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No Lies, Just Bullshit: Homegrown in Harrisonburg with Virginia’s Underground Podcast

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From announcing the Avail reunion shows in Richmond to interviewing tattoo artists, musicians, and hometown folks, No Lies Just BS Podcast host Nick Swartz opens a personal window into Virginian life from his Harrisonburg shop, Alley Cat Tattoo. 

“I don’t really do things in the conventional way.”

When he first started the No Lies Just BS podcast, host and owner of Harrisonburg’s Alley Cat Tattoo Nick Swartz had a lifetime of stories waiting to be told.

From humble beginnings in Clifton Forge to being kidnapped with his brother at eight years old, Swartz could have easily captured an audience with the tales of his own upbringing — but his stories weren’t the only ones Swartz wanted to tell.

“Not everyone is a great storyteller, but everyone has a story to tell,” Swartz said. “I’ve talked to people from all over the place… I’ve got a ton of stories that I haven’t told yet on the show, but I like to sprinkle them in when my memory is sparked by someone else.”

The podcast, which started three years ago this October, is a storytelling podcast with a focus on the tattoo community. From interviewing world-renowned tattoo artists to hometown folks from rural regions of Virginia, to hosting the original Avail reunion show announcement in its Tim Barry episode — which quickly ignited fans from Richmond and across the nation — Swartz made a point to highlight voices from all walks of life.

“The podcast has kind of grown on its own. And it’s weird, because I get recognized in Richmond a lot more than anywhere else — but I also have people look at the podcast and go, ‘What’s that?’ more than anywhere else.”

Swartz has come to know many of his friends and podcast guests through owning Alley Cat Tattoo. Since No Lies Just BS started, he’s sat down with tattoo artists like Richmond’s Brian Bruno at Absolute Art, Mike Rubendall of Kings Avenue Tattoo in New York City (according to Swartz, one of the most high-profile shops in the world), Jill Bonny of San Francisco’s Studio Kazoku, Virginia’s Scott Sterling, Timothy Hoyer, and more. He’s also hosted musicians like Scott H. Biram, Old Heavy Hands, and Ryan Braces of Bracewar.

“I was trying to tell these stories out about growing up in the mountains and having this crazy life,” Swartz said. “My brother and I got kidnapped when I was eight and he was eleven. We were left in an empty condominium in Florida for a month. We were around rednecks, bikers, and scumbags, drugs and crazy shit. I was telling these stories [as I started the podcast], but I was sort of directing them toward a tattoo audience, because that’s where I was known.”

An especially-beloved voice for Swartz is that of Mary Jane, a local artist in her 70’s who made her way into his shop seeking her first tattoo. Mary Jane had just seen the latest season of Stranger Things, and noticed the character with a fishbone tattoo on her ear. Sick of wearing earrings, Mary Jane decided to get her first tattoo on her earlobes.

“I hear her setting an appointment, and she has an incredible Southern accent from the far South. And I love accents — it’s something I’ve always been drawn to,” Swartz said. “I said to her, ‘Do you know what a podcast is?’ And she said, ‘Yes, of course. What am I, an idiot?’ I asked if she’d like to be on my podcast, and Mary Jane said, ‘Well, my friends will probably think I’m crazy for spending the day with some weirdo like you, but I’ll do it [laughs].’”

Mary Jane (Episode 98) went on to tell a remarkable tale of growing up in Alabama and living through segregation. Born in Tuscaloosa — at the time, the national headquarters of the Ku Klux Klan — she lived in the Deep South until 1969 before moving to Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Her family included a black woman, Johnnie Mae Jones, who was her daddy’s best friend and worked as their live-in nanny for 50 years. In high school, Mary Jane and her friends used to get drunk and sneak into Klan rallies.

“She said, ‘I remember going to these meetings as a little girl,’ and I thought ‘Oh my god, she’s gonna be racist, I’m gonna have to throw her out of here.’ Then she went, ‘The only thing I knew about these guys was they wore white… things… over their heads, and that they were white trash. You knew they were the lowest of the low,’ and I said, ‘Oh, thank God.’ I’ve had the gnarliest tattooers from all over the world reach out to me and say she’s their favorite episode — now, she has two full sleeves of tattoos and two half sleeves on her legs. And she’s part of our family, she comes to cookouts at my house.”

Stories like Mary Jane’s aren’t uncommon to No Lies Just BS. Swartz has hosted guests from tattooers to musicians and hometown locals — all telling their own little pieces of life with a laid-back, and usually comedic, flare.

“Anytime you have the opportunity to be friends with someone, it improves upon your life,” Swartz said of Mary Jane. “We’ve become the best of friends. She’s a special lady.”

As the owner of a tattoo shop nestled in the Shenandoah Valley between the Appalachian Mountains, Swartz has come to hear the wild and entertaining stories of his many customers, musicians, and tattoo artists in the industry.

“[Jill Bonny] came on, and told a story about visiting two Japanese tattoo masters in Japan, both of them in their 80’s. One of those gentlemen is Hori Yoshi III,” Swartz said. “He prepared a statement to be read on my show, which is mind-blowing. He’s been my favorite tattooer for years, and I never thought I would be in contact with him.”

Of the few people Swartz has pursued more than once to be on the show, Tim Barry was one of them. When he initially didn’t hear back, Swartz assumed it was because of his enthusiasm for Avail, a part of Barry’s life that was behind him. But out of the blue, he got a text from Barry that said, “I want to do the show, and I want to do it on this day.” 

