My family met a man a few years ago in a Raleigh County diner.

“Where y’all from?” he asked us. I told him we were from Wheeling. The northern panhandle.

“Oh,” he said. “That’s not real West Virginia.”

“Well,” I said, “the DMV begs to differ.” 

They say our state can be represented by holding up your left hand and bending your fingers at the second knuckle. Extend your thumb. Now, flip up your middle finger. There’s West Virginia. Your thumb is the eastern panhandle. Most of our cities are located on the back of your hand. And that notorious finger is the northern panhandle. Wheeling sits between the second and third knuckle. 

It’s not a very classy way to identify our location, and I think we can do better. But he touched a nerve, because we northern panhandlers have heard this before. We should “just join Pennsylvania.” We’re “anything but the real West Virginia.” We’ve seen maps that erase the northern panhandle entirely, Christmas ornaments and earrings that use the tiny wire hook to represent our home.

It stings. 

We love West Virginia. We send our kids to state schools. We plaster Monongahela Forest stickers on our cars. It’s only geography that keeps us at arm’s length from the rest of you. There’s a lot of land—and a few other states—between us and the bulk of West Virginia. We’re a long haul from Harper’s Ferry, a world away from White Sulphur Springs. 

It’s true that we’ve got a “north of the Mason Dixon line” kind of feeling. We sound distinctly different from the rest of the state. Heck, we don’t even put slaw on our hot dogs. You might go so far as to say we’re kinda Pittsburghy. It’s okay—we’re aware. After all, we’re a panhandle. An extension. A place where outside influences bleed across the borders and muddy the cultural water, just a bit. Doesn’t that make it interesting?

The northern panhandle is just 64 miles long and, at its narrowest, four miles wide. Fortunately, what we lack in mass, we make up for in history. In culture. Historically, the northern panhandle was known for steel, glass, nails, cigars, and beer. Wheeling was a rowdy place during Prohibition, known as “Wide Open Wheeling,” but we’ve calmed down since then (though you’ll still find some fantastic craft breweries). We now call Wheeling “the Friendly City.” 

Also, we don’t like to brag, but West Virginia was born at the Wheeling Conventions of 1861, when we bailed out of Virginia and chose to fly the northern flag. Wheeling became the first state capital. Then it moved to Charleston. Then back to Wheeling. It finally landed in Charleston, again, where it has remained, to the relief of legislative documentarians everywhere. And that’s okay—if there’s one thing we’re good at in the northern panhandle, it’s road trips. We’ve had plenty of practice because it takes us hours to go anywhere in the state. 

They call this tri-state region the Ohio Valley. The panhandle is wedged between Pennsylvania and Ohio and pulled by those two cultural magnets. (Or, in most cases, the Steelers and the Browns.) And we really like our Keystone and Buckeye brethren, but it’s also easy to feel isolated from the rest of the state. Sometimes we don’t quite know where we belong. We do know we’re first and foremost West Virginians, and we’re just as proud as yinz are of our Mountain State heritage.

And that yinz thing? It’s the Pittsburgh influence. We can’t help ourselves. They really are nice neighbors, though. You might say we’ve got the best of all worlds up here, and we think you’d like it. What we lack in mountains we make up for with steep green hills and a fat, rolling river traveled by paddle wheelers and vintage race boats. Kayakers run our creeks. We’ve got a beautiful state park—Tomlinson Run—and Wheeling’s Oglebay Park has 1,650 acres, throughout which you’ll find a winter lights show, a glass museum, hiking trails, and the only American Zoological Association-accredited zoo in the state. The Good Zoo cares for a collection of rare and endangered species like red pandas and Harry, the snow leopard.

So many recognizable symbols of West Virginia sit in our four counties. Fiestaware lovers can make a pilgrimage to the factory in Newell, the farthest north you can go in West Virginia before you fall into the Ohio River. Head south and you can visit the Grave Creek Mound in Moundsville, a 62-foot-high burial mound built by the Adena people around 200 B.C. Adjacent to the mound lurks the brutal, gothic-style West Virginia Penitentiary, which housed—and dispatched—some of the state’s worst offenders for almost 100 years. Take the historical prison tour or a paranormal tour. (Disclaimer: We are not responsible for the soiling of shorts or any clinging entities that might take up residence in your Chevy.) Meanwhile, outdoorsy types can mountain bike, climb a ropes course, or zipline through the canopy at nearby Grand Vue Park. 

But this isn’t an activities brochure—it’s an invitation. A friendly shout-out from the northern panhandlers: Hey guys! We’re still up here. Come see us. We’re the real West Virginia, too. 

And yes, it’ll feel a little different. That’s kind of the point.