I turned on the TV one night, flipping channels without thinking, and landed on an old Saturday Night Live rerun. I didn’t realize what it was at first, but then I saw the title: Appalachian ER. For a second, I just stared. Then the skit started… the accents, the jokes, the way everyone on screen was treated like they were ***** clueless, or barely hanging on to a functioning life.
My thumb hit the power button before the scene was even over. The TV snapped off, but the anger stayed loud in my chest.
Because it wasn’t just a joke to me. It was my home. My people. My grandparents who worked two jobs, my neighbors who show up for each other before the ambulance can even get down the holler, the teachers who keep schools running even when the budget says they shouldn’t.
And all SNL saw was a punchline.
Standing there in the quiet, I felt that familiar mix of hurt and heat: the sting of knowing that to the rest of the world, Appalachians are something to laugh at, not listen to. It wasn’t just that the skit was mean. It was that it made people like me invisible. Flattened us into stereotypes.
So I left the TV off. Because I’d rather sit in silence than watch someone mock a place they’ve never cared enough to understand
Mar 18
Mar 18, 2026 at 3:04 PM UTC
I turned on the TV one night, flipping channels without thinking, and landed on an old Saturday Night Live rerun. I didn’t realize what it was at first, but then I saw the title: Appalachian ER. For a second, I just stared. Then the skit started… the accents, the jokes, the way everyone on screen was treated like they were ***** clueless, or barely hanging on to a functioning life.
My thumb hit the power button before the scene was even over. The TV snapped off, but the anger stayed loud in my chest.
Because it wasn’t just a joke to me. It was my home. My people. My grandparents who worked two jobs, my neighbors who show up for each other before the ambulance can even get down the holler, the teachers who keep schools running even when the budget says they shouldn’t.
And all SNL saw was a punchline.
Standing there in the quiet, I felt that familiar mix of hurt and heat: the sting of knowing that to the rest of the world, Appalachians are something to laugh at, not listen to. It wasn’t just that the skit was mean. It was that it made people like me invisible. Flattened us into stereotypes.
So I left the TV off. Because I’d rather sit in silence than watch someone mock a place they’ve never cared enough to understand