I’ve just finished reading (listening to, actually) Hillbilly Elegy, by J.D. Vance. It’s been a long time since a book captivated me the way this one has. I’d read reviews of it urging us to read it to begin to understand the Trump voter. It delivered on that promise, somewhat, shining a light on the white, midwestern, working class that has been the subject of so much discussion lately. But the book struck a chord with me way beyond politics. It’s a story about how we can love, honor and treasure people who are utterly flawed. It’s a story about not needing to or wanting to hide the warts or put lipstick on the pig. It’s about telling the unvarnished truth about how things are.
On the surface, J.D. embodies the American dream. The author is a Yale Law grad born of eastern Kentucky impoverished grandparents who were married and pregnant as teenagers and moved to Ohio for a better life. He made it in just two generations. Seems like the system’s working, right?
Peel back the thinnest layer of that success and we see the real story of J.D. Vance in all its messy complexity–an addicted, neglectful mother, absent fathers and revolving doors of father figures, unstable homes, jobs, incomes, family meals and events full of loud, chaotic fighting , visits by police and social services and a boatload of other potholes on the road to success.
What enthralled me the most was the author’s unflinching truth telling about his tribe. The heros of the piece are his grandparents, Mamaw and Pawpaw Vance– heavy drinking, tough talking, fiercely loyal people who literally saved his life. In his retelling, you see the truth of them…that they were truly flawed and deeply human. Parts of his story describing interactions with his grandparents shocked me (his Mamaw drops the f-bomb so often that you almost–but not quite–stop noticing). Those are followed by tales of such love and devotion between grandparent and child that it brought tears to my eyes. While it’s clear they won’t be winning any good parenting awards, those grandparents provided unconditional love and a safe harbor for a boy who had precious little of either.
To be truthful, the author’s people are some that we in the middle class might scorn or judge. But you can’t finish the book with a heartfelt gratitude that Mamaw and Pawpaw were there for him. He demonstrates that we can unquestionably adore people and places while detailing their seemingly limitless flaws and failings. He’s telling his truth and I loved it. He talks of his Hillbilly tribe as full of deadbeat dads, welfare queens, and alcoholics busily collecting a lifetime of bad choices. But those same disreputable Hillbillies showed up 18 strong for his bootcamp graduation ceremony.
I miss the times when we could speak honestly about what’s wrong with America. Not blame or shame or point fingers, but to just all admit what is. I wish we could just be honest about the problems and get real on how to solve them. There we times when we could embrace mistakes or failings and still love the people who make them. I long for times when we could even agree what is — that ever illusive truth.
The author doesn’t off much prescriptive policy to address the hollowing out of the white working class, but the book left me with two strong messages to take to heart. The first message is that the choices you make in life do matter and we are all responsible for ours. From policy perspective, it also feels like we need to help get better information about those choices to populations who have zero role-modeling of good choices.
The second lesson is a more personal one but it gives me great hope: it turns out that having even one person in your corner can really save your life. A single positive adult can be the difference between a child thriving or barely surviving. That’s inspiring as hell because we all have the ability to be that person for someone struggling. At the end of the day, that’s really the only thing that matters.
Boonedoggler 