The H Word, JD Vance, and Appalachian Identity

{This blog post contains commissionable links to my Bookshop affiliate account. I receive a very small commission on your purchase, at no cost to you. That said, I ask that you please don’t buy Hillbilly Elegy; don’t give that work or its author any more power. I frequently add more fitting books to the Appalachian Voices page of my Bookshop storefront.}

Growing up, there were a handful of words that under no circumstances were my brother and I ever allowed to say. There were the usual ones, the ones that probably got y’all in trouble with your parents as well, and then there was the H word. You know the one. Well, at least if you grew up like I did, in 1980s Eastern Kentucky with educator parents, you know the one: Hillbilly.

“I’m proud of my hillbilly, white trash background. To me, that keeps you humble; that keeps you good. And it doesn’t matter how hard you try to outrun it. If that’s who you are, that’s who you are. It’ll show up once in a while. ”

— Dolly Parton

The message was clear: yes, it’s a pejorative term for people from the Appalachian region. Yes, people say it about us, both behind our backs and to our faces. But if we allow ourselves to play into the stereotype, then we’re giving them power over us.

Now, I’ll admit that, over the years, I’ve played with dropping the H-bomb myself. Isn’t that what taboo words are for? I was taking back the idiom, as they say. Besides, Miss Dolly Parton embraced the term, and who am I to question Dolly? But, anytime I did use that word it was always with the sense that “I can say it because I am one. Y’all can’t.”

The truth of that word, whether taboo or reclaimed, remains constant: it’s a “them and us” mentality. Appalachians are, by definition, sheltered. Our geography and our culture sets us apart. We learned a long time ago not to trust outsiders. A few may come to help — Mrs. Alice Lloyd comes to mind, as does Mary Breckinridge — but most come to exploit us. Because of the cycle of exploitation and ridicule, we’ve learned to protect ourselves from outsiders. My grandfather grew up on the campus of Alice Lloyd College in the 1930s and ‘40s. He often told a story about when he was 17 and Mrs. Lloyd found work a group of local Knott County boys on a Massachusetts cranberry bog. When a Boston reporter interviewed my Poppy and his friends, they purposely defied all expected stereotypes by speaking perfectly enunciated, grammatically-correct English. Similarly, a few years ago when a UC Berkeley professor profiled my brother about his remarkable career in coding, our entire family proceeded with extreme trepidation until she won our trust. Call it us vs. y’all or call it insular behavior, if you ain’t from around here, we don’t quite trust you.

Last thing I’ll say about JD Vance is I also grew up in a holler with moonshiners, coal miners and all the stock hillbilly characters. Venture capital has also put money in my pocket. Difference between him and me is that I don’t consider myself superior for “rising above it.”

— Heather Watson⚜️ HerKentucky (@HerKentucky) October 14, 2020

In one of the very first posts on this blog, I mused that, every few years, there’s some documentary or photography exhibit or TV show that reinforces all the old, hurtful stereotypes. Of course, I’ve been pretty vocal about my own Appalachian identity and my loathing of these pandering displays over the years, so it wasn’t exactly surprising that yesterday, when Netflix dropped the first trailer for the film adaptation of J.D. Vance’s best-selling memoir Hillbilly Elegy, a lot of people texted, tweeted, or Facebooked to ask my opinion. I certainly have one, that much is for sure.

Mr. Vance is an Ohio native who was raised in part by his grandparents, natives of rural Breathitt County, KY. Hillbilly Elegy tells the story of a difficult childhood: Mr. Vance and his sister were abandoned by their father and, later, by their drug-addicted, frequently-married mother. He spent time in Middletown, Ohio, a steel town outside Cincinnati, as well as with his grandparents in Breathitt County. After troubled high school years, Mr. Vance went on to a stint in the Marines before matriculating at Ohio State University and Yale Law School. He went on to a Silicon Valley venture capital career before settling into a million-dollar Cincinnati home. Elegy tells the story of his tumultuous childhood, shaped by his iron-willed grandmother and the cycles of addiction, violence, and poverty so common to Appalachian families. The love among Vance’s family members, even in hard times, is apparent, and his Mamaw is a wildly compelling character. His academic and professional success is impressive. But, Mr. Vance is way too self-satisfied in his telling of rising above his humble beginnings and his analysis of Appalachian culture smugly oversimplifies so much.