“Avail is a big deal for me, they made a huge impact on me,” Swartz said. “I said I couldn’t do that day because I had someone flying in from LA to do the show and hang at the shop for a couple days, and he goes, ‘Well, it’s got to be this day. And if it can’t be this day, it can’t be at all.’ I was like, ‘fuck!’ [laughs], so I went to Richmond… And he said the real reason why you’re here is because Avail is playing in Richmond for the first time in 12 years.”

The episode quickly reached the music community in Richmond, sparking a wave of excitement for the reunion in Virginia and around the country. When he first announced the show dates on the podcast, Barry noted an episode of No Lies Just BS that hosted his bandmate, Beau Beau.

“Tim told me, ‘Listening to you talk to Beau on the podcast, and the way you described our shows, was inspiring, it made me feel good. Then I was opening for Hot Water Music in London, and they described the Avail shows the same way. I listened to Over The James again, and it sounded really good… so I decided to talk to the guys [about a reunion].’” Swartz said. “It was a face-melter for me. I didn’t know he was going to do that when I got to his house.”

At the beginning, No Lies Just BS got its name from the first Blues Brothers movie — Swartz’s favorite to date. His son’s name is Jake Elwood Blues Swartz, and the podcast’s name was no less intentional.

“It’s been a part of my life my whole life. After Jake gets out of prison, he asks, ‘When are we gonna practice?’ And Elwood tells him the band’s not together. Jake says, ‘You told me the band was still together, you lied to me!’ and Elwood says, ‘Ah, it’s not a lie, it’s just bullshit.’ My wife suggested the name for the podcast, and I agreed because I didn’t want to be the guy to discuss serious topics — there’s a place for those things, and I’m just not the guy to host that show.”

Swartz still tries to make a difference in the world, especially close to home. He just doesn’t like to make a big deal out of it.

“I’m the type of person that I believe as long as we take care of our own, and our own neighborhoods and communities, everything will be okay,” he said. “I do it here. Whenever it’s time to pack the bus for school, I go around and get everyone in the shop to pitch in for school supplies for kids in our area. It’s not a huge thing. But I feel it makes a difference here.”

As he became more involved in the culture over his 16 years owning Alley Cat Tattoo, Swartz came to meet many people with interesting backgrounds and stories he thought the world should hear. As No Lies Just BS grew its audience, he found that the most valuable piece of the podcast was its ability to share the jokes, tales, and personalities — the small, often overlooked facets of everyday life — that give a community its soul. Its underground and personal vibe makes listeners feel like they’re sitting in the room with their favorite artists and musicians.

“There’s this incredible tattooer out of Norway named Marius Meyer, and he was one of my early listeners,” Swartz said. “He said to me, ‘Nick, the draw for me is not the tattoo stuff, but it’s the window into Appalachian life from a country boy’s point of view. There’s no way I can get an authentic version of that where I live, unless I read a book that was written 50 years ago. It just doesn’t exist.”

The podcast offers its listeners a look into the region’s culture. With little other outlets aside from local news, No Lies Just BS creates a way to tell Virginia’s stories from a personal view that many news stories don’t convey.

“The thing that I enjoy is bringing stories to the table that people would not hear otherwise,” Swartz said. “My brother and I lived in a place where, if you needed to, you couldn’t holler for anybody. It was just our house in the woods. We cut wood to stay warm, we killed deer and caught trout to feed ourselves, and we had a giant garden. It’s a point of view that I can provide and share that’s just not often touched on.”

Swartz feels that there’s a difference between his own perspective on life in the back country of Virginia that isn’t captured by most who choose to write about it.

“Often those little articles and news stories [about life in the area] are written from an outside perspective that is spoken to someone that they pity,” he said. “I’m proud of where I’m from, I’m proud of who I am. And the things that I’ve experienced, good and bad, equipped me for life.”

Swartz is interested in everyday people, and with them, he’s heard everything from the complicated to the humorous and bizarre. A passionate chef, Swartz takes a personal investment in cooking — and after cooking with Old Heavy Hands, Brother Hawk, and the artists of Absolute Art among others, his cooking and connections through tattoo communities helped him become close friends with many people from the tattoo industry, including Bracewar’s Ryan Braces.

“Ryan’s been my buddy for many years, and he was booking a show at Strange Matter for Brother Hawk and Old Heavy Hands,” Swartz said. “He asked if I’d come down there and cook, so I went with a buddy of mine. It was a blast. I hit it off with those dudes, we drank whiskey and smoked, and I gave them a ton of food for them to take on the road. So at that point, we decided to link up, and Bracewar booked a show in Harrisonburg. He’s a solid guy all-around — those dudes are my close friends, and they mean the world to me. That’s my family.” 

Another favorite musician of his guests on No Lies Just BS, Scott H. Biram, originally made an impact on Swartz the first time he saw Biram play. That happened back in the 90s, when Biram opened for Hank Williams III in Washington, D.C. When Biram played a show in his town years later, Swartz reached out to a friend at the venue about getting him into the show.

“He told Scott, ‘I think you guys are very similar, and you’d get along just fine.’ So Scott avoided me at all costs,” Swartz laughed. “A year later he comes back, and his manager tells me the reason he avoided me is because he plays a persona on stage — from my friend, he thought I was just like his persona. And he didn’t want to associate with anybody like that. But I’ve been to his shows and bought him drinks so many times, I said that if he sees me, he’ll know me. I texted Scott a picture of me, and immediately got a text saying, ‘Aw hell, man, I didn’t know it was you!’”

