I loved the descriptions of his family and their antics, his methods of coping and his struggles. These felt like home. I, too, had a conditional mother with substance abuse problems, a cavalcade of aunts and uncles with murders and abuse under their belts who I love like hell, stories that make some people cringe or run in fear, but fill me with that weird familial pride. But it seems that's where our paths diverge. I don't know if Vance and I are just on two different poles of the political spectrum, but I often found the author weirdly calloused when it came to the plight of our ancestors.
I routinely felt like Vance was slipping into the old "the poor just don't work hard enough!" territory that oppresses and keeps oppressed so many of the disadvantaged. Vance explores the motives, pitfalls, and victories of two subsets of society that I'm sure do exist: the lazy pessimists who let the world roll over them and then blame the world for rolling; and the motivated poor who reach out for help, open themselves up to some serious introspection, and clamor wildly and passionately up out of the holler, Yale degree in tow. But what about the people in the middle? What about the people trapped in vicious cycles of poverty, isolated from assistance and health insurance, unable to obtain good birth control, unable to travel to get the training they need for the jobs they want, isolated from the extended family structures Vance so heavily relied upon? Are they poor because they haven't been able to really admit to their shortcomings, or because they have to pay over half of their wages to live in a sub par apartment in a town laid out in such a way to require the purchase of a car, acquiring increasingly more debt, even though they know it's all wrong?
It makes sense that Vance would write about what he knows, but from my experience, most of the hillbillies I know and love fall into this third unmentioned category. Hell, until I moved in with my husband I was in this category. I had a good job that paid just enough to keep me content, but not enough to save. I was unhappy there, but couldn't leave because of my debt. Vance warns us not to blame the government or society, but I feel like more outreach, more education, might be a partial answer here. For example, my great grandmother was an amazing woman. She had her first child at 14 and didn't stop having a kid every two years for 20 years until her eldest child returned from the flatlands of Ohio and told her mother about birth control. Until this revelation, the rumor was that great grandpa would drunkenly jump on her stomach, upset that he'd have another mouth to feed. I can't help but wonder how more assistance and education would have improved her life. Maybe, sometimes, I can blame society.
|A relative's home in my native West Virginia.|
I wonder, though, if I'm just falling into something I've noticed many of my Appalachian relatives do: am I engaging in a perverse pissing contest? Was my holler the poorest, was my grandmother the most slighted, did my Papa walk farther to school, in deeper snow, with thinner shoes?
Still, I enjoyed this book. I just wish it didn't read like a college entrance essay, a gear-up for a run for public office, or a letter back home ("Look at how good I did, Pa!"). Vance has had an intensely interesting life and will no doubt accomplish many wonderful things, I just hope he is able to look beyond his own experience and open himself up even more to the plight of the poor. If this book had focused less on what Vance considers successful, and more on the personal, I would have been hooked. Maybe I would have preferred a biography of Mamaw.