Hello, dear reader! Do you like what you read here at Omnivorous? Do you like reading fun but insightful takes on all things pop culture? Do you like supporting indie writers? If so, then please consider becoming a subscriber and get the newsletter delivered straight to your inbox. There are a number of paid options, but you can also sign up for free! Every little bit helps. Thanks for reading and now, on with the show!
If you’ve ever driven along Route 2 in West Virginia, one of the things you’ll immediately notice is the industrial character of the Ohio Valley. From the tip of the Northern Panhandle all the way down through Parkersburg, Ravenswood, Point Pleasant, and Huntington, you’ll inevitably pass power plants both new and old, as well as abandoned (and sometimes revamped) steel mills, oil refiners, and other reminders of our state’s industrial past. Ever since I was a kid I’ve always found these stretches of road to be simultaneously haunting and beautiful, and so it was probably inevitable that I was going to include them in one, or several, of my queer Appalachian romances.
Needless to say, I have.
Indeed, one of my favorite scenes in my newest queer Appalachian romance, Hittin’ the Right Note, has my two heroes–country singer Luke Carter and pop singer Mikey Smiles–driving along a stretch of road in Marshall County, West Virginia. As they drive, they end up going past the string of power plants that line the Ohio River just south of Moundsville and, as they do so, Luke reflects on the strange, brutal, and sometimes even rather surreal and disturbing industrial beauty of this part of the state. The sight of those smokestacks rearing above the pale stretch of road inspires him to start putting together a song, a song that captures not just the essence of what it’s like to grow up in the Ohio Valley but that also conveys a bit of what it’s like to be queer in such a place.
I’ve thought a lot about that scene, both because it’s one of my favorite parts and because I think it captures something important about the particular region of West Virginia in which I grew up and in which I spent so many of my formative years. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve driven down Route 2 on my way to and from Huntington during the years I spent attending Marshall University. No matter how many times I made that trip, I was always struck by the stark industrial beauty of the Ohio Valley, and I wanted my readers to feel at least a bit of that, as well.
Much has been written about the breathtaking natural beauty of West Virginia, and rightly so. Whether it’s the awe-inspiring majesty of Blackwater Falls or the almost mystical power of the New River Gorge, ours is a state that truly lives up to its reputation for being “Almost Heaven” (or, if you prefer, “Wild and Wonderful.”) I know that I, for one, never feel quite as at home as when I’m driving through the hills and mountains that raised me. There’s nothing quite like that moment when, on the interstate, you start entering the foothills of the Appalachians. And when you pass that “Welcome to West Virginia: Wild and Wonderful” sign on the interstate…well, there’s really nothing quite like it.
At the same time, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t also something moving about the postindustrial landscapes of the Mountain State. While it can be emotionally devastating to see the signs of a state that’s been left behind, to me there’s something empowering about reclaiming the vestiges of our industrial past. Those periods of relative prosperity may not be returning–despite the many empty promises from various politicians over the years–but that doesn’t mean we can’t find some measure of beauty in our past, too. As with so many things in West Virginia, our postindustrial legacy is a complicated thing that engenders all kinds of mixed emotions. One can gaze at the magnificent ruins of a former factory and refinery and be in awe of what humanity’s hubris has wrought, even as one feels a pang of regret for prosperity lost.
To be sure, industry has long been a double-edged sword for West Virginia, as it has for so many other cities and states located in the Rust Belt. Sure, big power and chemical plants bring in money and jobs when the times are good but, during a downturn, they’re the first to pick up stakes and leave, with nothing but rotting and rusting ruins left behind, bracing reminders of the vicissitudes and uncertainties of the Industrial Age. Coming of age in the late ‘90s and into the ‘00s, when the downturn was particularly harsh, I couldn’t help but be aware of the toll this was taking on the communities I lived in and drove through on a regular basis. One couldn’t escape the feeling that West Virginia–and Appalachia as a whole–was a land in which its best days were behind it, perhaps for good.
Perhaps this is why the (post)industrial beauty of the Ohio Valley has always felt so poignant to me. Obviously I’m not thrilled with the way that industry has raped and pillaged our state, taking advantage of our natural resources and shipping the wealth off to distant bankers and investors, leaving the people behind to scrabble for what livelihood remained. Despite all of this, there are still many great folks who are doing everything in their power to revitalize the state, often by creating art from the very ruins I’ve been describing. If you know anything about Appalachians, and West Virginians in particular, you’ll know that we never give up. As I once said to my boss, we are a proud and spiteful people.
That postindustrial beauty is also, I think, a warning, if those in power are wise enough to heed it. As the Mountain State once again becomes a resource for others to exploit–thanks in large part to the avaricious desire for data centers. The evidence for the dangers of mortgaging our land to those who don’t have our best interests at heart is all around us, from an abandoned oil refinery looming over the city of St. Mary’s to the rusted out steel mills of Weirton. It’s not hard to envision a future, and probably one a lot closer than the tech overlords and their billionaire backers would like to believe, when data centers will become the next frontier in postindustrial ruins. The question is: will they be as beautiful?