When Biram came on the show, he played a version of “Mule Skinner Blues” in the office. The old-time bluegrass song has been a favorite of Swartz’s since he was about 10 years old.

“For a moment, I was like, ‘This is unreal. I can’t believe it, he’s sitting five feet from me playing a song that I’ve listened to my whole life.’ That really made a big impact on me. He’s a solid guy, it definitely kind of blew my mind — he was also one of the first people that had no reason to give me a chance. In tattooing, you might know who I am, but in the rest of the world, I’m just a dude.”

After more than 160 episodes, there are still plenty of guests Swartz hopes to host on No Lies Just BS in its future. From tattooers like Baltimore’s Uncle Pauly and New York’s Rose Hardy, originally from New Zealand, to honky-tonk musician Wayne Hancock from Texas, the list keeps growing as Swartz meets artists from different walks of life. Most importantly, he wants to hear their stories; especially more from ordinary folks like Mary Jane and his Uncle Benny.

For many of us, the words of a passing stranger in our day-to-day encounters are nothing more than white noise in the background of life’s routines. But for Swartz, something as simple as an accent overheard from another room can open the door to a lifetime of stories shared, new friendships, and the sense of community that connects us all as individuals. The simple things are, to him, things to be valued — and whether it’s small talk or a big moment with our artistic heroes, he’s able to use No Lies Just BS as a means to bring people together.

Catch up with Swartz at Alley Cat Tattoo in Harrisonburg, with his shop’s artists including Chris Porter, Andrew Conner, Trevor Smith, Richie Stutler, and Jake Hockman, as well as piercers Katie Davis and Sarah Pennington (who also performs in Richmond as a popular burlesque artist by the name of Sindi Ray Boustier).

Listen to No Lies Just BS on Spotify or their website, and check out Alley Cat Tattoo on their Instagram. 

LOCKN’ 2019: A Family Reunion

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The seventh annual LOCKN’ festival proved that this Blue Ridge Mountain weekend has something for everyone, not just Deadheads and hippies.

Growing up in Lynchburg, Virginia has taught me a lot of things. It made me appreciate the Blue Ridge Mountains, bluegrass music, the beautiful scenery, the diverse environment, and the southern hospitality that Virginia has to offer. Granted, there are things I don’t care for, but as I grow older, I find myself appreciating it much more. I suppose it’s bittersweet. 

There’s a certain serenity to the area that I appreciate. There’s nothing like breathing in the mountain air, experiencing the wildlife, walking through the diverse forests, and diving into the winding rivers or local watering hole that quite soothes the soul like it.

The inaugural edition of LOCKN’ — then known as Interlockn’ Music Festival — was announced seven years ago. With great acts such as Furthur featuring Bob Weir and Phil Lesh, The String Cheese Incident, Widespread Panic, Black Crowes, and so many other bands that I loved set to play less than an hour away from my hometown, I couldn’t believe it. It was almost too good to be true.

Before going to LOCKN’, I feared I would be greatly disappointed by the reality not living up to my expectations. If anything, it was the opposite. My experiences through this festival have shaped my life in ways that I can’t even explain. Being around all of my friends, amazing music, and right in my backyard was the recipe for a life-changing experience.

Today, there are not many festivals that make me happier than LOCKN’. Maybe I’m biased because I have lived most of my life in the Blue Ridge Mountains, or because I’m an avid fan of The Grateful Dead and other similar artists, but I have fallen in love with this festival. Plus, getting away from the hustle and bustle of living in Richmond is a nice escape.

But honestly, this festival is not just for Deadheads and hippies. There’s something for everyone. With a vast range of genres and once-in-a-lifetime collaborations, it’s a festival where you can go from rocking out with your elders to having your elders rock out with you. This year’s edition of LOCKN’, held Aug. 22-25, featured acts such as Vulfpeck. This band’s hard-bassline math-rock-esqe witty funky jams sound like what I can best describe as Dick Dale on acid, and they have a playful sarcasm that will get everyone around you dancing and prancing like a unicorn.

Then there was Khruangbin (which in Thai translates to airplane, or literally “engine-fly”), hailing from Texas, who had a go-go-dancing funky Thai rock fusion and were joined by a sit-in collaboration from Phish front-man and guitarist Trey Anastasio. They’ll have you whisked away on an airplane to funky town, and feeling like you’re on the set of a Quentin Tarrentino movie.

There was also St. Paul & The Broken Bones, from Birmingham, Alabama, whose soulful gospel-like brass and retro soul music will transport you into a serendipitous 50’s and 60’s present day. Leader Paul Janeway’s ridiculously awesome stage antics and opera-like vibrato pull you into a performance that rivals an Elton John show.

Pigeons Playing Ping Pong was joined by Cory Wong of Vulfpeck. Mind-melting guitar solos and funk overload had me shaking my booty to their psychedelic jam funk. They were reminiscent of Parliament-Funkadelic with a new flair for stage antics, like stage synchronized swimming with an anecdotal hilarity.

For the nocturnal folks, late night over at the bright dayglo neon Garcia’s Forest hosted acts such as Circles Around The Sun, an instrumental jam band with a wild juxtaposed composure, sounding like Booker T. & The M.G.s and the Grateful Dead’s jams mashed together. On Friday night, Galactic’s funky jazz electronic fusion brings with it a dance party to remember. Saturday had Soullive ft. Infinity Horns, an awesome bluesy soul-jazz and jam fusion.

