And so we have reached the content, the stuff that My Heart thinks should be preserved electronically for posterity. It’s fitting to start with a “miss” rather than a “hit.” Misses justify the project; hits are already out there in the ether or on pulp or both. A Babe Ruth factoid offers consolation: While hitting many home runs, he struck out prodigiously. If nothing else, this unpublished letter to the editor, composed within a fortnight of the election, shows how the imperative to do something, anything, to act however possible, possessed me and so many others.
Aiming this virgin effort toward The New York Times arose from sublimely balanced hubris and naïveté, just arrogant enough to think that the letters column would be an easy target, just ignorant enough to be unaware of the flood of correspondence received by the Grey Lady. This submission initiated a learning process. Every publication has preferences and guidelines to decipher and negotiate. My tendency is to respond to editorials rather than directly to news events, a proclivity that doesn’t fit comfortably with The New York Times’ constraints on letters. At least that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Whatever the reality, The New York Times is a high hurdle to clear. This neither discouraged nor deterred me and for that I’m just a little pleased with myself. Another Babe Ruth aphorism applies: “Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.” The Beloved One sees me through different eyes and takes each “failure to launch” personally, which leaves me with the warm fuzzies.
It is appropriate that the first whack at this involved J. D. Vance. This is a good place to address my rising, now absolute, disenchantment with Mr. Vance. I read his Hillbilly Elegy in the months before the election and was predisposed to view him more favorably than I should have. Mea culpa, maxima mea culpa.
Parallels between Mr. Vance’s personal story and mine partly account for this. We both experienced the demographic current flowing between Kentucky and Ohio. While our senses of place ultimately diverged – I became more bound to the Bluegrass, he apparently to the Buckeye state – Dwight Yoakam’s “Readin’, Rightin’, Rt. 23” resonates with both of us. Our formative years unfolded in a similar social stratum and he addressed matters familiar to me. Poverty and social dysfunction are not alien to my experience. His narrative of an intermittently harrowing upbringing imparted to me a sense of gazing “through a glass darkly” at what might have been had I not been exposed to a measure of human concern and decency. Extended family, grandparents especially, profoundly influenced the people we eventually became. We both attended the Ohio State University, though at different times and for disparate reasons.
Beyond this personal affinity for Mr. Vance, elements of his characterization of the Kentucky-Appalachian experience rang true to me. This comported with my desire for the bicoastal elite – that group on whose fringes I skulk by dint of education – to be exposed to an unfamiliar circumstance, a different pattern of life. I’ve heard enough sneering comments about “the flyover” to deem a corrective worthwhile.
The Bluegrass part of “the flyover” is often perceived by outsiders, if it crosses their minds at all, through stereotypes. There is a raft of them. Is a Kentuckian a McCoyish blood-feuder? Or a striking coal miner as in the documentary Harlan County USA? Or a character in Justified, either Federal Marshal Raylan Givens or his frenemy Boyd Crowder? Or a reclusive, combative moonshiner? Or a bourbon distiller? Or a Daniel Boone-like frontiersman? Or a tobacco farmer? Or a riverboat gambler? Or a Bluegrass strummer? Or an elegantly dissipated, decadent horsey aristocrat wearing a seersucker suit and sipping a mint julep while watching the Derby? Or a fried chicken magnate? Or a denizen of the “abyss of inbred hicks,” as a droll satirical Pinterest map has it? And, since the Commonwealth was a border state during the Civil War, is a Kentuckian a Union or Confederate battle reenactor on the weekends, a Southerner or a Midwesterner? Or is a Kentuckian something else or perhaps many other things? Mr. Vance’s and my backgrounds overlapped, yet there were fundamental differences in them. Kentucky is poor and receives many more federal dollars than it pays; however, its poverty has a regional quality. Mr. Vance contended with the straitened living of the Commonwealth’s mountainous coal-producing region whereas my upbringing was in rural, agricultural central Kentucky. My hope was that Hillbilly Elegy would expose a rich vein of the Kentucky experience unfiltered through popular culture, raise awareness of the challenges endured by its people, and foster empathy among those for whom the country’s vast middle remains mysterious.
Yet there were abundant red flags in Hillbilly Elegy, among them the shoutouts to the vile Charles Murray and the problematic Amy Chua, the self-styled “Tiger Mom.” I hoped that Mr. Vance hadn’t bought their nonsense wholesale, that his work’s merit would outweigh its defects, and that he was misguided, not actively and cooperatively malevolent. I wanted him to be better than he is.
When I wrote the letter to The New York Times, I already had reservations about Hillbilly Elegy. Mr. Vance’s statements about race were sometimes obtuse, chief among them that his “people” harbored no racial animus toward Barack Obama. He asserted that the bile spewed at The Undramatic One was a reaction to the president’s ethereal, suave eliteness, not bigotry. Personal experience told me this was jabberwocky. My concerns appear in an earlier post, one about a friend living abroad during the 2016 election. (See “The Heart of the Matter: the 2016 Election”).
