J.D. Vance—our self-appointed Appalachian oracle (or, as I like to call him, the eyeliner-wearing pork chops with a soft spot for all things Putin)—opens Hillbilly Elegy with a theatrical sigh over his Appalachian roots. Marketed as a “conservative manifesto,” the book instead reads like a masterclass in elitist condescension. Vance frames his upbringing as a Dickensian tragedy, painting his kin as a parade of chain-smoking, welfare-dependent degenerates.
Let’s start with Chapter 1, where Vance waxes poetic about his “hardscrabble” childhood. He paints his kin as victims of their own bad choices, a litany of drunken uncles and pill-popping grandparents. But conservatism isn’t about cataloging failures; it’s about offering hope through redemption. Vance’s tone here is less compassionate mentor and more smug sociologist, clucking his tongue at the “backwardness” of his own people. Where’s the call to prayer, the appeal to community, the insistence that grace can transform even the most broken lives?
By Chapter 2, the eyeliner aficionado pivots to blaming his community’s poverty on “laziness.” He recounts neighbors gaming welfare systems and skipping work, framing Appalachians as architects of their own misery. But conservatism has never been about scapegoating the poor. It’s about creating conditions for dignity: stable jobs, strong churches, and policies that reward hard work. Vance offers none of this. Instead, he parrots progressive talking points about “cultural decay,” reducing complex systemic failures to moral failings. Conservatism demands solutions, not sneers.
Chapter 3 is where the hypocrisy deepens. Vance lectures readers about “personal responsibility” while his own rise relied on a web of handouts: government grants, public schools, and the Marines (a taxpayer-funded escape hatch). There’s no shame in accepting help—Scripture commands us to bear one another’s burdens—but Vance spins his success as sheer bootstrapping. Worse, he dismisses those who couldn’t replicate his path as “weak.” Since when do conservatives glorify individualism over community? The eyeliner pork chop’s gospel of “every man for himself” isn’t conservatism; it’s Social Darwinism with a Southern accent.
Vance, the self-professed “Catholic,” treats religion like a buffet. He’ll quote Scripture on marriage (Chapter 4) but skip the parts about caring for orphans and widows. He’ll lament his family’s chaos but never ask why churches—cornerstones of Appalachian life—are absent from his story. True Christian conservatism confronts brokenness with compassion, not contempt. Yet Vance spends pages ridiculing his drug-addicted mother while shrugging at the opioid CEOs who poisoned her. Where’s the righteous fury? The call for justice? It’s buried under his performative cynicism.
Chapter 5 is a particular gem. Vance, now a Yale Law golden boy, scoffs at “liberal elites” for looking down on his background. The irony? He’s doing the same thing—just with a folksy accent. His disdain for Appalachian culture oozes through every page. He mocks dialect, dismisses traditions, and reduces faith to superstition. Conservatism roots itself in preserving the good, even in flawed communities. But Vance—ever the opportunist—torches his heritage to win applause from coastal tastemakers. It’s not a memoir; it’s a betrayal.
The most gallant omission? The role of conservative leadership in Appalachia’s decline. Vance rails against “government dependency” but ignores decades of GOP policies that shipped jobs overseas, defunded schools, and let Big Pharma run wild. Real conservatism fights for workers, families, and local economies. But the eyeliner-wearing pork chop would rather blame his grandma’s nicotine habit than name the corporate lobbyists gutting his hometown.
By the midway point, Hillbilly Elegy collapses into a series of cheap shots. Vance’s “insights” are neither original nor conservative. They’re recycled elitism, repackaged for readers who want to pity Appalachia without questioning their own role in its pain. His much-hyped “rags to riches” arc isn’t inspiring—it’s a cautionary tale of assimilation. He didn’t elevate his community; he abandoned it.
If the first half of Hillbilly Elegy is a sermon on “self-reliance,” the second half is where Vance’s moral posturing collapses into outright farce. Take Chapter 9, where he lectures readers about the “dignity of work” while cozying up to a political faction that idolizes a thrice-married playboy who dodged the draft and stiffed contractors. The cognitive dissonance is staggering. Vance, the self-appointed voice of “real America,” now champions a man who mocks POWs and disparages Gold Star families. Conservatism? This isn’t conservatism—it’s a carnival act.
