Hate in "My Holler?" How JD Vance’s rhetoric clashes with Appalachian roots

You can find the saying "No Hate in My Holler" across Appalachia. Kentucky artist Lacy Hale coined this unique hillbilly expression to express the inclusivity she sees in our mountains. She prints it on pins and totes, but Hale's message is used beyond her products. She's seen it on everything from protest signs to tattoos.

"It's so popular," she said, "because there are many more open, caring, and loving people in Appalachia than most think."

That's been my experience too. I was violently bullied in Appalachia as a queer kid, but that could've happened anywhere in the 1980s. My experience has been different since returning to my hometown seven years ago. Roanoke now has two gay city councilors, drag shows in breweries, and "gayborhood" history tours.

Life was dicier when I lived in the metro Washington, D.C., area for fourteen years. I've been bashed several times there, including once by a man who threatened to beat me in front of a preschool-aged child.

I still have a grubby apartment in D.C. And, as it happens, it's near the home of the world's most famous hillbilly, Senator JD Vance. I can't help but wonder what my luminous neighbor would think of all that — "No Hate in My Holler," the bullying and bashing.

If I was talking about any other politician who behaved like him, calling LGBTQ+ people groomers and actively advocating against us, it would be easy to guess, but Vance is different.

He used to be queer-friendly.

Living in San Francisco in 2015, Vance attended a Pride celebration. At the time, he was close friends with Sofia Nelson, who is transgender, even bringing homemade goods following her gender-affirming surgery.

But his first experience with queer identity was much earlier.

In his memoir Hillbilly Elegy, Vance described hearing about gays from an evangelical minister as a child and asking his beloved mamaw if he might be gay himself because he disliked girls. This country woman asked, "JD, do you want to suck dicks?" When he told her no, she said, "You're not gay. And even if you did want to suck dicks, that would be okay. God would still love you."

That language may shock folks outside our mountains. My people can be obscenely blunt, but the spirit of her statement stands. Through his elder, Vance telegraphed his own view — God loves everyone, even queers.

Maybe that's why he expressed love for his trans friend. I wonder what Vance would say now if he could speak as frankly as his mamaw did back then.

Today, Vance is all talking points and strategic policy positions. In 2023, he introduced a bill that would have prohibited gender-affirming medical care for minors. That bill also tried to prevent colleges and universities from providing students with gender-affirming options. Separately, Vance pressured the Census Bureau to remove questions about gender identity from its primary survey, calling it "a harmful ideology."

Moves like these threaten queer people nationwide but could be especially dangerous in Appalachia. As cushy as Roanoke has been for me, not all my mountain brethren have it so good. From New Hampshire to Alabama, states that govern the region have passed anti-LGBTQ+ laws. Some target drag performers, though courts are deeming them unenforceable. More laws restrict the rights of trans people, from the bathrooms they use to their medical treatments. At least one casts an even wider net: Alabama's "Don't Say Gay" law prohibits K-5 educators from mentioning gender and sexual identity in schools.

What happens when classrooms don't educate about identity? I can speak to that. I was first called faggot in fifth grade. This was 1982, well before schools fostered compassion for LGBTQ+ people.

Like Vance, I turned to a relative, my mama. When I asked what faggot meant, she said it was not a word to use. It would be years before she understood it was used against me. In the interim, my peers' slurs became more frequent. They were often accompanied by shoves or punches or, once, a headlock that made me nearly pass out in front of some two dozen boys.

None tried to help.

Sadly, that kind of abuse didn't end in the '80s. Recent studies have found that LGBTQ+ teens are twice as likely to be bullied at school, with trans teens four times more likely to attempt suicide than their peers.

If social conservatives want suicides to skyrocket, take away treatments proven to help trans kids. If they’re craving to see more bullying, prohibit mention of LGBTQ+ people in classrooms. JD Vance and others can keep ratcheting that rhetoric by calling us "groomers." That's precisely the role model under-educated ten-year-olds need in states like Alabama.

Or Vance could try another route. He could take a day off from campaigning, drive 90 minutes west of his house, and find an Appalachian holler. Take a walk. Smell some rhodies. And think about the impact he's having on the queer people his mamaw taught him to love.

Mark Lynn Fergusonhas written about Appalachia for nearly 15 years and leads the magazine Woodshed: An Appalachian Joint. He splits his time between Alexandria and Roanoke, Virginia.

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