Hillbilly Elegy experienced tremendous success when it was released in 2016, reaching the top spot on the New York Times Bestseller List and securing Oprah’s recommendation. Many viewed the work’s analysis of blue-collar rural Americans as a key to understanding the paradoxes of that demographic’s support of then-Presidential-hopeful Donald Trump. Suddenly, his tale of personal success had a very coded message about the politics of the disenfranchised. And, it seemed a launching pad for Mr. Vance to embark upon a career as a conservative pundit and potential political candidate. It also pissed off a whole lot of Appalachians. Mr. Vance’s analysis of Appalachians’ perceived laziness (“many folks talk about working more than they actually work.” and financial instability (“We spend our way to the poorhouse… Thrift is inimical to our being.”) are cruel and antiquated, painting all hillbillies with the broadest possible brushstrokes. Faced with these ad hominem attacks on our very existence, Appalachians have, in the four years since Hillbilly Elegy’s publication, responded with more nuanced and reasonable books of essays. We’ve also collectively shouted that he ain’t even from around here.

The brilliant singer-songwriter Sturgill Simpson — himself an actual native of Jackson in Breathitt County, and not just a sometime visitor — mocked Hillbilly Elegy by calling it “Tuesdays with Meemaw” and noting “I’ll give this to J.D.- like so many coastal elites that have come to eastern Kentucky to point out all its problems, much like them he offered no solutions, but just found a way to get f—ing paid for it. Twice.” My own view has always been that Mr. Vance is like the kid that every Appalachian youth has encountered - the one who comes down from Ohio to go to Vacation Bible School with his cousins and tries to tell us how backward we are. Yes, your Mamaw lives here, but you don’t, kid. You don’t get to claim “insider” status on telling us how to live.

My paternal grandparents receiving degrees from Eastern Kentucky University, 1961

In the four years since Hillbilly Elegy’s publication — four years since I started reading the book, then gave up and disgustedly put it in my neighborhood Little Free Library because I just didn’t want it around me — I’ve thought a lot about my own Appalachian experience in contrast with Mr. Vance’s. I didn’t live through generational abuse and trauma. I was fortunate to have parents who worked hard and treated my brother and me well. I was fortunate to come from folks who had access to higher education. My relationship with my own tough-as-nails Appalachian grandmother isn’t traumatic or fraught. I’ve had kinfolk who made really great personal and professional decisions and others who haven’t. I chose to leave the holler; my brother has built a fascinating career in our hometown. I know Appalachian folks who, like Mr. Vance, have gone on to Ivy League law schools. I can count at least three folks from my hometown who currently work at the Cleveland Clinic. I have friends who’ve stayed in Appalachia and enriched our community as schoolteachers and policemen. And I know a few folks who don’t seem to do much of anything. I don’t really judge their worth by their resumes or their bank accounts. One group is neither inherently lazy and irresponsible nor categorically commendable. I didn’t grow up in the cartoon of Mr. Vance’s Appalachia, and I don’t particularly want to hear his commentary on my homeland.

So, to answer the question asked of me yesterday, I won’t be watching Colorado native Amy Adams and Connecticut-born Glenn Close in an Oscar-bait, poverty-porn denigration of my homeland. I don’t need to laugh at gorgeous and talented actresses in cringeworthy hillbilly garb. Maybe I’m continuing the exclusionary cycle of us vs. them that keeps Appalachia secluded or maybe, once again, I’m shielding myself from harmful outsiders.

All I know is that we real hillbillies will be over here savoring the lyrics of Dolly Parton, Sturgill Simpson, and Tyler Childers instead.

Rules of Civility by Amor Towles and The Masterpiece by Fiona Davis Book Reviews

{Disclaimer: This review contains affiliate links to Amazon.com. I will be compensated a very small amount per book purchased through the links contained in this post, at no additional charge to you.}

I’ve been in the car a lot recently — three trips to Lexington in two weeks — so I’ve had a lot of time to listen to audiobooks on Audible. I listened to Rules of Civility and The Masterpiece and, while I didn’t intentionally choose a “theme” for these days of listening to fiction, I started to realize that the two books have several similarities. Both are romantic and impeccably researched stories of money and manners in Manhattan of the 1920s and ‘30s, and both are strongly influenced by modern art —each making direct reference to the work of Stuart Davis — and the NYC jazz club scene. (When I type it all out like that, in fact, it seems hard to believe that I didn’t see the similarities immediately.)