But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I could go into all of the amazing performances and collaborations that happened throughout the weekend, but really, for me, the best part of going to LOCKN’ is not just the music — it’s the community. I’ve been going to music festivals for over a decade, and this is the only one where I can both bump into people I grew up with from my hometown that I haven’t seen in over five years, and make new friends that I continue to bump into each year. It brings this familiarity of a family reunion — but one where everyone feels like your family.

Here’s an example of what I’m talking about: I lost my wallet on the Saturday night of the festival, and was really distraught by it. Worrying about having to sit in the dreaded DMV, and waste my life away on countless automated phone lines trying to replace all of my credit cards, almost ruined the night for me. But I pushed it out of my mind, hoping that there are good people out there.

The next day, I went down to their Lost and Found, and sure enough, my wallet was waiting for me. It even had the cash and everything else the way I had left it. Inside, a small note was tucked in, saying “Happy Lockn! – Anonymous.” It gave me a reignited hope for humanity.

There’s a certain sense of community at LOCKN’ that you won’t find anywhere else. People are smiling, dancing with each other, helping each other out, and creating lasting memories that leave you eagerly waiting for LOCKN’ to come back around again.

I can’t wait for next year’s family reunion.

Photos by August J. Heisler IV of August J. Photography

Music Sponsored By Graduate Richmond

Rural LGBTQ Activists Push Back Against “Hillbilly” Stereotypes

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*This article originally appeared in RVA Mag #36, on the streets now at all your favorite spots.

For years, the cultural and historical notions of Appalachia have been dictated by white, straight narratives. The understanding of the mountainous, rural region’s inhabitants as ignorant “hillbillies,” incapable of independent thought, drove the political narrative that formed around this “forgotten” region of America after the 2016 election. In the wake of that electoral disaster, many pointed fingers at Appalachia and labeled it “Trump country.” The coverage surrounding Appalachia was that of passive, poor, conservative voices.

With much of the blame resting on their shoulders, the people of Appalachia now face a divisive political paradigm: one in which the outside world can justify its continued willingness to overlook and ignore issues in the region. What these dismissals fail to realize, though, is that marginalized people live in Appalachia. There are large populations of people of color, indigenous persons, and queer individuals who call the mountains their home.

Often forgotten by their own country, these marginalized communities stand in the face of adversity every day, struggling to get by in a region with a strong economic dependence on declining fossil fuels, the highest rates of opioid addiction in the nation, and the country’s highest population of conservative Christians — a group that tends to have no interest in their plight.

Yet despite the odds stacked against them, they continue to fight back against bigotry, building their communal ties through social media, and taking action in their communities to rewrite their own narratives.

Photo by Roger May

For founder Gina Mamone, the Queer Appalachia collective did not set out to be a cultural movement. What began as an inside joke — a way of coping with their own self-identity in a place that was unforgiving — became a stepping stone for other queer people in Appalachia to share their art and stories.

Created as a memorial to their friend, activist Bryn Kelly (who died in 2016), the group’s zine and active social media accounts became a way for Mamone and many others to address their identity within Appalachia.

With the help of the community, Queer Appalachia’s zine, Electric Dirt, has grown into a 200-page magazine encompassing the art and lives of queer individuals all over the Appalachian region. Their Instagram now boasts 136,000 followers.

Focusing heavily on local artists’ work, the zine encompasses art and pieces from all over Appalachia and the South. And none of it serves to profit the collective.

“We don’t keep the money,” Mamone explains. “It all goes back to the community.”

This community outreach includes coat drives for those who are homeless or can’t afford warm clothes this winter. The group also helps to organize events like “No Thanks,” a project to recognize indigenous communities and the struggles they faced during the Thanksgiving holiday.

The organization also works to help queer addicts in Appalachia. Opioid addiction is an epidemic that has plagued the region for some time. In 2016, West Virginia had the highest risk of opioid-overdose deaths in the nation, while Virginia has seen a steady increase in opioid-related deaths over the past several years. It’s a problem that has no clear solutions, and one that Mamone believes is a part of continual exploitation of the region.

“No one is really looking out for queer addicts,” Mamone said. Queer Appalachia has become the first organization to collect data on opioid addiction within the region’s community, and Mamone explains that the average amount of queer people addicted to opiods in West Virginia is around 90 percent. According to Mamone, it only gets worse for queer people of color: for them, the statistic rises to 98 percent.

There is this perpetual ideology of pulling yourself up from your bootstraps — but that’s not how addiction works,” Mamone said. “Most of the aid comes from churches. Straight people can accept Jesus [and get help], but when you’re queer, no [religious] community will have you.

Queer Appalachia is trying to break the stigma by working to establish a recovery program for LGBTQ addicts. They hope to create queer-led meetings centered around community, offering narcan training and clean needle exchange.

Queer Appalachia is not the only movement in the region that is helping to rewrite the narrative of marginalized people. Another is Cornbread Communism, a loose-knit group of Appalachian activists who came together to create The Cornbread Communism Manifesto, another zine set on changing the narrative of Appalachian voices.

“When pieces are written about rural Appalachia, it’s from the perspective of an outsider, and completely lacks authenticity or nuance,” said activist Sacco, who acted as the chief editor, designer, writer, and artist for the Cornbread Communism Manifesto. “At best, it’s poverty porn framed around ‘Look at these poor, bumbling souls.’”

The Cornbread Communists have made it their mission to spread awareness of Appalachia’s long history of resistance, and to unite disparate groups of Appalachian activists. Often overlooked by activist movements, the region has a history steeped in exploitation. Its roots lie in communities made up of poor immigrants, runaway enslaved people, and indigenous groups. The discovery of coal allowed the exploitation to grow, as coal companies abused their power to trap local workers into an exploitative system of cheap, feudalistic labor.

