Portside

JD Vance has climbed to his current position as former President Donald Trump’s running mate, in part, by selling himself as a hillbilly, calling on his Appalachian background to bolster his credentials to speak for the American working class.

“I grew up as a poor kid,” Vance said on Fox News in August 2024. “I think that’s a story that a lot of normal Americans can empathize with.”

Indeed, the book that brought him to public attention was his 2016 memoir, “Hillbilly Elegy.” In that book, he claims his family carried an inheritance of “abuse, alcoholism, poverty, and trauma.”

“Poor people,” he proclaimed in a 2016 interview with The American Conservative, are “my people.”

But there’s a bit of a shell game going on when it comes to Vance’s poverty credentials.

Vance did come from a troubled family. His mother was – like so many Americans, whether they’re poor, middle class or rich – addicted to painkillers. In the book, Vance searches for an explanation for his traumatic relationship with his mother, before hitting on the perfect explanation: His mother’s addiction was a consequence of the fact that her parents were “hillbillies.”

The reality – one that Vance only subtly acknowledges in his memoir – is that he is not poor. Nor is he a hillbilly. He grew up firmly in Ohio’s middle class.

In my forthcoming book, “Poor Things: How Those with Money Depict Those without It,” I detail how Vance’s work is actually part of a genre I call “poornography.” Created mainly by middle- and upper-class people for like-minded readers, this long line of novels, films and plays can end up spreading harmful stereotypes about poor people.

Though these works are sometimes crafted with good intentions, they tend to focus on violence, drugs, alcohol, crudeness and the supposed laziness of poor people.

Peering at all the poor people

When you think about novels and films about the poor, you come upon the great classics: Charles Dickens’ “Oliver Twist,” Emile Zola’s “Germinal,” James Agee and Walker Evans’ “Let Us Now Praise Famous Men,” Jack London’s “The People of the Abyss” or John Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath.”

Yet all these monuments to the suffering of the poor were written by authors who were not poor. Most of them had little to no knowledge of the lived experience of poor people. At best, they were reporters whose source material was meager. At worst, they simply made things up, recycling stereotypes about poverty.

For example, John Steinbeck had some contact with poor people as a reporter. But as he wrote about migrant camps for “The Grapes of Wrath,” he relied heavily on the notes of Sanora Babb – herself poor and formerly homeless – who traveled to migrant camps throughout California for the Farm Security Administration. Babb’s boss – a friend of Steinbeck’s – had secretly shown the author her notes, without her permission.

Babb would go on to also write a novel based on her experiences, which was bought by Random House. But the publishing house killed it after “Grapes of Wrath” came out, and it wasn’t published until 2004, when the author was 97 years old. That year, she told the Chicago Tribune – correctly, I might add – that Steinbeck’s work “isn’t as accurate as mine.”

Then there’s London, whose “The People of the Abyss” is seen as a faithful portrayal of the lives of the British poor. But London, who went “undercover” to craft a sordid account of England’s urban poor, nonetheless maintained a comfortable apartment. He kept a stash of money sewed into his ragged coat and conveniently escaped for a hot bath and a good meal while pretending to pass as a pauper. The result is a book laden with put-downs of the English working class, who are cast in eugenicist terms as a degenerate race.

When you look at the books or films created by people who grew up poor, the tone and focus often shift dramatically.

Instead of a fixation on the tawdry side of life, you see works that explore the things that bind all people together: family, love, politics, complex emotions and sensual memories.

You only have to open Richard Wright’s “Black Boy,” Agnes Smedley’s “Daughter of Earth” or Justin Torres’ “We the Animals” to see their protagonists’ appreciation of beauty and ability to experience profound pleasure – yes, all while experiencing poverty.

Wright recalls how, as a child, he would play in the sewer, where he would spend hours fashioning all manner of detritus into toys. The young Smedley loves to stare through a hole in her roof to gaze at the sky. And Mike Gold, author of “Jews Without Money,” sings a paean to an empty, garbage-strewn lot in his neighborhood that doubled as his beloved playground.

