28-03-2025
Diversity in Appalachia: A personal journey through education and experience
Sunrise over the Appalachian Mountains. (Stock photo from Getty Images.)
This commentary originally appeared in The Athens Messenger.
By Victoria LaPoe, Ph.D., Ohio University Professor, E. W. Scripps School of Journalism
Recently I began typing, 'Whereas, DEI is Appalachia and rural Ohio' for a resolution.
How did I know this? Well, my storytelling can be long-winded, but I'll sum it up quickly for digital attention spans.
First Lesson: Quiet, Humble, Hardworking Appalachian
In 2009, I met a quiet, humble Ph.D. student at Louisiana State University's Manship School of Mass Communication. He was sandy-haired, reserved, and from Core, West Virginia — deep in the heart of Appalachia. He was shy, humble, and quiet; when he spoke, I listened.
The day before I started my Ph.D. program, I was still working at an ABC television station, surrounded by outspoken quick storytelling personalities. Yet, this quiet soon-to-be scholar could hold his own when discussing gender issues. I was in my 30s, I felt well-versed in theory and research, and here was this guy who could match me in conversations about women's issues. I thought, 'Who is he?'
He had graduated from West Virginia University. He later told me when I began my program, he could see I had my guard up, a necessary skill honed from years as a producer in television news. If I hadn't, I would have been run over by anchors who had been there since my childhood. But as time passed, he started talking to me more about our shared research interests. I started trusting him. Later, we got married.
Grew up in a Trailer Park, Hunted to Survive, and Limited Medical Care
Through Ben, I learned about Appalachia. During our first winter together, I visited the mountain trailer park where he grew up. There was no cell service, but my Boston Terriers were thrilled, finally having space to run free. I can still picture Bruno, the more bulldog-like of the two, cheeks flapping as he chased after a deer downhill.
Inside the trailer where Ben grew up, I found myself hesitant to use the bathroom under the gaze of a mounted deer head. I learned deer weren't just eyeballs to frighten me but a necessity — a crucial food source for many families in Appalachia. Without it, there would have been nothing to eat. I learned he had collected cans as a kid for money. As far as medical care growing up, that meant butterfly bandages and dunking yourself in watered-down Clorox if you swam in something questionable.
Instilled with Grit, Dedicated to Family, and Stood Tall When Hard Times Hit
West Virginia was different to me as I wasn't from there and I loved my visits because it was something I had with Ben. The simplicity, the absence of pressure, the joy of eating pepperoni rolls, and being surrounded by nature offered a sense of peace from our Ph.D. program.
And Ben had grit. I liked to think of him as a clutch. When things got tough, he could help get us through them. When we didn't have enough money for rent in the summer during our Ph.D. program, he took a yellow book (yes, when people used to use those) and said I won't be back until I have the rent money. When I was in a car accident because of the ice this winter, he put the pieces of my car back together himself in three days, while watching a five-year-old. He can fix anything. For example, a garage door piece needed replaced suddenly on his February birthday. It was single-digit temperatures, the wind whipped through the house because repair people couldn't show up due to the snow. Along with this, he can Tetris anything into the car or other spaces and when things are really against the wall, he remains calm and figures it out. I attribute that to his Appalachian character.
Second Lesson: From LSU to Ohio U., Dr. Ralph Izard
My second lesson in Appalachia came from Dr. Ralph Izard, former director of the E.W. Scripps School of Journalism at Ohio University; however, he was my professor at LSU. He founded the National Media Diversity Forum, and with a handshake, I promised to contribute to it forever. He taught me about the First Amendment, and I loved peeking into his office, where he would be eating his lunch — whatever he had grabbed from the fridge, including, on one occasion, a raw turnip. Dr. Izard became my dissertation area head for diversity — another West Virginian who broadened my understanding of interconnectedness, philosophy, and policy. He encouraged me to question how people were affected and to engage closely with communities when seeking answers.
Diversity wasn't just a buzzword — it was a commitment.
While at LSU, the Manship School was the first recipient of the Association for Education in Journalism and Mass Communication Equity & Diversity Award in 2009.
Third Lesson: Ohio U. Students Who Have Walked the Bricks Since 2017
My third lesson in Appalachia has been taught at Ohio University since 2017, my fourth university. Until I arrived, I hadn't heard 'food insecurity' used so frequently. Here, I saw firsthand how deeply poverty affects students and residents.
When I read about Ohio Senate Bill 1 and its potential impact, I think of Dr. Izard, Ben, and my students. Ben has taught cross-cultural communication, advocacy, and issues of gender, race, and class. Dr. Izard taught about the First Amendment and the philosophies that shape these conversations. Both are white, male Appalachians who have positively impacted lives — mine included. There are countless student letters to prove it.
If the resistance to diversity means that someone like me will never learn about Appalachia — if these experiences never influenced my understanding of rural poverty, resilience, and identity — then Ohio politicians are acting against the very people they profess to represent.
Because of these diverse experiences with Appalachians, I am a better person, researcher, and professor.