Our history is that of capitalist exploitation for labor and natural resources, and currently by pharmaceutical companies dumping opioids into communities,” Sacco said. “Because let’s be honest — liberals and conservatives see us as trash.

Despite adversity, the most marginalized people in these communities are working to shift public opinions, making space for themselves as they share their stories to the rest of the world.

“I’m thankful I have the opportunity to change the narrative,” Mamone said. “I want to build this platform for the community.”

Top Photo by Roger May

Losing Lifeblood: Rural Appalachia Survives After Coal

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*This article originally appeared in RVA Mag #35, on the streets now at all your favorite spots.

For Erastus Adkins, a once-resident of Wayne County, West Virginia, the coalfields were a way of life. With 11 children to feed, Adkins worked in the mines from the age of 14 until he died of black lung at age 57, his daughter Betty Lett recalls.

In poorly-constructed houses embedded into mountain sides, residents earned pay in devalued currency that could only be used at the company store. Families were left indebted to their employers.

“My mother, when she hung her diapers on the line,” Lett explains, “she would have to shake the coal dust out of them.”

Adkins and Lett share this story with many from the Appalachian coal country, who struggled to survive as part of a thankless labor force. With little to no benefits and low pay, many left for work not knowing whether they would return home to their families that night.

For years, the Appalachian region has relied on rich minerals nestled within its mountain ranges. The hard-working coal miners labor tirelessly from sunrise to sunset, crawling on their hands and knees in cramped underground spaces to provide much of the United States with electricity.

Historically, coal mining supplemented much of West Virginia’s income. Now, the state faces a crisis as the coal industry continues its decline, and many are searching for an economic revival through alternate forms of energy.

Miners Going into the Slope, Hazelton, PA, circa 1905. Photo by B.L. Singley, Keystone View Co., public domain. (via Wikimedia)

According to the Energy Information Administration, between 2008 and 2016, coal production in Virginia and West Virginia dropped 50 percent. West Virginia’s most coal-rich center, Boone County, lost 60 percent of their mining jobs in less than a decade.

Searching for answers, the typically-blue state turned red in the 2016 election, as politicians promised new efforts for coal. Holding out hope for the revival of their economy, voters gave their power to Republican politicians despite regular campaigns to reduce government assistance to the poor.

Recent elections have put the region in a complicated position between political parties. On one side: Vote to restore the backbone industry; on another, vote towards assistance to prepare for its fall. In a region that holds so strongly onto the merits of hard work, Appalachians put their faith into bringing back their jobs.

As the flame of their lifeblood industry fades, West Virginians reluctantly lean on government programs under politicians who work against their support. In 2014, roughly 38 percent of West Virginia’s population relied on government programs, with 19 percent utilizing food stamps. According to a USA Today report, West Virginia is one of the most-dependent states on government programs.

Children of miners, McDowell County, West Virginia, 1946. Photo by Russell Lee, public domain (via Wikimedia)

West Virginia native Rachel Sparkman, now a rural sociology professor at Virginia Commonwealth University, says West Virginians are not voting in their best interests. While these programs are crucial to the state population’s survival, its desperation for economic stimulus has led West Virginians to sacrifice these vital resources for coal.

“You’re going back to work,” Donald Trump promised miners during his 2016 campaign in the region. Yet since his election, little has been done to help miners get back on their feet. Coal production is still declining, and unemployment is still high.

Sparkman says the future of Appalachia lies in shifting the culturally-driven labor force into a different skill set.

“We have skilled workers willing to work, but the opportunity isn’t there,” Sparkman said. “If we can teach them a new skill set, then we can change the state.”

Many residents are placing their hope in natural gas. For the first time in 2016, natural gas replaced coal as the nation’s main electrical fuel. Although natural gas seems promising as a sustainable replacement, it has the same negative environmental effects as coal. And it, too, Sparkman explained, will eventually become scarce.

The area has historically relied on mine labor rather than pursuing higher education — the root of another problem, as the state’s less-educated labor force cannot switch to a knowledge-based economy with ease.

In 2016, the Federal Communications Commission reported that 48 percent of rural West Virginia does not have access to broadband internet. The same year, a study conducted by Virginia’s Chamber of Commerce found that 45 percent of rural Virginia homes also lack access. Education is hindered as a result, and many cannot adequately keep up with the rest of the country.

In the rural counties of Southwest Virginia and the states beyond, populations are decreasing as younger generations move to more urban centers. Appalachia’s traditional coal-producing areas are experiencing a similar exodus. As young people get more educated, they’re less likely to return to their roots: Without sustainable job opportunities in the area, it becomes harder and harder to go back home.

Buildings along the railroad line, Keystone, West Virginia. By Carol M. Highsmith, public domain (via Wikimedia)

Around the country, similar situations have placed cities in tough positions. Places like Detroit, Michigan — which declined as the automobile industry moved overseas in the 80s and 90s — relied on government bailouts to shift its labor industry forward. But Appalachia has no safety net, as it’s unlikely for the government to bail out an entire region of the country.

Despite the overwhelming odds, some local groups are fighting to bring renewable energy to the area. These include community organizations like the Wise-based Solar Workgroup for Southwest Virginia, and full service solar-energy providers like Solar Holler in Huntington, West Virginia.

