When J.D. Vance was a boy, his beloved
grandmother “Mamaw” told her boozer husband that if he ever came home drunk
again, she’d kill him. When he did, and passed out on the couch, she got a
gasoline can, poured fuel all over him and dropped a lit match on his chest. He
survived with mild burns, and later quit drinking.
One time when J.D.’s mom took exception to something the boy said in the
car, she hit the accelerator and sped up to 100 miles per hour, screaming that
she was going to kill them both. When he jumped in the backseat hoping to
protect himself from the impact, he recalls, she instead pulled the car over
“to beat the s- -t out of me.” The evening concluded with Mom being hauled away
in a police car.
One of J.D.’s stepdads, Bob, though
kindhearted, had a bad case of “Mountain Dew mouth.” Half his teeth had fallen
out, the other half were black, brown and misshapen. J.D. and his people are called
rednecks, white trash, hillbillies. But Vance made it out of the holler, way
out. The Marines led him to Ohio State, then Yale Law School and finally a job
as a principal at a Silicon Valley investment firm. Looking back on his youth,
and all he fled, yields a frank, unsentimental, harrowing memoir, “Hillbilly
Elegy.” It’s a superb book given an extra layer of importance by its political
reverberations: When Vance returns home these days, he sees yard after yard
festooned with Trump signs.