Letter from the Editor of Unaccounted
When I was a kid, I liked to feed my grandmother’s fish. We would sit at the edge of a pond in the woods behind her house in Appalachian Kentucky and cool our feet in the water, bluegill nibbling at our toes as we tossed slices of moldy bread like Frisbees. Our reflections smiled back at us from the algae-green surface.
On restless nights, those reflections resurface on the edge of my dreams. But then something disturbs the water and our faces ripple away.
All my life I’ve known that I am part of Kentucky, that it’s part of me. But sometimes it’s hard to see myself in the place I’ve always called home. Classist caricatures skip across the water like stones, transforming my grandmother, a working-class woman who gave out generosity and took no shit, into a hillbilly. Corruptions of gospel muddy the water and make me into something best left submerged. And so many other Kentuckians — Kentuckians who don’t benefit from whiteness, Kentuckians who aren’t able-bodied, Kentuckians who don’t get to write letters from the editor or even walk free beyond the walls of a prison — have been robbed of seeing themselves reflected in the story of this state altogether; for them, the water is blanketed over with the debris of politics and history and bigotry.
So many Kentuckians have been told that they are not truly Kentucky. They are left — often purposely — unaccounted.
This statewide issue is an insufficient corrective, one ingredient in a complicated formula for an antidote — a start. It does not uncover all that’s been covered, it does not reach everyone who’s been left out, it does not touch all 120 counties — phew, that’s a lot! — in this state. But in these images and words you will find the Black men of Kentucky who fought and died to defeat the Confederacy, only to have monuments to the enemy built in their state. You will find people in Eastern Kentucky trying to save their communities from floods and mudslides and the growing threats of climate change. You will find human beings sequestered away in solitary confinement. You will find Black women working to change the political reality of Kentucky, Black people finding magic at the nexus of race and gender, and elders who, after enduring isolation as Covid ravaged care facilities, finally reunited with their loved ones.
If anyone has ever made you question your identity as a Kentuckian — if you’ve ever felt like, when people said, “Kentucky,” they didn’t mean you — I hope you’ll see something of yourself reflected here. This issue is for you.
DYLON JONES
Dylon Jones is an award-winning poet, editor, and journalist. He’s covered everything from political campaigns to horse races — and scaled mountains of driftwood, scurried up downtown overpasses, careened through mosh pits, and plodded around frozen deer carcasses in a landfill (yes, seriously) to get a story. A former senior editor of Louisville Magazine, he helped win a national general excellence award from the City and Regional Magazine Association. His creative work has appeared in various publications, including Tinderbox, The Collagist, The Spectacle, and Redivider, which nominated him for Best of the Net. He grew up in Appalachia.