Starting in 2013, Solar Holler founder Dan Conant wanted to continue coal country’s legacy with energy through more sustainable resources. Beginning as an experiment placing solar panels on homeless shelters and churches, Conant’s organization fueled these buildings with clean energy. He says Solar Holler is growing rapidly and serves about 100 people per year.

“We want to help build up the industry, because solar has amazing potential,” Conant said, expressing the region’s need for reform. According to him, solar is cheaper than running coal plants and better for the environment.

One of the hundreds of people Solar Holler services includes Thomas Harless, a resident of Wayne County who chose solar power as an investment.

Coal mine in Appalachia, Virginia, near Kingsport, TN, 1974. Source: U.S. National Archives and Records Administration at College Park, Public domain (via Wikimedia)

“Over the next 15 years, the system will have paid for itself,” Harless stated, explaining how he saves money on his electric bill by using solar.

According to Conant, installing solar energy in Appalachia will lower — and potentially eliminate — people’s electric bills, keeping money within the state.

Partnering with the non-profit organization program Coalfield Development, Solar Holler offers job training and certification to laid-off coal miners as well as the younger generation,  working to keep tradition through alternative energy.

Through the apprenticeship, Solar Holler offers to pay for college, a living wage, and solar certification so they can continue to establish solar panels within the state.

Harless says the initial expense for solar installment is high, and many in the area may not be able to afford it: But in time, he says, and with adequate resources, more people will be able to make the switch to solar power.

In an area wrought with poverty and uncertainty, Southwestern Virginia’s coal country struggles to find ways to survive in the face of a dying industry. While the area is seeing the beginning of new survival methods through renewable energy, its resources are still limited, and Appalachia awaits a new hope for revival.

Top Photo: Virginia-Pocahontas Coal Company Mine No. 2, near Richlands, VA, 1974. Source: National Archives at College Park, Public domain (via Wikimedia)

Roanoke’s Sam Rasoul Puts Community Ahead of Big Money

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As the first Muslim-American in the Virginia General Assembly — and the first to sign a pledge against taking public interest donations — Roanoke Delegate Sam Rasoul wants to eliminate money’s role in politics. 

According to the Center for Public Integrity, Virginia is one of nine states that do not have an ethics commission to oversee the number of donations given to politicians by special interest PACs (political action committees) and lobbyists. Because of this lack, Virginia has become one of the worst states for the influence of money in politics.

Rasoul set himself apart from his fellow legislators by being the first elected official in Virginia to pledge not to take donations from special interests. “The possible influence of accepting money from those entities is not a thought or consideration,” said Delegate Lashrecse Aird, Rasoul’s seatmate during General Assembly sessions. “He has taken the extra step so that his constituents know he is there because of them.” 

Six other members of the General Assembly have followed his lead since his initial pledge. Along with Rasoul, some of them have formed a group known as the People’s Caucus: a group of legislators determined to preserve the people’s interest.

Following the 2016 election, the public trust in the government reached an all-time low at 18 percent, according to the Pew Research Center.

Rasoul is working to earn back that public trust: through local grassroots movements, he’s pushing to change the political landscape and leads community impact training in Roanoke (which open seminars to potential public officials on how to run free-to-the-public campaigns).

The goal: Show members of the community how they can be leaders. Whether it be in politics or through outreach efforts, the idea is to show citizens how to positively impact their own neighborhoods. The campaign is run by The Impact Center, an organization in Roanoke designed to enrich the local community.

A child of immigrants, Rasoul moved to Virginia at a young age. Growing up in Roanoke allowed him to set up a strong community following for his political career later in life.

PHOTO: Delegate Sam Rasoul, Facebook

The delegate never dreamed of being a politician, until 11 years ago when he found himself running for Congress. With the decision that would permanently change his career path, Rasoul saw great adversity.

“I have always been in an extreme minority,” Rasoul said in an interview this year. “I don’t get frustrated; I just keep my head down, and try and get as much work done as I can.”

Being a Democrat in a Republican-dominated House, Rasoul has seen many setbacks, with only a small percentage of his bills being passed. His positive attitude in the face of adversity has helped him implement his idea of “good government” — a practice, he insists, that serves the public interest.

Tapping his feet against the carpet, Rasoul reflected on the passion of his work. “We need to aggressively find ways of making sure the people are empowered,” Rasoul explained, “and that special interests aren’t undermining the will and the voice of the people.”

Rasoul has taken on a multitude of roles in his lifetime including being a father — a role that has given him a different perspective on his years of work towards bettering the education system.

“Education as a whole is lacking in the innovation we need to become more successful,” Rasoul said, elaborating that childhood success weighs heavily on the early development stages.

“We have our priorities flipped on their head,” Rasoul said. “I think putting a lot more energy and emphasis into early years is critical for increasing IQ, increasing their income over the course of their life, and decreasing their criminal interactions.”

Rasoul has drafted several bills regarding education. Earlier this year, he introduced a bill that would amend the Virginia Constitution to allow 16-year-olds to vote in local elections.

Rasoul and his supporters argue that letting 16-year-olds to vote will allow them to have equal representation, as local government and the school board affect high school aged students. The measure hoped to increase overall voter turnout and help inform young voters about government practices.

Although this bill died in committee, Rasoul explained that this was only an introduction.  He will reintroduce it and, if passed, the public will vote on it in a constitutional referendum in 2020: the same year as the next presidential election.

Rasoul also argued against privatization of public schooling, noting his belief that most models for privatization do not work, and they specifically would not work for Virginia. A recent report issued by the Schott Foundation for Public Education and the Network For Public Education found that 47 states have either a voucher or charter school program, 33 of which allow those programs to be run by for-profit companies. Only one of those states requires schools taking vouchers to provide services for English-learning students — students that, as of Fall 2015, made up 8.5 percent of Virginia’s public school enrollments.

