Few would deny that Hanson is an exceptional wordsmith. The prose in her memoir, The End of Tennessee, regularly slips into the poetic as she details her tragic coming-of-age that resulted in estrangement from both of her parents and even her siblings; however, what could have been a tale with redemptive notes amounts to an artful diatribe.
That Hanson was dealt a poor hand early in her life is evident. Both of her parents are depicted as individuals with internal compasses running amok, reaching this way and that to find meaning, secure purpose, and establish roots, but the end results are neglected children, extreme financial distress, at least one extramarital affair, and unfairly burdening the oldest daughter, Hanson, with taking care of her younger siblings. Add to this her parents’ unmoored take on and expression of Christianity, and the outcome is an undeniable disaster, prompting Hanson to, first, attempt the unthinkable and then, second, to run away from home in a fit of desperation after working up the courage to say goodbye to the only ones with whom she sincerely shared a loving bond, her, as she sometimes calls them, “babies.”
Hanson eventually finds a toehold in this world and begins to scale the ladder in academia, but, in the latter half of the memoir, as she processes the events in her life that prompted her to make a clean break with her family, it is difficult not to notice how her hatred and anger amplifies. To be sure, the number of so-called f-bombs increases, suggesting that, while she “ended Tennessee,” physically, Hanson very much carries Tennessee with her emotionally and, arguably, spiritually.
Yes, Hanson makes it abundantly clear that she is an atheist. From a former neighbor from her childhood – a preacher – who abused his wife so much that she attempted suicide, to her refusal to join the Orthodox Church with her family, the writing is on the wall with regards to where she would eventually land in a religious or, in her case, anti-religious sense. Indeed, her decision to abort her own baby seems to be a wrathful middle finger toward those who plead on the other side of the fence, as it were. But the inclusion of a scene that openly mocks the Nativity at the very end of the memoir arguably speaks volumes about what may really be going on. She is feeding her pets in the kitchen. They are all named – Fairbanks, Seymour, Punchy – but the boyfriend is simply called “partner,” itself suggesting an aversion to emotional attachment. Off the cuff, he conflates the Nativity story, the birth of Jesus of Nazareth, with their cats preferring wet food to dry. She writes, “In the time of Caesar Augustus a decree went out that all wet food should be taxed, and so being of the house of Baker Place, Behr (a dog) and Punchy came to North Carolina from the East, and Seymour who was with child Fairbanks came from the West, and when they arrived they waited in the kitchen, for there was no room for them in the bed. In the fields the shepherds were watching over their flocks when suddenly an angel appeared in the sky, and said, ‘Behold, I bring you good tidings of great wet food. For this very day, in the city of Asheville, wet food is served.” I could go on, but I won’t. The mockery is a bit much. Tellingly, Hanson is quick to note that her boyfriend is a former Catholic, so at first glance, a reader might chalk this scene up as an attempt to be cute or even random. But given the trajectory of a memoir that eventually comes to this place, it seems likely that Hanson is making a damning statement on the basic unit of society throughout the ages – the family – and that the real resentment, beyond her mother, beyond her father, is vertically directed. Her beef, in other words, is with God and the Holy Family – that ideal of families – even if she does not know it.
Ultimately, The End of Tennessee is emblematic of one strain in Western society that prefers deconstruction to construction, but to be charitable, the memoir reveals much in the way of why there is this strain. Broken families. Individuals who promote self over others. And pride. Always pride. In the end, while Hanson, perhaps on purpose, does not entertain any possible silver linings outside of her own liberation, readers may nevertheless come away with their own path forward – a reorientation toward what family should be, must be, or else – and this, arguably, is the memoir’s best attribute.