My initial attitude toward Mr. Vance was too kind, almost unforgivably so. For whatever it’s worth, I was far from the only person snookered in by him. He was the political and cultural “it boy,” especially following the election. He made the rounds of cable news and opinion shows across the political spectrum. He even appeared on Chris Hayes’ All In, the most left-leaning primetime cable opinion show. Mr. Vance assumed a Pied Piper quality. The book was a runaway bestseller and has received a Hollywood treatment from Ron Howard.
Mr. Vance seems to suffer from a common foible, the desire to be the hero of his own story. For those lacking in self-awareness, this self-as-hero proclivity fosters a sense that the planets will align for anyone with the hero’s pluck, courage, and stick-to-it-iveness. Those failing to achieve the same outcome must be fundamentally flawed. Cleaving to his own narrative blinds him to structural impediments, stumbling blocks largely beyond the individual’s control. Then again, perhaps it’s a chicken-or-egg matter in which obliviousness to structural barriers creates the space for expansive self-regard.
The genesis of Mr. Vance’s void in understanding may be even simpler: He has imbibed Professor Murray’s Kool-Aid and ideology has rendered him impervious to others’ lived reality. He is loath to acknowledge that, no matter how challenging his childhood was, he still benefited from privilege. Absolving his “people” of racism and perhaps subscribing to Charles Murray’s noxious racial pseudoscience liberates him from recognizing that his diagnosis of society’s ills has no universal validity and also from seeing that his remedy is no panacea. His maundering about “social capital” is a case in point. In his self-congratulations for plugging himself into a rarefied good-ol’-boys network, he betrays not a scintilla of cognizance that such “social capital” is not the solution but the problem. And there can only be so many good ol’ boys.
In any case, the mask is off for Mr. Vance. He is contemplating a run for a vacant US Senate seat in Ohio in 2022. Rumor has it that his campaign will be “Trumpian.” Wonderful. Ohio is welcome to him.
Mr. Vance’s editorial in The New York Times addresses a fissure he perceived in how Republicans and Democrats relate to the military and how this affected voting in 2016. Like many editorials, it’s more noteworthy for what is granted short shrift than for what is said. I did engage in a small rhetorical feint by complimenting Mr. Vance and establishing our shared experience before making a critique. One must be kind to be cruel.
J. D. Vance, “How Trump Won the Troops,” The New York Times, 25 November 2016 (www.nytimes.com/2016/11/25/opinion/how-trump-won-the-troops.html).
I admire J. D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy but feel that he pushed his analysis beyond sustainability in his recent editorial (“Why Trump Won the Troops,” November 25, 2016). As a fellow son of Kentucky whose father and stepfather served in the military, I remind Mr. Vance that many conservatives blithely accepted the besmirching in 2004 of Senator John Kerry’s distinguished record of military service while they returned to office the administration that had led the nation into Iraq, a conflict responsible for the much of the worry and loss Mr. Vance underscores. Mr. Vance, who has done so much to dispel misconceptions about his and my people, should not paint so broadly with his stereotype brush when characterizing those outside his tribe. He should also explain why Mr. Trump, who did not serve and evinces little or no understanding of the military, would inspire empathy among military voters and their families. His case in this instance falls short of prima facie. The American public’s nearly universal support for the military is neither so simple nor so transactional nor so easily reduced to hoary liberal vs. conservative topoi as Mr. Vance suggests.
Thanks to Mr. Vance, I spent an evening in October 2017 as an anthropological exhibit. Book recommendations can have consequences. I had passed my copy of Hillbilly Elegy to a friend in Manhattan, a wonderful lady who has treated The Better Half and me to gracious hospitality and good conversation for decades. She read the book, she and I discussed it, and she nominated it as a selection for a book club she was hosting.
As it turned out, it was the senior women’s book club for Wellesley College alumnae in Manhattan. I was invited to attend, tantamount to being granted entrée to the sanctum sanctorum. Men as a rule aren’t allowed. I may have been the first. My plural connections to Wellesley College women – Light of My Life, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, niece by marriage – cleared the path for this.
It was a pleasant event. The ladies were friendly, polite, and, as readers, discerning. The consensus was that the book was interesting but not great literature. That’s a fair assessment. The sensibilities of some of the ladies were offended by the book’s coarser elements, especially the language. That’s understandable. It’s also probably generational. I refrained from telling the ladies that the language used by some of their younger sister alumnae would strip the paint from the walls.
So, the Bourbon Progressive is tipping back the Hound’s Tooth flask in honor of the Manhattan chapter the Wellesley Senior Women’s Book Club.