“We need to strengthen our public school system, and put mechanisms in place to encourage aggressive innovation,” Rasoul said. “We have to find ways to take care of our teachers, because when we do, they will take care of the students.”

A firm believer in taking care of any work staff, Rasoul states that it is essential to have well-versed employees to support an institution.

Amalea Deegan, Rasoul’s community outreach liaison, attested to this from her work with the delegate.

“He starts off every day asking, ‘What is the office’s mission?” Deegan said, “and it is to help as many people as possible. If we are doing anything that isn’t achieving that goal, then we’re not going to do it.”

In Deegan’s time working with the politician, she believes he has made her a better leader.

“He takes on a mentor role,” Deegan said. “He actively tries to improve the people who are working for him.” Rasoul’s office is nestled in the heart of Richmond, and he worked on the Northam transition team leading up to the governor’s inauguration. His desk is neat and orderly, his walls decorated with pictures of friends, family, and people he has met along the way.

Among the relics, a homemade painting of the Roanoke star hangs, a memento of home. The star overlooks Rasoul’s home city of Roanoke from its perch, high on Mill Mountain, and is visible from anywhere in the city. The painting in his office acts as a reminder of the people Sam Rasoul strives to represent, and the reason he is working to dismantle corruption in government.

Occupation: Appalachia

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“I miss my house. I really would not have traded it for a piece of plywood if this were not important,” shouted Red Terry, high above her property in a tree-sit on Bent Mountain this past April. Theresa “Red” Terry lives in an “active crime scene,” according to law enforcement.

Along with other activists, she and her daughter, Minor Terry, are seeking to prevent construction of a 300-mile long, 42-inch wide natural gas pipeline that would cut through Jefferson National Forest. They took to the trees after an ongoing four-year legal battle that climaxed this January when a federal judge ruled in favor of Mountain Valley Pipeline, LLC, clearing the way for pipeline construction.

This article originally appeared in RVA #33 Summer 2018, you can check out the issue here, or pick it up around Richmond now. 

“Most people [the pipeline] was affecting have been busy doing lawful things for three years, and it’s gotten them nowhere,” Red said. “When they gave the permission to cut on my property, that’s when I decided to go up [the tree]. It’s gotten attention a lot faster than doing things the right way.”

Landowners occupy shelters in the trees above their land in protest of the Mountain Valley Pipeline proposed for construction in Franklin County, Virginia.

Red and Minor were found in contempt of court for their protest, and have been charged with three misdemeanors, including impeding work and trespassing. Living on separate tree platforms in two different locations, they are both near the creek that runs through their property. The pipeline company claims their protest halted tree cutting, but the Virginia Department of Environmental Quality has forbidden MVP to cut trees within 75 feet of any waterway for the season due to the spawning season of the Roanoke logperch, a federally-designated endangered species.

“If I weren’t here, they would cut anyway,” Minor said. She’s the seventh-generation landowner on the Terry property. Both state police and Global Security, a private firm hired by MVP, share a tent while camping outside the tree sits. The women are issued state-provided food, which includes two bologna sandwiches, a bag of apple juice, water, and two cookies–food described as meeting all their ‘nutritional needs.’

The protests gave MVP grounds to request an extension to DEQ’s original tree cutting deadline of March 31 to May 31, which DEQ and other federal agencies granted. Originally, this deadline was set to protect bat and migratory bird habitats.

“The path that this pipeline will be going through, the terrain is unreal,” Minor said. “It’s steep slopes, mountainsides, waterways, creeks and streams, and wetlands. And some of these slopes are too steep to even stand on, and they want to bring in machinery and blast through it and bury a giant pipeline.”

According to Dr. Hearst Kastning, a karst landscape expert, pipeline leaks are likely to occur due to the high degree of seismic activity in this region of Appalachia. Landslides are also common here, and Kastning says they’re likely to increase when the trees preventing erosion are removed.

“Karst, in general, is one of the most sensitive landscapes in the environment. In a karst landscape, there are a lot of fractures and openings,” Kastning said. “Caves allow a lot of water to go through, fast, and unfiltered. Because of that, if the pipeline goes over karst, there are no guarantees it will be alright because we don’t know where it will redirect the water… Once operational, if it springs a leak or breaks, that would contaminate the groundwater for quite a distance.”

On Carolyn Reilly’s property, a working farm in Franklin County, an anonymous group has taken to the trees to protect her land. Reilly, a longtime pipeline fighter, faces contempt of court charges for allowing them to remain.

“We call ourselves grass farmers,” Reilly said about her property, where she’s trying to improve soil quality through traditional agricultural practices. She contrasted that with MVP, describing them as “extractive, and all about claiming space.” She said MVP is “working it to death and then moving on. That doesn’t honor life at all.”

The Reillys and the Terrys have been fighting the MVP for the past three and a half years, engaging in government meetings, community forums, and an endless string of lawsuits. Both families are part of individual lawsuits against FERC and state agencies, as well as group lawsuits through organizations like Bold Alliance, the Sierra Club, and the Southern Environmental Law Center. The process is long and messy.

“Bringing these appeals is a relatively recent development,” said Carolyn Elefant, the pipeline lawyer for Bold Alliance. “There had always been a handful of challenges to certificates over the last 20 years, but generally parties didn’t have resources, or they just gave in to the project. It’s really only been in the past five years these cases have started to go forward.”

