I’m going to write a post at the end of this semester about being Appalachian—what everything I’ve read in this Appalachian Lit class has taught/reminded me about this area, how it’s connected to other areas, etc.  I’m writing a paper today on how Charles Frazier constructs the Cold Mountain / Black Cove world in Cold Mountain, from a “critical regionalist” perspective, and when I opened Douglas Reichert Powell’s Critical Regionalism to a full-page map of the Appalachian Trail, the cities and towns and mountains and valleys that follow the range up the country, I had a moment.  I’m so proud to be from this part of the country, this part of the world.  I can’t even say.  I’m so proud to have sprung up from this very soil.  I know there’s so much blood in it, and that I will never know some of its past nightmares, but—I’m the daughter of it.  I belong to it, in some sense.