I chose Rules of Civility first. Y’all, I just love this book. In fact, I listened to it for a second time last week, having first listened to it audiobook back in the spring, when I discovered author Amor Towles through his stunning novel A Gentleman in Moscow and immediately had to read his earlier work.) Rules of Civility is a smart, sophisticated, fast-paced novel of manners and social status in 1930s New York; it reads like The Great Gatsby if Nick Carraway had actually been one of the bright young things, rather than a judgmental and detached observer. It’s delightful and tragic and it’s one of the few novels I’ve ever read in which a male author successfully writes through the lens of a female narrator. Rules of Civility tells the story of Katey Kontent, the orphaned daughter of Russian immigrant parents. As a young legal secretary in 1937 New York, Katey finds herself in a dramatic romantic triangle alongside her roommate, Indiana-born beauty Evelyn Ross, and a mysterious, WASPy young banker named Tinker Gray. Towles’ work is delicate and complex — a world of wealth and beauty hanging by the thinnest of threads — and nobody is quite who they seem. After listening twice on Audible, I still find myself wanting more.

The Masterpiece, the most recent work by Fiona Davis, tells the story of Virginia Clay, a 1970s divorcee and breast cancer survivor who finds herself working at the information booth in Grand Central Station to support herself and her recent-college-dropout daughter. As Virginia learns to rely on herself, she also uncovers the secret world of the Grand Central Art School, which was housed in the train station nearly fifty years earlier and finds herself at the heart of the fight to retain Grand Central Station as a historical landmark. It’s a fascinating story for anyone who loves the history of New York, modern art (especially abstract expressionism), or vintage fashion illustration. Characters are based on Arshile Gorky and Helen Dryden, if you want to research those artists before reading or listening.

Both Rules of Civility and The Masterpiece are compelling stories of Jazz Age New York, filled with engaging and unique characters. I loved listening to both of these in Audible audiobook format.

I'd Rather Be Reading by Anne Bogel Book Review

{Disclaimer: This review contains affiliate links to Amazon.com. I will be compensated a very small amount per book purchased through the links contained in this post, at no additional charge to you. I was provided an advance copy of the book by the author; all opinions are my own.}

My friend Anne Bogel's book of bookish essays came out a couple of weeks ago and y'all, it is so good.

Anne is the blogger behind Modern Mrs. Darcy and the podcaster behind What Should I Read Next? and, as her internet ventures' names would suggest, she really knows books. She also knows people, and human nature. She's a smart, kind, and funny lady who's spent a lot of time reflecting on personality types, reading styles, and all sorts of meta/ intellectual things. And she manages to write about these things in an accessible, warm, and funny style.

I’d Rather Be Reading is a collection of brief, lovely essays about the delights and obstacles encountered by those of us who really know and love books. There are musings on how many copies of a title you should own (If you find yourself in possession of multiples, you should own three. Two, it seems, is an oversight; three is a collection), reflections on reading the right books at the right time, and a charming story about how different the dream of working as a bookseller is from the job’s reality.

Louisville natives will recognize the St Matthews Eline Library as the “library next door” which Anne visited daily when her children were young, as well as Carmichael’s Bookstore and the late, lamented Hawley-Cooke Booksellers. Anyone who loves books will appreciate her quest to read as often as possible.

Something in the Water by Catherine Steadman Book Review

{This book review contains Amazon Affiliate links. I receive a small compensation for books purchased through the links in this post.}

I recently finished Catherine Steadman's Something in the Water in Audible audiobook format; it came recommended as the June selection for Reese Witherspoon's Book Club. This is such a great thriller, one that raises a lot of questions about personal ethics and the extent to which "good people" will allow themselves to go. 

Something in the Water is the story of a London couple, Erin and Mark, who lead a seemingly charmed life. Erin, a fledgling filmmaker, is working on a documentary about three incarcerated Londoners and their plans for post-prison life When investment banker Mark loses his job weeks before their wedding, cracks begin to appear in their perfect relationship.  Meanwhile, Erin becomes more deeply entrenched in the lives of her documentary subjects. When they embark on a honeymoon in Bora Bora, they discover a small fortune and must question how far they're willing to go for money, and what it actually means to be a good person. There are elements of classic parables like The Pearl or The Diamond as Big as the Ritz mixed with gangsters, money, and pretty people.  It's a fast-paced and riveting story, and I found myself extremely anxious to see what happened next. Although the novel was only released last month, I already find myself hoping it'll be optioned for film soon!

The Audible audiobook is narrated by the book's author, Catherine Steadman, who is also an actress who appeared as one of Lady Mary's romantic rivals on Downton Abbey. Ms. Steadman's narration lends the appropriate amount of drama and suspense to the tale, and her posh British accent works well with the characters she creates.

This book is a great listen in audiobook format; I can see it being fantastic in print as well. It's a fantastic vacation read -- all the talk of beaches and flights incites more than a little wanderlust! 