In Chapter 10, our eyeliner enthusiast tackles the opioid crisis, a tragedy that’s gutted Appalachia. But instead of lambasting the pharmaceutical execs who lined their pockets while towns withered, Vance serves up more finger-wagging at addicts. Where’s the righteous anger at CEOs who bribed doctors to push pills? The demand for justice for families buried under grief? Silence. Instead, he implies that Appalachians lack the “grit” to resist temptation—a breathtakingly un-Christian take. Christ dined with sinners; Vance writes them off as moral weaklings.
Then there’s his tepid defense of “family values.” Vance, the Putin-apologist pork chop, spends pages bemoaning the collapse of marriage in his community. But what’s his solution? Not a word about supporting policies that strengthen families—tax breaks for single parents, childcare subsidies, or programs to support fathers. No, his answer is to shrug and say, “Do better.” Meanwhile, he’s hitched his wagon to a party that slashes food stamps and opposes Medicaid expansion—policies that leave struggling families stranded. Real family values don’t punish the poor for existing.
Chapter 12 is where the mask slips entirely. Vance, the Yale-educated venture capitalist, scoffs at the idea that systemic forces shape lives. “You can’t blame the government if you’re poor!” he declares, ignoring the fact that his own escape from poverty relied on government-funded Pell Grants, public schools, and the GI Bill. The hypocrisy is rancid. Conservatism celebrates upward mobility—but it also demands gratitude, not this smug revisionism. Vance’s “pull yourself up” mantra rings hollow when he’s yanking the ladder up behind him.
And let’s talk about that “Catholic” label he slaps on like dollar-store eyeliner. Vance cherry-picks Church teachings like a heretic at a potluck. He’ll quote Augustine on sin but skip the parts about caring for “the least of these.” He’ll rail against abortion (good!) but stays silent as his party blocks aid to hungry children (evil!). True faith requires consistency: you don’t get to condemn Biden’s policies while lookinjg the other way to Trump’s payoffs to porn stars.
Worse still is Vance’s foreign policy amorality. The self-styled champion of the working class now flatters dictators who jail dissidents and invade neighboring countries. In Chapter 14, he nostalgically recalls the Marines’ honor code (yet his service appears to have been limited to photography rather than active combat—raising doubts about the depth of that perspective)—but today, he’s mute as his leader withholds Ukraine aid and praises Putin’s “genius.” Since when do conservatives side with KGB thugs over freedom fighters? Vance’s “principles” are as flimsy as his eyeliner after a rainstorm.
The book’s climax—Vance’s rise to elite status—is its most damning indictment. He frames his Yale Law degree as a triumph of meritocracy, but the subtext reeks of betrayal. Appalachia didn’t fail Vance; he failed Appalachia. Instead of returning to build up his community, he joined the very forces that gutted it: private equity vultures and D.C. swamp creatures. Real conservatives plant trees whose shade they’ll never enjoy. Vance bulldozed the orchard to build a McMansion.
By the final chapters, Hillbilly Elegy morphs into a twisted parody of the American Dream. Vance’s “success” isn’t a blueprint—it’s a cautionary tale. He swapped his grandmother’s Bible for Ayn Rand, swapped Sunday potlucks for Davos cocktail parties, and swapped loyalty to neighbors for clout with oligarchs. His memoir isn’t a love letter to Appalachia; it’s a receipt for services rendered.
And what of faith? The book’s most glaring omission is grace—the divine mercy that lifts the fallen. Vance reduces redemption to a self-help checklist: graduate, marry rich, cash in. But Christian conservatism teaches that no one saves themselves. We’re saved by God, by community, by sacrificial love. Vance’s story has no room for that. His world is a meritocratic Hunger Games, where the strong survive and the weak get a sneering footnote.
In the end, Hillbilly Elegy isn’t just bad conservatism—it’s anti-conservatism. It swaps duty for disdain, solidarity for selfishness, and moral clarity for moral relativism. The eyeliner-wearing pork chop may have conned coastal elites into thinking he’s the voice of the heartland, but Appalachia deserves better. It deserves leaders who don’t peddle poverty porn for profit. Who don’t kiss the rings of strongmen while lecturing single moms about “choices.” Who don’t treat faith as a punchline or a prop.
Real conservatism isn’t a memoir—it’s a movement. One built on hope, not hubris.