Hillbilly cosplay

Vance, on the other hand, fills his book with selections from the greatest hits of “poornography” – violence, drugs, sex, obscenity and filth.

But Vance himself was never actually impoverished. His family never had to worry about money; his grandfather, grandmother and mother all had houses in a suburban neighborhood in Middletown, Ohio. He admits that his grandfather “owned stock in Armco and had a lucrative pension.”

He falsely introduces himself to his Yale classmates as “a conservative hillbilly from Appalachia.” Over the course of the book, he confuses himself – and the reader – by variously saying that he is middle class, working class and poor.

In order to justify his memoir as something more than a tale of a drug-addicted mother and a son who went to Yale, he fashions a grand theory that being a hillbilly does not have to be related to social class – or even living in Appalachia.

To Vance, hillbilly-ness becomes kind of a cultural trait, tied to a family history and identity, not class. His grandmother, he writes, “had thought she escaped the poverty of the hills, but the poverty – emotional if not financial – had followed her.”

Bootstraps redux

In developing his grand theory, Vance takes readers very close to the now-debunked notion of a culture of poverty, in which the poor are responsible for their situation and their attitude toward work is passed along from one generation to the next.

A dependence on government handouts, according to the theory, undergirds this culture. Vance pines for an imagined glorious past of his slice of America. His neighbors in Middletown had lost – thanks to the welfare state – “the tie that bound them to their neighbors, that inspired them in the way my patriotism had always inspired me.”

But Vance finds himself in a dilemma: Are these people simply lazy? Or are they the victims of a system that encourages them to watch TV and eat bad food as they collect welfare or disability checks?

Several times he refers to people who live on welfare as “never [having] worked a paying job in his life.” He seems to fully buy into the notion that people are poor because they are lazy freeloaders.

He “solves” the problem with the age-old critique of poor people: They got there because of “bad choices.” He mentions a friend who although having a job that paid a steady income nevertheless quit it because he didn’t like getting up early.

“His status in life is directly attributable to the choices he’s made,” he writes, “and his life will improve only through better decisions.”

No platform, no voice

And so the GOP’s young standard-bearer for the working classes simply repeats the same bootstrap rhetoric that’s been peddled for decades.

But it’s not simply a question about believing a politician or not. That would be a fool’s game.

Rather, the issue here is what I call “representation inequality,” by which I mean that one identity group – in this case, poor people – don’t get to represent themselves.

What has happened – whether it’s in politics or in publishing – is something called “elite capture,” in which those with cultural capital and power assume the right to speak for and represent the powerless.

In so doing, dangerous stereotypes and tropes get developed with serious political consequences. Just because you drink Diet Mountain Dew doesn’t mean you do get to speak for those in the mountains.

Our political and educational system elbows out most poor people. First-generation students – like myself, and like many of my students at the University of Illinois in Chicago, where I teach – have a harder time staying in school, have more food insecurity and homelessness, and will often not benefit from the normal boost education offers. They tend to have a much harder time ascending the stratified ranks of culture and politics, becoming the published authors and elected officials who might provide representational equality.

As political scientist Nicholas Carnes points out in his 2018 book “The Cash Ceiling,” only 2% of congressional lawmakers worked in manual labor, the service industry or clerical jobs before getting involved in politics. So it’s no surprise that when the wealthy want to pass certain laws, they’re much more likely to get passed.

In July 2024, The New York Times reported that Vance’s Yale law professor and author Amy Chua read an early version of what became “Hillbilly Elegy,” one that was more geared to an academic audience and grounded in political theory. She prodded Vance to change his manuscript, telling him that “this grand theory [about America] is not working.”

I would argue that his “grand theory” about the poor doesn’t work, because the poor – unlike many other identity groups – don’t have a platform to articulate and promote their own needs and political vision.

Instead, we’re stuck with people like Vance, who offer bromides at best and fatalistic narratives of doom at worst.

Lennard J. Davis, Distinguished Professor of English, Disability Studies and Medical Education, University of Illinois Chicago

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.