Let me know in the comments if you've read Something in the Water yet and if you like suspenseful novels like this one!

All We Ever Wanted by Emily Giffin Book Review

{This book review contains Amazon Affiliate links. I receive a small compensation for books purchased through the links in this post.}

Emily Giffin is an author with whose work I have a complex relationship. I think she's an amazing storyteller and that she has a knack for compelling dialogue and "smart lady soap opera" fiction. I often can't wait to read her books and have them delivered via Amazon Prime on the day of publication. I devour each new book in a day or so. I can't put Ms. Giffin's books down. And yet I often find myself highly conflicted. Something a character says doesn't hit me right, or a plot point seems... not quite right. 

I preordered Ms. Giffin's latest, All We Ever Wanted, as soon as I learned that it was set in Nashville. Now y'all know that Nashville is my happy place. I travel there as frequently as possible to recharge my creative batteries. I especially love the neighborhoods in the southern/ southwestern end of town; several of the main characters live in this area, in the exclusive Belle Meade neighborhood. I've made many fun trips to the East Nashville area for meals and festivals and events; this neighborhood plays a prominent role in the work as well. So, I kind of braced myself. Ms. Giffin grew up in suburban Illinois, practiced law in NYC and wrote in London before settling in Atlanta with her husband and kids. I always wonder if she has a bit of disdain for the South; the main character in Love the One You're With -- an otherwise highly compelling novel -- seemed to delight in subtly disparaging the South in a way that made me cringe. So, when I picked up a novel set in my favorite city by an author whom I know to be a compelling storyteller, I still had guarded expectations.

Let me just start off by saying that, from a storytelling perspective, All We Ever Wanted is fantastic. The book tells the story of two Nashville families, the Volpes and the Brownings. The wealthy Brownings, Kirk, Nina, and their son Finch, are firmly ensconced in Nashville's elite Belle Meade circles, while single father and carpenter Tom Volpe raises his daughter Lyla in a blue collar East Nashville setting. Finch and Lyla are classmates at a prestigious private school; their worlds are changed forever when a drunken photo of Lyla is posted to Finn's social media. The story is a fast-paced and heart-wrenching story of parental guilt, hidden secrets, and long-ago pain. Nina finds her small-town morals at to be at odds with her husband's desire to protect their son's Princeton admission at any cost, and she begins to address a long-suppressed assault that has impacted her entire adult life. Tom must confront his own class biases and the scars left by his tumultuous relationship with Lyla's mother, an alcoholic who abandoned them when Lyla was a toddler. This story plays out as every mother's nightmare: "How did my little baby become this person?" becomes "Is my child a psychopath?" in fairly short order. The work forces readers to think about the impact of class and privilege, the slippery slope between alcohol use and abuse, and the often-terrifying landscape of sexual consent and assault. It's a timely, nuanced, and tight narrative about the damage we can inflict on others and on ourselves, and it's a fantastic pool read.

And yet -- y'all knew there'd be a yet -- there were problems. Readers, I think I have to confess to y'all that the problem was with me and not with the book. I couldn't get past weird little details like "You send your kids to single sex-high schools like MBA or Harpeth if you live in Nashville" or "Nobody splits a glass of wine at Husk" or "A Methodist cop who's lived his entire life in Bristol would never drive home after drinking even a single beer." I didn't love the broad-sweeping message that you're kind of inherently vapid and materialistic if you live in Belle Meade and that you're in touch with core values if you hail from East Nashville; I've definitely met plenty whofolks who defy each of these stereotypes. And yet, as a writer and a serious reader, I know better than to allow myself to get mired in these little details. I know that if I set a novel anywhere other than the places I've lived -- Lexington, Louisville, Nashville, or the holler -- I couldn't pass this test. If I set a piece of fiction, the author of this work could likely find just as many nitpicking details that I got wrong. Ms. Giffin has been painstaking in her research of the city. So many things seem perfectly right, like pastries from Sweet 16th, which makes the best red velvet cake in East Nashville, or possibly anywhere in the world. Ultimately, she gets more "Luke Bryant popups in the Gulch" and "Buying jeans at Imogene + Willie" stories right than wrong, these little details make me sound like a pedantic malcontent, and the book is the best piece of chick lit that's been published so far in 2018.

I recommend All We Ever Wanted for anyone who loves Big Little Lies, Something Borrowed, or the early seasons of Nashville. Please chime in if you've read the book and have an opinion on the story, or if you've ever found yourself derailed by an author's tiny missteps in regard to locale and local customs!