I sell weed out of a house in the poorest neighborhood in Portsmouth, Ohio. A town mostly made up of poor neighborhoods. There are two condemned houses on my block. Five on my street. I rent a finished basement, live well below the poverty line. I own two pairs of jeans and one pair of boots. Next door, occupying the two-story house, basement, and garage, is roughly 10-12 Mexican immigrants, mostly men, who speak very little to no English. They all dress the same, or even share clothes. Blue jeans: well worn, worked in, faded from repeated washings. T-shirts. Maybe a flannel when it gets cold. They’re up early, before the sun rises, and come back in the evening. They drink beer and laugh in the backyard. Feed my roommates' dogs scraps. They listen to music my Western, white trash ears don’t understand. Like most Americans, they work jobs that don't pay enough to live in America. People who live with 10-12 other people, and in basements and in garages, normally have that in common - they don’t have enough money. The key difference between them, and the other exploited workers I know is, they’re paid even less, and often work jobs American citizens won’t work (i.e. cleaning the blood and guts and brains and actual shit from the machines in meat processing plants, for a pay that equals out to less than minimum wage). American citizens won’t take work jobs, because it doesn’t pay enough to support any reasonable standard of living (unless you live with 10-12 other people, if you consider that reasonable). American citizens won’t take these jobs, unless they’re convicted felons, or maybe high school dropouts (and probably not even then). Not because felons can magically live cheaper, but because they have no other choice.
These are hardworking people, my Mexican neighbors.
I am not a hardworking person. I’ve been a grifter/derelict/artist since the day I was born (ask anyone). But other than that, our lifestyles are comparable. They like to get drunk, I like to smoke dope. We all probably cook our meals in air fryers and hot plates (I don’t have a functional kitchen). We both make do, and with very little. We don’t expect things to suddenly become easier for us. Because it isn’t. Because this is America.
My other next-door neighbor, a man who buys weed off me, has a Swastika tattoo on his chest, clearly done in prison. He’s a convicted felon, a year or so out, unemployed. He never buys more than $20 at a time. It’s unclear if he’s a white supremacist, or if he was a young white kid who was ran through the prison industrial complex, made to adapt to the culture of prison, where white supremacy is not only accepted as a reality of our world, but thrives, and in some contexts is encouraged. Or maybe both things are true at once. Maybe he went in a young white kid, came out a white supremacist. When I stare at his tattoo through his wifebeater (because I always stare at it, and because he always wears a wifebeater), he adjusts his shirt nervously. It’s unclear if he’s ashamed of the tattoo, or if he doesn’t like me staring at it. What is clear is, I don’t like selling him weed. But I need the $20.
The old man who lives across the street is a Trump supporter. He hates me (for selling drugs), and he hates the Mexicans next door (for being Mexicans). He’s made that plainly clear. He talks about us daily with my felon neighbor who buys weed off me (and the felon neighbor tells me, assuming I think it’s funny, and I do most of the time). The old man has told me too, many times, during our various shouting matches. He once told me that one day the cops were going to come and take us “where we belong” (presumably, he means me to prison, and the Mexicans to a camp). Says the neighborhood will be a lot better off when they haul us away, and board up our houses. He says this as if it was promised to him in the Bible. He’s a religious man. Blasts fire and brimstone preachers from his front porch (loudly when he wants to piss me off). I think it is promised in the Bible, as far as he’s concerned, because it’s promised in the Bible, as far as most white American Christians are concerned. White Jesus is coming for the Mexicans and the dope dealers, and they’ll be sorry when He does. In America, the line between Christian doctrine and White Nationalism is paper thin, if there’s a line at all. In American Churches, like in American prisons, white supremacy isn’t only accepted as a reality of our world, but thrives, and in some contexts is encouraged (if you don’t believe me, go to a Baptist church sometime, any given Sunday).
I’m voting for Harris. This is not an endorsement. I don’t expect this essay to push you one way or the next. I don’t expect you to canvas for the Harris/Walz ticket, or work phone banks, or donate, or any of that shit. I don’t expect Harris to save America (I don’t even know what people mean when they say “America” or “American”, because the definition manages to change from person to person). And I don’t expect things to get easier. Because they won’t. Because this is America. I’m voting for Harris, in part, because it seems much less likely that ICE will raid my hard working, salt of the Earth neighbors’ house, and ship them off to a camp under Harris. Less likely, but not impossible. Not even close. Because this is America. In America, white supremacy is not only accepted as a reality of our world, but thrives, and in some context is encouraged.
J.I.B. is a poet and essayist from Appalachia.
They’re the author of two books, “Test Swan” (EMP 2023) and “AMERICAN TELEVISION” (Spartan 2024).
You can follow their work and tours by following J Ian Bush on Facebook, or @j.i.b.trash.poet on Instagram.
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