Many of these lawsuits have no precedent, making for a new legal environment. The process for companies is becoming more tedious since, in addition to receiving a certificate from FERC, the section 401 water quality test from the State Water Control Board, and approval from the Forest Service, they are being met with lawsuits from almost every impacted landowner.

While this may be a headache for companies like EQT Midstream Partners, partners involved with MVP; or Dominion, who controls the Atlantic Coast Pipeline project; it poses more serious challenges to rural landowners who lack the resources to fight back.

Elefant said the bias favors construction, since, “when a court looks at the decision, it presumes that the agency ruling is correct, and it tends to defer to many of the factual determinations that the agency made.” Even when alternate routes are proposed, she said, “the court is going to assume that FERC’s decision was probably right based on its expertise.”

In 2016, protests against the Dakota Access Pipeline at the Standing Rock Indian Reservation highlighted the power that corporations wield in these interactions. While the MVP does not disrupt Native American land, the proposed pipeline will cause irreparable damage to woodlands and historic farmlands, in an area as sparsely populated as Standing Rock.

“They had no right to come through here and pick land they knew they wouldn’t get much fight from,” Red Terry said. “Older people, retiring people. We’ve had this land pretty much natural for seven generations, and we want to keep it that way.”

Energy companies have continually targeted populations that lack widespread social power. They are small, agrarian communities that feel ignored by their political representatives and lack the resources to stop a project headed by large corporations, many of which donate to Virginia’s political parties. According to the Virginia Public Access Project, Governor Northam has accepted over $199,251 from Dominion alone, something that critics say suggests government bias.

“DEQ has a history of aligning with industry over the public interest, and that was no more clear than in the agency’s industry-friendly handling of the Atlantic Coast and Mountain Valley pipeline permits in 2017,” Peter Anderson, Virginia Program Manager with Appalachian Voices, said in a statement. Last year, former Governor McAuliffe signed a $58 million mitigation plan with Dominion, releasing them from any potential damages to Virginia’s forests by the ACP, while Governor Northam remains passive toward pipeline questions, and publicly reprimanded Red Terry for her protest.

Elefant predicts these cases will go to the Supreme Court. In addition to the constitutionality of a private corporation using eminent domain, several other new legal issues are introduced, such as the environmental impact inflicted by this project.

“This has been happening for generations,” Reilly said. “This whole country was founded on taking what belongs to other people. I feel like this is corporate colonization happening.”

In May, the Terrys had their court dates, almost a month after Red and Minor took to the trees.

“I don’t understand how industry can look at these plans, look at whatever information that’s been given to them, and thought this was a good idea,” Minor said. “They thought this was going to be safe, that the damage would be minimal. I’m angry. I’m so angry.”

The tree-sitters believe the lengths they have gone to protect the land are absolutely necessary. They have endured rain, high winds, freezing temperatures, snow, heat, constant interrogation, police surveillance, and really bad bologna sandwiches.

“We need to be clear with ourselves that this structure of law enforcement is to serve this company over the power of the people,” said a Reilly property tree-sitter, who went by the pseudonym Alex. “I know that this is a way, at least for a time, to stop the construction. They’re getting scared now.”

U.S. District Judge Elizabeth Dillon found the Terrys in contempt of court and ordered them to evacuate their trees by midnight the next Saturday. If they did not comply, they would be fined $1,000 per day – fines that would be given directly to MVP, LLC. Red’s husband, Coles Terry III, was fined $2,000 for being in contempt for supporting his wife and daughter.

MVP lawyers told the judge that the delays caused by the Terrys so far have cost the pipeline more than $15,000, and that security efforts around the tree-sitting zones cost more than $25,000. MVP’s construction manager testified the alleged financial damages would grow exponentially if crews could not finish tree clearing by the May 31 deadline.

“There are more ways to fight,” Alex said. “Determined people, organized people can still do something. We have our voice, we have each other, and if we wedge those things in the right places, new possibilities can be born.”

Even after the ruling was reached, Alex and the others remained on the Reilly property until the end of May.

“If you look closely enough, if you are really present, then you can find the whole world here,” Alex said. “Defending this place is about that, but there is a global context here. This is a farm and a family that have built their livelihood here.”

Carolyn and her husband have done everything they could to protect their land and their farm from a corporate enterprise, not only affecting their lives and their children’s lives, but the entire community around them. Eminent domain has stripped them of that right, while the Reillys have to worry whether they will be able to continue farming, out of fear for their soil and waterways.

Hundreds of miles away, men in a corporate office in Pittsburgh have permanently affected the way a little girl sees the world.

“It’s totally permeated every pore of our family,” said Reilly, mother of four, who now worries for her children’s future due to legal costs imposed by the court after a guilty ruling. “She’s eight, our youngest. She’s known this since she was five. This is all she’s known. Her whole perspective is based on, ‘Are you for or against the pipeline?’ She’ll ask me, ‘That person you were just talking to, are they for or against it? What do they think about it?’ Basically, are they for us or are they not for us? Where do they stand with us?”

The Reillys, the Terrys and hundreds of other landowners continue to fight both the ACP and the MVP. Both projects continue to face considerable obstacles, such as mid-May storms, which prompted DEQ to cite environmental violations and halt construction due to severe erosion that would pollute waterways. MVP predicts the project will be complete by the fall of 2018.

READ MORE: At the end of last month, the 4th Circuit Court of Appeals struck down two important decisions that allowed the Mountain Valley Pipeline natural gas line to cut through the Jefferson National Forest this past Friday.