One of the most popular non-fiction books published in the last few years in J.D. Vance’s memoir, Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis. Readers across the political spectrum have praised it. Colleges are assigning it to entering students as the required “freshman read.” You’ll find it at airport bookstores. Ron Howard is making it into a movie. Hillbilly Elegy has achieved that special middlebrow status that many authors and publishers crave.
Understanding Hillbilly Elegy’s success is easy. Vance writes clearly, confidently, with an engaging and direct tone. His authorial agency is driven by his powerful story of personal achievement. Vance grew up poor in Kentucky and Ohio, a child of a broken family. Alcoholism, drug abuse, and failed relationships undermined family structure and stability. After high school, the Marines gave Vance discipline. The Ohio State University provided intellectual and cultural capital. He was the first in his family to move away and graduate from college. OSU also opened doors for him. He earned a J.D. from Yale University Law School. Vance now works for an investment firm, gives TED talks, and promotes his book.
From redneck to the heart of the liberal élite establishment in a decade – who wouldn’t be intrigued? It is a story we want to like.
Vance’s description of his childhood is the bulk of the book. Threaded through his narrative is an assertion of individualism that he connects with the Scots-Irish traditions of Appalachia, his people. He is unsparing in his accounts of the unhappiness, despair, and bad choices in the community he was raised. His heritage venerates codes of honor and bloody feuds, like the Hatfield-McCoys. In fact, a Vance forefather sparked that infamous feud with the murder of a McCoy. Life for many in the region has been nasty, brutish and short for generations.
Vance also takes great pride in his community and the people who inhabit it. The love of his family, especially his grandmother, were essential to his growth and development. He admires the tough love and the willingness to sacrifice that so many of his kith and kin share. He is proud of them. They are, in many ways, his “people.”
Vance’s explanations for Appalachian poverty and despair rest, in great part but not exclusively, on the consequences of the culture. It is one of the key reasons that critics, like historian Elizabeth Catte, find fault with Hillbilly Elegy. Vance’s arguments are anecdotal and personal. They may be true for our author, but every reader knows that there is something exceptional about him.
The conflicting mixture of admiration and disapprobation lead to a fascinating dynamic. It is a difficult path to walk. It is impossible without hard data or analysis and a broader perspective. However, this is a memoir, after all, meaning that much is left unexamined. Vance is not writing as a scholar and policy-maker. Instead, he seeks understanding from his readers and, perhaps, of himself.
I encourage reading Hillbilly Elegy. It’s eye-opening, moving, and a fascinating personal story. I would also caution valuing Vance’s political, social or economic assertions over those of scholars. If this book is assigned, it is imperative that faculty help students read it critically and within a context. Historians regularly work with students to make sure that the distinction between a first person data point and a scholarly judgment and argument is understood. Stories may be profound, but when it comes to arguments, data wins out. I hope that lesson isn’t lost on students.
David Potash