Eastern North Carolina is a region I’ve grappled to understand over the years. Despite being born and raised here, I’ve never felt like I was from here. In large part, this was a result of my parents being transplants and me popping onto the scene by happenstance. Growing up, I always felt like I was supposed to leave. It’s an odd thing to be all-encompassed by something but to never truly feel like you belonged. Perhaps that’s what granted me my observer lens, and many moons later, this is my effort at being a participant.
However, one thing that always spoke to me were the tobacco barns scattered about the local fields. You could drive for miles in any direction and encounter no shortage of these barns in varying stages of disrepair. Something about it always seemed beautiful to me in a melancholy way; these structures that were once full of life, imperceptibly fading away.