I can still remember my high school history teacher pleading with the students in the room to consider their Appalachian identity.
Impassioned, Dr. Banker strongly believed that young people not understanding the history of the region would eventually lead to its absorption into the surrounding cultures. Dr. Banker understood the precarious situation Appalachia was in as a region primarily comprising portions of states. Am I an East Tennessean, or Appalachian?
Do I hail from the rolling hills of the Tennessee Valley, or the Appalachian Mountains? Within the answer to those questions lay the balance of Appalachia’s future. As Dr. Banker’s lecturing intensified, so too did the urgency in his speech. “You’ve been othered! You’ve been absorbed! You’re out of sight and out of mind!” he would say with escalating intensity.
As he reached his crescendo, pit stains growing, his voice reaching a near fever pitch, he would make an emotional appeal, “Do you love your Papaw and Mamaw? Who will tell their stories? Your ancestors depend on you to tell their stories.”
Like so many of us in high school, I rarely paid attention at the time. Though I found Dr. Banker’s passion intriguing, my privilege kept me from understanding the damaging role stereotypes can play on a visceral level. I had never really left the region, never understood that terms like “hillbilly,” “redneck,” and “squid,” were used to derogatorily define our region.
Rather, I believed these terms, though often depicting aspects of my culture that I did not agree with, were ultimately terms of endearment. More importantly, as there was little to no national narrative about my region, my privilege prevented my identity from being fully encapsulated by any of these terms.
If I wanted to hunt, fish, drink cheap beer, play football, and not be associated with the bigotry that many spoke about when discussing the residents of the region, so be it. Stereotypes need not apply in defining who I was, because my privilege allowed me to be identified as an individual. Given this simplistic view of identity afforded to many white people, I was rarely concerned with what it meant to be “Appalachian” into my 20s.
However, I can remember nearly the exact moment this changed. I must first admit, I am hesitant to rehash much about Hillbilly Elegy, and its author, J.D. Vance. People far smarter than me have discussed the problems with the book, and spending any ink on Vance seems like a double-edged sword.
Regardless, I was given the book by an in-law from Colorado, with the excited endorsement, “I felt like I was reading about you!” Intrigued, I read the book quickly, with anger and frustration quickening the pace of every turn of the page.
There are a vast number of aspects of the book that frustrated me, but something about seeing it come alive on the big screen made it worse. While my in-law felt like Vance spoke for the region, all I could see is someone trying to distance himself from us, seemingly saying, “Look at how dumb, lazy, and ignorant these people were. I overcame it all.” Given Vance’s Senatorial bid, his claims that he can fix all the problems he has defined for Appalachia, and his increasing comfort with acting as a spokesperson for the region, a retrospective on the book and film seems necessary.
Vance’s political ascendancy, Senator Joe Manchin’s political positioning, the popularity of Beth Macy’s Dopesick and the ensuing Hulu miniseries, have brought the limelight back to Appalachia. With this increased occupation in the minds of Americans not from the region, it seems essential to examine the media that is coming to define us.
Hillbilly Elegy contains one scene in particular that warrants interrogation. The scene in question is derivative, as almost all scenes that explore social mobility must include the vaunted “fancy dinner” scene. In Elegy’s version of the scene, our protagonist sits at the dinner table panicked, furtively glancing around the table. Vance has just been served the first course of a multi-course meal; in front of him sit multiple forks, and he has to choose the fork that corresponds to the course.
The others at the table idly talk back and forth, presumably steeped in the sort of cultural capital that makes the choice of which fork to use an anxiety-free dilemma. The viewer is led to believe that if Vance chooses the wrong fork, his opportunity for social mobility will evaporate, despite a law degree from Yale. The film is suggesting that social mobility in America is dependent on having both the intelligence and work ethic to thrive at an institution like Yale, while also possessing enough familiarity with the mores of the elite to pass a hidden pop-quiz like Vance is confronted with at the dinner table.
While this commentary seems nearly impossible to argue with, I often find myself arguing with people about the commentary Hillbilly Elegy seems fairly content to not make. While Vance sits at the table, anxiety riddled and sweating, no one is paying attention to him.
The others at the table are talking to one another, blissfully unaware that Vance does not possess the knowledge to properly navigate a multi-course meal. Vance has time to get up, call his girlfriend, receive some coaching, and resume the meal armed with the knowledge to successfully navigate the unspoken aspect of this quasi-job interview. The others at the table did not immediately assume that Vance lacked the knowledge to choose the correct fork. The notion that he may not know what to do in that moment never crossed their minds.
In this moment, Vance was afforded the time to solve the problem with no additional pressure placed on him by others. What bought him this time? His skin color.
There are an untold number of benefits to my privilege, but time seems like one of the most valuable and underexplored. As a white man I have time to figure out who I am, time to recover from mistakes, time to be a kid, time to grow into adulthood; society affords me time to do all of this at my own pace.
I am almost positive we have all grown up with caregivers expressing to us the importance of time. My best friend’s dad was fond of reminding us that time is the only resource we cannot give back, no matter how hard we try. The simple elegance of this phrase was always thought-provoking to me, and as I unpack the phrase, I realize how much more time privilege often affords many of us.
As Vance’s Senatorial bid continues, there will doubtlessly be a multitude of critiques hurled his way from both sides of the political aisle. The celebrity attached to his name will
likely invite enhanced scrutiny; particularly from those of us he claims to be a spokesperson for. I can confidently say I likely disagree with Vance on every political issue that he will be forced to take a stand on. However, my distrust of his representation for Appalachia runs deeper than political ideology.
As our world is confronted with global problems, we will very likely need to shape global solutions. As a lifelong resident of an economically depressed region, I feel intimately aware that isolationism is rarely capable of solving complex problems. Vance’s narrative is filled with simplicity. Here is a white man, claiming to have the longest odds of success possible, who single-handedly overcame those odds, despite his depraved roots. His own analysis lacks nuance, and shows an inability to understand systemic advantages that helped him along the way.
Maybe even more revealing is the glee with which he paints Appalachia with a broad brush, depicting the region as full of lazy, entitled people. As we are confronted with a time in history where collective efficacy feels vital, Vance’s simplistic, selfish, analysis of his own region demonstrates his inability to grow collective efficacy within his own community. At my age, a certain level of navel gazing seems to come with the territory. Oddly, I find myself returning to Dr. Banker’s impassioned plea.
Essentially, he argued that we needed to tell the stories of our ancestors to preserve our ancestral heritage. Embedded in his argument is how our history shapes our identity. Equally embedded in his argument is the importance of the past.
Though I do not disagree with his notion, I do question its focus on the past. Today, with the COVID Pandemic, January 6th Insurrection, and Russian war in Ukraine, there is a salient feeling that we are living in a historically important time. There is no doubt that the 2020s will be examined and seen as important by future historians. Those who we elect to tell our stories will reflect something about us on the historical record. I hope our region will choose leaders filled with nuance, empathy, and a strong commitment to reflecting the values of our community.
