There is a particular kind of silence that exists in suburban neighborhoods—a quiet that isn’t necessarily peaceful, but rather heavy with the weight of unsaid judgments. My neighbors, a couple who carry themselves with an air of inherited superiority, have long been the self-appointed gatekeepers of this local decorum. To them, every lawn is a battlefield and every interaction is a chance to re-establish a social hierarchy that only they seem to care about.
The last time we spoke, the conversation wasn’t about the weather or the community association. Instead, it was a calculated attempt to remind me of my place. They looked at me with a mixture of pity and disdain, making it clear that despite my professional milestones, they saw a fundamental flaw in my pedigree. In their eyes, my success as a social media content creator and a published author was merely a veneer over a reality they found distasteful.
They told me, in no uncertain terms, that it didn’t matter where I had traveled or what I had achieved in my career. To them, I would never truly be anything more than a ‘dumb hillbilly’ from West Virginia. It was a sentiment delivered with a smile, the kind of insult wrapped in the velvet of polite society, intended to sting long after the words were spoken.
For a moment, I felt the familiar heat of indignation. Growing up in the mountains of West Virginia teaches you many things, but perhaps the most important is how to recognize when someone is trying to look down on you. It is a specific brand of elitism that assumes geography determines intelligence and that an accent defines one’s worth.
I spent the evening reflecting on their words. I thought about the books I’ve written, the community I’ve built online, and the life I’ve carved out for myself far from the coal mines and winding creeks of my youth. I realized that their perception wasn’t a reflection of my reality, but a limitation of their own imagination.
However, I am also a firm believer that some insults deserve a response that is as creative as it is pointed. I didn’t want to engage in a shouting match or a series of passive-aggressive emails. I wanted something more permanent, something that would serve as a daily reminder of the heritage they so clearly despised.
The opportunity presented itself last week in the most mundane way possible. We decided to renovate our upstairs bathroom, which involved replacing an aging, stained toilet. It was a standard home improvement project, but it left us with a large piece of porcelain waste that needed to be managed.
When the garbage man made his rounds, he confirmed my suspicions: the city wouldn’t take the old toilet. It was too bulky, too heavy, and simply didn’t fit the criteria for standard curbside pickup. I stood in my driveway, looking at the white ceramic basin, and felt a spark of inspiration.
Most people would have spent the afternoon hauling the heavy thing to the local dump, paying the disposal fee, and putting the entire ordeal behind them. But as I looked at that toilet, I didn’t see trash. I saw a canvas. I saw a way to take their stereotype and turn it into a living, breathing piece of folk art.
I decided right then and there that I wouldn’t be hiding this relic in the garage or rushing it to the landfill. Instead, I was going to embrace the very ‘hillbilly’ aesthetic my neighbors found so repulsive. I was going to lean into the caricature they had created for me, but I was going to do it with style.
I spent the next few hours cleaning the basin and preparing it for its new life. I went to the local nursery and picked out the most vibrant, beautiful flowers I could find—petunias, marigolds, and trailing ivy. I wanted a riot of color, something that would be impossible to ignore against the backdrop of our manicured street.
I carefully positioned the toilet on my side of the property line. I chose the spot with surgical precision, ensuring it was placed exactly where my neighbors would be forced to see it every single time they looked out their primary windows or stepped onto their pristine porch.