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An Appalachian Tale: Heroin Hurricane
Small-town America isn’t what it used to be.
Next to the Ohio River sits a small, depressed town where a drug is easier to find than a well-paying job.
As a little girl growing up here, our neighborhood used to come alive at night with children carrying flashlights playing Spotlight Tag. Kids don’t play this game at night anymore. Doors are locked, strangers don’t say “hello” like they used to. If you are known to have prescriptions, you are a target to get robbed. The small town is currently under siege and afraid.
My town has a real name. It has a local university where football players become NFL stars winning Super Bowl rings. Another name has been given to my home. You won’t find it on a map. I live in a place nicknamed “Moneyton.”
In the Appalachian foothills, coal was the primary job provider. Trains are not rumbling down our tracks as often as they once did. Our land is being stripped bare of its natural resources, and there is a new way to live. There is a pipeline running from Detroit to my home. The highway is a constant supply of heroin, crack, and death.
