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“For there are no villains in this story. There’s just a ragtag band of hillbillies struggling to find their way—both for their sake and, by the grace of God, for mine.” - J.D. Vance, Hillbilly Elegy
My Appalachian home has once again found itself in the national spotlight, this time for a rehashing of old debates over J.D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy, prompted by Ron Howard’s new film adaptation of the bestselling memoir. Vance’s story is one of trial and triumph, but its critical reception has been anything but cordial. Despite the book’s initial popularity, a number of Appalachians have spoken out against Vance for using his personal experiences to prescribe solutions to what he views as regional problems. Such critiques were revitalized in 2020 when Netflix brought Vance’s Elegy to television sets across the nation, with some prominent Appalachian voices discouraging Appalachians from even watching the film. Such visceral response to Vance’s narrative is indicative of a broader issue in Appalachia, one which Vance discusses in his book: the “none of your business” mindset, whereby hillbillies learn “to deal with uncomfortable truths by avoiding them, or by pretending better truths exist” (19-20).
Sure, Vance’s family story is uniquely his own, and it is certainly not replicated by every child growing up in Appalachia; however, I would venture to say that few Appalachians would fail to find at least some (if not most) parts of Vance’s life reflected within their immediate or extended family. This has proven especially true in my own life. Though I was blessed with a stable, middle-class immediate family, our story of stability is an unlikely silver lining, surrounded by considerable chaos.
My grandfather was the first of his family to graduate high school, and his daughter (my mother) would later become the first to graduate college. My father rose from poverty to the working-class, and he secured a (relatively) stable career on the railroad for over twenty years. My family’s path to success was in no way clear-cut, and it was most certainly not sudden. Instead, it was slow, incremental, and paved by sacrifice. My parents have done for me what theirs did before them, and they’ve sacrificed so that I might continue the slow, steady trudge against the statistics. Many in my extended family, however, have not been so fortunate. I’ve had first cousins passed around foster homes. I’ve had other relatives go through the revolving door of rehab and relapse. I’ve brought groceries to great uncles in government housing, and I’ve watched as even my immediate family wrestles with the demons of our cultural past in a constant struggle to find our better angels.
I think one would be hard-pressed to find an Appalachian with whom no part of Vance’s story resonates. Moreover, data suggests that Vance’s narrative well reflects many of the existing social conditions in the region. However, that Vance’s story is a compelling one is not particularly relevant to the arguments levied against his Elegy; rather, his advocacy for
Appalachians taking personal responsibility to repair some of the region’s cultural decay is what has become so wildly controversial. Vance’s memoir is viewed by some as a call for Appalachians to “pull up their bootstraps” as opposed to solutions of government policy. These opponents cite “corporate deception” as a cause of Appalachian economic turmoil, while brushing over the broader issues of Appalachian culture. Such critiques are misguided and demonstrate either a misreading of Elegy or a failure to grapple with the difficult truths exposed within its pages.
Vance does not ignore the role of government policy to help alleviate some Appalachian ills. In fact, in his book, he says that he supports “build[ing] policies based on a better understanding of what stands in the way of kids like [him]” (244). However, Vance is prudent in his assessment that “[g]overnment policy may be powerless to resolve other problems in our community” (245). Solving those issues requires Appalachians to do what Vance has done in telling his own story: to honestly assess, at times brutally, our own impulses. It requires Appalachians (myself included among them) to place aside our culturally-ingrained sense of honor in order to build a better future for ourselves, for our families, and for our home.
The negative response to Hillbilly Elegy serves Vance’s point. Appalachian culture is in crisis, and that crisis is brought on by an unwillingness to reflect on what ills within the region can be fixed by its own people. Discouraging Appalachians from reading or viewing Hillbilly Elegy further walls our people off from accepting hard truths about ourselves, and it promotes a continued deflection of responsibility which will, in the end, only make the struggle to find our way that much more challenging
Austin Dillon is a McConnell Scholar in the class of 2022. He is studying economics and political science at the University of Louisville.