The funds that won't be allocated to scholarships will directly affect Appalachian students. The opportunities that will vanish due to decisions made by those unfamiliar with higher education will only reinforce stereotypes about gender, race, and class in Appalachia. In the end, it is Appalachian students who will suffer the most.
At a time when the university adopted an interim policy to recruit (and I assume continue to maintain) those with disabilities and veteran status is essential to think who is impacted by DEI. As this interim policy adopted on Feb. 26, 2025 states:
'In compliance with requirements as a federal contractor, Ohio university will make lawful efforts to recruit persons with disabilities, veterans, and Vietnam era veterans, for position openings. In accordance with federal law and Chapter 124 of the Revised Code it is the policy of the university to engage in recruitment practices that yield the best applicants for vacancies.
This policy covers all faculty and staff positions at Ohio university.
This policy also establishes an official diversity statement to be utilized as appropriate during recruitment activity:
Ohio university is proud of its rich history and as part of our ongoing efforts to provide and support a transformative learning experience, we affirm our commitment to fostering a welcoming and respectful workforce and community. All qualified applicants are encouraged to apply and will receive consideration free from discrimination on the basis of age, ancestry, color, disability, ethnicity, gender, gender identity or expression, genetic information, military service or veteran status, national origin, pregnancy, race, religion, sex, sexual orientation, status as a parent or foster parent, or any other bases under the law. Ohio university is an equal access/equal opportunity employer.'
Diversity isn't a threat to Appalachia. It is Appalachia.
By Leanne Chrisman-Khawam, M.D., Family Physician and Assistant Professor Ohio University Heritage College of Osteopathic Medicine Cleveland Campus, Medical Director Doctors on the Street
Recently, I started typing, 'Whereas, the healthcare sector relies on DEI initiatives to cultivate a workforce capable of addressing the needs of diverse populations, and the prohibition of such initiatives may worsen existing health disparities among the elderly, rural and urban underserved communities, racial minorities, veterans, individuals with disabilities, food-insecure families, and women, thereby reducing healthcare access and quality of care.'
How do I know this? Well, I'll sum it up as best as I can.
I grew up in a small town in Oregon. My dad was a seasonal entrepreneur who worked in construction — mainly paving. My mom stayed at home. My school didn't offer many advanced courses, AP classes, or college credit programs. As a low-income white family, I benefited from DEI initiatives. A summer work program provided grants for employers to hire students like me. I worked with my family doctor, who introduced me to medicine. Without that experience, I might never have attended college, let alone medical school.
Despite my good grades, becoming a doctor wasn't something my family considered possible. But here I am, 30+ years later — having spoken nationally and internationally, trained hundreds of medical professionals, and recruited students like me to address the shortage of primary care physicians.
Do I recruit them because they are DEI hires? No. They are bright, hardworking medical students. Do I prefer them because they remind me of myself? No. I prioritize them because research shows that when doctors share a background with their patients, health outcomes improve.
Why representation in health care matters
Building strong doctor-patient relationships leads to better care. I've seen this firsthand with my husband's medical journey. He suffered a spinal cord injury ten years before we met, and three years ago, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. His condition has led to complications — pressure sores, infections, and worsening mobility.
When people first meet him, they love his warm smile and long, flowing white hair. (He's often mistaken for Robert DeNiro — a compliment I take to heart!) But as soon as they see his confusion and inability to speak, they dismiss him. That is, until I share his story — how he lovingly cared for his mother, was an amazing father and respected disability advocate, and always supported my career. Suddenly, hospital staff treats him with the dignity and respect he deserves.
He is not alone in needing that dignity. Throughout our careers, we have worked to advocate for the forgotten — the poor, the immigrant, the disabled, the rural worker, and the veteran struggling with PTSD. Together, we created Doctors on the Street (DOTS) — a student- and resident-run program that provides medical care to individuals experiencing homelessness. These patients are often dismissed because of their appearance, yet they are people who have faced immense hardship—accidents, job loss, mental illness, or economic downturns.
Personal struggles and the bigger picture
Now, at the end of my husband's life, I feel the weight of financial stress. His care is expensive, not covered by insurance, and I struggle to pay our bills. I may have to take out a mortgage to afford a new furnace and property taxes. I grew up in poverty, and I may return to it — not because of poor choices, but because of circumstances beyond my control.
Our government was created to serve its people. This country was built by immigrants, farmers, and laborers seeking freedom — of speech, of religion, of opportunity. My family came as those farmers and laborer and has fought to protect those freedoms in every American war since the Revolutionary War.
This is why I'm deeply concerned about Ohio Senate Bill 1. It does not protect freedom of speech, it limits it. DEI programs have been falsely portrayed as only benefitting BIPOC and LGBTQ+ individuals. In reality, diversity programs support everyone who lacks a voice — veterans, rural white communities, disabled individuals, and those facing food and housing insecurity.
Rather than focusing on what higher education shouldn't do, our government should focus on what it can do to help people. When we invest in inclusion, we all do better. I have seen it firsthand.
We may not be able to fix everything, but we can each do something. That is far better than standing by and shouting at others about what not to do.
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