Raised in a Holler: A Hillbilly Childhood of Life and Faith

By Michael Marion

Michael Marion has dedicated his adult life to empowering young people to realize their full potential. Alongside his wife, Sherry, they've nurtured nine children and positively impacted hundreds more to become relationally successful. Rooted in his upbringing in the tight-knit community of Snake Holler in Hancock County, Tennessee, Michael attr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Overhome Publications
• Release date: Feb 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869169037

Book preview

1

Intro

It was a day that etches itself into memory, one of those pivotal moments that stir action. I distinctly remember the catalyst for penning down the stories of my childhood—a moment triggered by a seemingly innocuous comment from my wife: You're heavy. Little did I know that her words would become the impetus for me to reflect on my past.

The clock struck 3:30 on a nondescript Tuesday afternoon, marking the commencement of a Rise Up leadership training class for 18 teenagers. Many of these young minds had been part of our after-school and mentoring programs, aptly named Rise Up for Kids (a shameless plug, I know). The group, a diverse blend of gender, economic backgrounds, and races, had transformed since their elementary school days. No longer the children I once knew, they stood on the precipice of crucial life choices.

In the midst of delivering a lesson on choices and consequences, I observed a subtle but persistent distraction among them. Despite their respectful attention, each teenager surreptitiously juggled glances between me and their phones. The digital allure, a constant competitor for their impressionable and curious minds, threatened to hijack the focus I sought. Instinctively, I interjected with a seemingly unrelated tale: And my Grandpa shot my dog! Instantaneously, phones were pocketed, replaced by a cascade of questions—For real?, He shot your dog?, Did he do that in front of you?, and Did you cry? The next 30 minutes unfolded in a flurry of inquiries, and just like that, I had their undivided attention. The power of storytelling had triumphed over the digital distractions, enabling me to seamlessly weave in the intended message.

This incident became a valuable lesson and an unexpected tool in my teaching arsenal. Drawing on over 30 years of engaging youth through Rise Up in various settings, from small groups to large gatherings, I discovered the potency of personal narratives. Stories from my childhood became a conduit to amplify teaching points, unveil facets of my personality, or simply provide a breather before delving into the day's discussion. With a wealth of tales stemming from my eventful life and the unique environment of my upbringing, conversations flowed effortlessly, capturing the attention of the students I engaged with.

Over the years, countless individuals have echoed a sentiment: You ought to write a book. My response, often accompanied by laughter, would be a noncommittal Perhaps one day. Today, however, marks the fulfillment of that perhaps. In the pages that follow, I will share stories, introduce characters, recount events, and unveil places that sculpted the person I am today. These anecdotes, beyond serving as a personal catharsis, played a role in nurturing the Rise Up program, touching the lives of hundreds of youths. My tumultuous, unpredictable, rollercoaster life has been both an inspiration and a lesson to those who have crossed its path. If this narrative serves as a conduit to reach more individuals, offering glimpses of a life beyond expectations, then so be it.

2

Over Home and The Holler

The tourism tagline for Jamaica boasts, Once you go, you know, a sentiment that Hancock people, instead, encapsulate in the phrase Over home. Whenever I hear someone utter those words, I instantly recognize them as hailing from Hancock County. Journeying to this secluded part of Tennessee isn't accidental; it requires navigating mountainous terrain, winding curves, and numerous bridges, giving credence to the expression over home as a nostalgic return.

Established in 1848, Hancock County, named after the iconic John Hancock, boasts unique features. My initial skepticism about carrying the name of a long-deceased figure gave way to pride as I recognized its significance in narrating the tale of my life. Landmarks across the county bear names tied to their geographical features—Mulberry Gap, Atlantis Hill, Kyle's Ford, Blackwater, and the intriguing Snake Holler. Pronounced as spelled, this holler served as a cultural litmus test; if someone said hollow, it marked them as an outsider.

Sneedville, with its population of 900, served as the hub for all county business. The courthouse in the town center witnessed men engaged in whittling, chewing tobacco, and exchanging knives, tales, and guns—a communal ritual. Amidst three restaurants, including the Green Top Inn and the drive-in, life in Sneedville thrived with its own rhythm.

Over 70 churches dotted the landscape, each a testament to the county's rich heritage. Established over a century ago, many of these churches were family-based, their history intertwined with familial connections that endured through generations. The pastors, often called and apprenticed by their predecessors, shaped the spiritual landscape. In a dry county during my childhood, bootleggers thrived, forging arrangements with local sheriffs to maintain a delicate equilibrium.

Politics locally was never viewed as a republican versus democrats thing. Since the civil war, East Tennessee almost always voted republican on state and national level. On the local level it was more like one family machine versus another family machine. Whichever group won could dispense government jobs as well access any state funding there. It wasn’t unusual for vote brokers to arrange for entire families to vote one way through providing rides to the polls as well as providing cash either individually or the entire family patriarch.

The Melugeons was and still is to a limited degree part of the demographics. The term likely comes from the french word ‘melange’ meaning mixed. Records as far back as 1813 make mention of them. It is uncertain as to their origin - some speculate European sailors, who mixed with Indians 100’s of years ago. They had their own state classification as colored. Overtime, they were pushed higher and higher into the mountains of East Tennessee and Virginia. Many of the local families had names like Gibson, Collins, Ramsey, Mullins, Goins and others. Growing up, to call another child a Melungeon was the ultimate slur and resulted into fights. It was only after growing up, I realized that most of the people who loved me most had melungeon origins.

Snake Holler in the '60s and '70s epitomized stereotypical hillbilly culture. Unpaved roads, outhouses, and the absence of electricity until the late '60s were commonplace. The community's rhythm synchronized with the seasons, from barefoot summers to winter firewood preparations. Holidays and family reunions punctuated the year, bringing together generations in celebration and connection.

Life in the holler shaped my foundation. While subsequent experiences and education expanded my horizons, the roots of my identity dig deep into the hills and valleys of Snake Holler, defining who I am today.

Left on the Porch, Life With My Grandparents

3

My First Memory

In the haze of August 1964, my first significant memory took root—a memory that would echo through the corridors of my life. It was a decision born of necessity and compassion, as my mother and grandmother, recognizing the tumult in our family, orchestrated a pivotal change for my brothers Andy, Sammy, and me.

My father, still navigating the complex terrain of youth, grappled with the responsibilities of fatherhood. His struggles manifested in a cocktail of drinking, infidelity, and a skewed perception of my mother's role. The breaking point arrived during Grandma's visit to our Baltimore home. Witnessing first hand my father's detachment and immaturity, Grandma knew it was a toxic environment for a child to grow up in. The decision was clear—she wanted a different life for us.

Amidst the emotional turmoil, my mother faced an agonizing choice. It was a sacrifice, a surrender of maternal control for the promise of a better future. I can only imagine the weight of that decision on her shoulders, a weight she bore for the sake of her children. In retrospect, I appreciate the courage it took for her to make that call.

The morning sun bathed the porch in warm light as Grandma held