Hodgenville, Kentucky, looks like your all-American postcard town. Brick storefronts. Flawless Colonial houses. No flamingos in the yards. The kind of place where you’d expect to find Jimmy Stewart working at the drugstore soda fountain, and kids playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. 

You might’ve heard of Hodgenville. Our sixteenth president was born here—or just up the road from here. Or just “down the road,” depending on which way you’re driving. 

The Abraham Lincoln Birthplace National Historical Park is the lifeblood of this town. On the town square you see the Old Rail Splitter himself, sitting on a Grecian throne, with a bronze stare. He gazes into forever with a hard and righteous glare. His stern face cracketh not a smile. 

Most of the cars are going to the park. You can see the American tourists on the road. They have plates from all over. Texas. Oregon. North Dakota. I even saw tags from Alaska. 

Abraham Lincoln was born inside a tiny log cabin located on Sinking Spring Farm, in the heart of the park. The cabin is still there, preserved, surrounded by a Parthenon-style stone temple. The cabin floor is still dirt. There is still mud chinking between the logs. There is still evidence that one of the nineteenth century’s most notable figures was born here. 

So why am I here? I can’t really answer that. The short answer is: I don’t know why I’m here. The long answer is: I REALLY don’t know what I’m doing here.

I am here because in a few days, I’m going to be performing a concert on the steps leading to that childhood cabin. Open to the public. There, I’ll be playing Lincoln’s favorite music, telling stories about our sixteenth president’s youth, and about frontier life. 

I still can’t believe this is real. 

I have no qualifications to be here. I am not a professor. I am not a historian. I am not anything. 

For starters, a lifetime ago, if you would’ve told me I’d be a professional storyteller, I would’ve laughed until I fell off my stool. Then I would have joyously slapped your shoulder, confiscated your keys, and would’ve given them to the bartender for safekeeping.

Namely, because I am a dropout. I am not an educated man. I am a former construction worker, bar musician, and seventh-grade dropout. I play banjo, for crying out loud. Sometimes without shoes.

After my father took his own life, I left school never to return. I was the tragic kid in town, whose family lived on a government check. I was the kid you would’ve seen at the library, reading all those Louis L’Amour books, not talking to anyone. Averting eye contact. Those L’Amour books took the place of actual human friends. Because I had few. 

So, I was never taught history. Nor math. Nor proper English. In fact, I wasn’t never taught nothing. 

A lot of Americans don’t know what it’s like to grow up without education. And I’m grateful for this. To these fortunate souls, education is just part of who they are. A standard-issue piece of life. Like your dentist. Their education is so much a part of their subconscious mind, they don’t even notice it anymore. 

These competent adults who instinctively know what neutrons are. They can tell you how to solve for X. They know what year the Morrill Land-Grant Act was signed. These are nice, well-adjusted people, with two-point-five kids, gainful employment, and retirement packages. 

They had their first kiss behind the football-game bleachers. They went to their first dance with someone named Sadie Mae, or Johnny Walker, or Mary Jane, or Jimmy Poole, or whoever. 

Me? I have always been bitterly jealous of these people. Because I wasn’t one of them. I was always an outsider. I was an unfortunate kid who had never attended a football game. My sister couldn’t read until she was in her early 20s. We were trash. 

All these years later, I know that education, my social status, and ill breeding did not exclude me from any peer group. The only person who made me an outsider was me. I believed the lie. I called myself “white trash.”

I wish I could take back all those negative words. All those evil, self-deprecating words I fed to myself for years. I wish I could find that little boy and tell him how beautiful he is. How fortunate. How blessed. I wish, above all, I could hug him and let him know how valuable he is. 

But here I am. I am here. In this place. On one of the most honorable stages in the history of the world. Telling stories about an American president for the National Park Service. In the place where he was born. 

Lincoln inspires me. Not because of his politics. Not because of his accomplishments. Which are all well and good. The thing that has always drawn me to Lincoln was that he was self-educated. 

He was a kid like me. He would’ve hung out at the library if he could have—if there had been libraries in rural Kentucky and Indiana at the time. But instead, he borrowed books from neighbors, farmers, and traveling preachers. He was so hungry for knowledge. He collected words and sentences. 

He used bacon grease and charcoal to write his own stories and poems on the back of a wooden shovel, then used his pocket knife to shave off the text and start all over again. 

Abraham Lincoln was so human. He was self-effacing. He was funny. He was sad. He was a fighter. He was a lamb. He was a wordsmith. He was resilient. 

And anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter how I feel about a nineteenth-century character. All that matters is, I’m here. And if you’re in Kentucky, too, come say hi. 

And if you’re a kid who feels like he’s trash—firstly—you should know the concert is free. Secondly, come up to the stage and let me give you a hug.