When fiction is truer than non-fiction
Or, just another white liberal city-dweller reading about Appalachia
A few weeks ago, I was in the children’s section of a local bookstore, contemplating gift options for a family baby shower.
(There was much to contemplate. How do you choose a favorite book from your own childhood without bringing the same book as everyone else? I returned my first choice, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, after talking to my mom and finding out she had purchased the exact same thing. I guess the caterpillar didn’t fall far from the tree?)
Anyhow. Trump had announced his choice of JD Vance as running mate a couple days prior.
As I was thumbing through board books, two women walked into the store, and one of them asked an employee if she had any copies of Vance’s memoir, Hillbilly Elegy.
Without missing a beat, the employee replied, “Yes, but are you sure you want to read it?”
Ensconced amongst the Good Night Moons and the Madeleines, I laughed out loud.
I’ll admit I still haven’t read Hillbilly Elegy. And after getting to know Vance a little better these last few weeks, I’m not sure I need to. (If you disagree, though, please holler in the comments—I’m super interested in and open to people’s thoughts on this, especially those who have read it.)
What I did read recently was Barbara Kingsolver’s novel Demon Copperhead. Also a story about impoverished folks in Appalachia. But fiction.
I’ve been wanting to read it for a while but hadn’t quite found the right time or felt in the right mindset. But then I saw a social media post, something along the lines of how Demon Copperhead, though fiction, tells a truer story than Hillbilly Elegy. (Apologies to the poster—I wish I could give credit but I don’t recall where I first saw this.)
A truer story. This intrigued me. It was the small kick in the pants I needed to go ahead and give Demon Copperhead a read.
The social media post got me thinking about the realness of fiction. When I want to learn about a topic, or about experiences different from my own, nonfiction is often my default go-to. But it is not the only option.
Like good nonfiction, good fiction that deals with a particular historical time or place or people has to be well-researched, of course. All the better, too, if it stems from a world the author has experienced personally and in depth, as Kingsolver has with Appalachia.
But when it’s well done, like Demon Copperhead is, it can open up whole worlds—without the struggle of poring over an academic or otherwise dense nonfiction tome.
I love nonfiction. But we only have so much brain power to focus on things like that.
With Demon Copperhead, I feel like I’ve been looking through a window into a world and a history I was never taught. A world white liberal city-dwellers (like me), living in white-majority liberal metro areas (also like me), weren’t really trained to know or care about. But when you pick up a book about it, fiction or not, you learn things.
I didn’t know, for example, that the term “redneck” originates from a literal battle between thousands of organized coal workers fighting for halfway decent working conditions against coal companies backed by federal troops. (Lots more on that in this piece from the Daily Yonder.) The coal workers wore red bandanas so they could recognize who was on their side, across differences like race and town of origin.
You learn things—and your perspective changes. Your empathy increases.
Fiction can help us see what we have in common with one another, and especially with people we were taught to believe were too different from us for there to be much relation at all. Or, in this case, people who, let’s be honest, we were taught to see as beneath us.
More recently, I came across an NPR article saying a similar thing as that social media post, about how Demon Copperhead—as well as a couple other books, nonfiction—deliberately pushes back on the vision of Appalachia put forth by JD Vance. The article gives a ton more context and detail to this idea, and it’s fascinating.
In it, Barbara Kingsolver reflects on how she felt while reading Hillbilly Elegy (spoiler: not warm and fuzzy) and how she intentionally wanted to tell a different kind of story. And on the responses she’s gotten from readers—many of whom, like me, learned so much and gained so much empathy.
She says, “I have heard from lots and lots and lots of people in other parts of the country who said, ‘This book asked me to evaluate my prejudices, and I thank you for that.’ It’s amazing.”
Count me as one of those readers.
I’m curious—what fiction have you read that told a true story, taught you something you didn’t know, or gave insight into the experiences of people you hadn’t heard from—without being overly dense or beating you over the head with its insights? I love this kind of stuff, and I’d love your recs.
If you need more…
- writes beautifully about gardening, connection to the land, and healing from the trauma of colonization.
- reflects on the idea of the common good, relevant both to church life and to the election season.
It was an honor to chat with Tim Whitaker on The New Evangelicals podcast about my book Nice Churchy Patriarchy a couple months back, and the episode is now live! If you like what you hear, there’s a lot more in the book itself. Consider giving it an order.
I liked October Sky. AKA Rocket Boys (OG title). Did you read it?
I love reading Juvenile Fiction and just finished a series by Kelly Yang - Three Keys, Front Desk, Room to Dream, Too Story. She covers subjects like cultural identity, economic disparities, stereotyping, discrimination, gentrification thru stories of teenager Mia Tang, her family & diverse circle of friends. I've laughed out loud, teared up & could empathize & relate in ways that surprised me. Not sure if a non-fiction autobiography could have done that. I even wondered because her stories challenge white -centeredness, racial injustices & corporate greed, if her books might be banned in some schools.