and Mary Jean Bowman, Elites and Change in the Kentucky Mountains (Lexington, Ky.: University Press of Kentucky, 1973). 30. James Branscome, "Annihilating the Hillbilly: The Appalachians' Struggle with America's Institutions," Colonialism in Modern America, pp. 211-27.

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31. Gaventa, Power and Powerlessness, p. 65. 32. Ibid., p. 54. 33. Eller, Miners, Millhands and Mountaineers, p. 385.

34. James W. Jordan, "Frontier Culture, Government Agents and City Folks: A Triangle of Conflict in the Cherokee National Forest," paper read at the Southern Anthropological Society 1979 Annual Meeting, Memphis, Tenn., pp. 15-16. 35. "Stockholders Win Against Blue Diamond," Mountain Life and Work (May 1982), p. 27. 36. Allen Batteau, "Appalachia and the Concept of Culture: A Theory of Shared Misunderstandings," Appalachian Journal 7, no. 1-2 (1980): 29. 37. Helen Matthews Lewis, "Medicos and Mountaineers: The Meeting of Two Cultures," paper delivered at the Appalachian Regional Hospital's Spring Scientific Session, Bristol, Va., April22, 1971. Also see John Friedl, "Appalachian Stereotypes and Their Impact on Health Care," paper presented at the American Anthropological Association 1979 Annual Meeting, Cincinnati, Ohio.

CoNTRIBUTORS

MARY ANGLIN is a graduate student in anthropology at the New School for Social Research in New York City. She is currently working on a study of the impact of economic development on rural women in western North Carolina. ALLEN BATIEAU is an assistant professor of social science at Michigan State University. He has published articles on Appalachian culture and kinship in Appalachian Journal and American Ethnologist, and is currently completing a book on the image of Appalachia in national media. PATRICIA BEAVER is the director of the Center for Appalachian Studies at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina. She has published articles on kinship, social organization, public policy, and sex roles in Appalachia, and is currently editing a book, Cultural Adaptations to Highland Environments, to be published by the university of Georgia Press. DwiGHT BILLINGS is an associate professor of sociology at the University of Kentucky. His prior publications include Planters and the Making of a "New South." Among his current areas of interest are studies in Appalachian sociology and in the sociology of the South. KATHRYN M. BoRMAN is associate professor in the College of Education at the University of Cincinnati. She has worked with the Appalachian community in Cincinnati on several projects, including the annual Appalachian Festival. She has edited The Social Life of Children in a Changing Society, a chapter in which reports on her work (with Nancy Lippincott) on games of urban Appalachian children. F. CARLENE BRYANT is vice president of Entek Research, Inc., a New York consulting firm. She is the author of We're All Kin: A Cultural Study of a Mountain Neighborhood, published by the University of Ten:tessee Press. RicHARD A. CouTo is the director of the Center for Health Services at Vanderbilt University. The Center has collaborated with numerous community groups in the establishment of local health services and has assisted in the organization of several regional groups related to health issues. He is the author of Poverty, Politics, and Health Care, Streams of Idealism and Health Care Innovation, and several articles on politics and health. JoHN FRIEDL is executive officer of the Seva Foundation, an international public health organization located in Chelsea, Michigan. He is also a lecturer in the School of Public Health at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. He has published on Swiss alpine culture, Appalachian culture, and most recently on a variety of topics in medical anthropology and social epidemiology.

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RoBERT GoLDMAN is an assistant professor of sociology at the University of Kentucky. His recent articles have dealt with leisure, ideology, advertising, and the mass media in the United States. JAMES WILLIAM JoRDAN is associate professor of anthropology and head of the Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Longwood College, Farmville, Virginia. His research interests are in West African ethnology and the archeology and prehistory of southeastern United States. He is director of the Longwood Summer Field School in Archeology. CHARLES E. MARTIN is an associate professor of history at Alice Lloyd College in Pippa Passes, Kentucky. His publications in Appalachian Journal, Appalachian Heritage, and Pioneer America, and a book in progress on eastern Kentucky folk housing, emphasize the traditional material culture of the Southern Highlands. PHILLIP OBERMILLER has been active with Appalachian organizations in Cincinnati, and has taught at the University of Cincinnati. Currently he is conducting a comparative study of Appalachian migration in the United States and Maritime migration in Canada. THOMAS PLAUT is an associate professor of sociology at Mars Hill College in Mars Hill, North Carolina. Having spent a decade in rural Appalachian West Virginia and North Carolina, he is currently concentrating his energies in working with the dying and their families. He serves on the boards of directors of the Hot Springs Health Program in Madison County, North Carolina and Mountain Area Hospice, Inc., in Asheville, where he is also responsible for staff training. WALTER PRECOURT has served on the anthropology faculty, University of Kentucky, and has participated in the UK Appalachian Center. He has published articles on the Appalachian settlement school, and is currently a member of the board of directors of Lotts Creek Community School in Hazard, Kentucky. HENRY D. SHAPIRO is professor of history and co-director of the Center for Neighborhood and Community Studies at the University of Cincinnati. A specialist in American intellectual and cultural history, he has published Physician to the West: Selected Writings of Daniel Drake on Science and Society (1970) and Clifton: Neighborhood and Community in An Urban Setting (1976), with Z. L. Miller, and Appalachia on Our Mind: The Southern Mountains and Mountaineers in the American Consciousness, 1870-1920, (1978). His current work focuses on the development and use of new social taxonomies since the mid-nineteenth century. MELANIE SoviNE is a doctoral candidate in anthropology at the University of Kentucky. Her studies include the examination of religion and mental health in the American South.