“I’m just sayin’,” he said, “It’s not fair.”
He leaned his forearms on the oak wood bar, condensation running down the domestic beer bottle in front of him. A woman with tight-cropped hair stood on one side; I sat around the rounded corner on the other, looking at a neat row of Springfield, Illinois locals.
“Chicago should just be its own state,” she said.
Her eyes widened, palming the ridge of the bar emphatically. I slid back in my seat, a possibly imperceptible motion as I tried to anticipate where this conversation would go.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “They get all our money and we never even GO there.”
And so it began.
These frustrations have echoed all across my travels through rural communities in the United States. The vein feels similar, whether I’m in the fields of Illinois, the mountains of upstate New York, or even the rolling hills down south and the deserts out west.
The distance between small towns and cities is physical, but somehow — more than just miles.
When you drive out from a city, skyscrapers and urban warehouses fade into neat rows of subdivision houses and strip malls. Before long, they start to disperse and farmhouses dot the landscape amidst stretches of land (fields or deserts, or mountains, depending on where you are in the country at that time).
As you drive, cell service begins to fade. The levels flicker, a dance between 4G LTE, 3G, and extended, with occasional pit stops in No Service before coming back to partial strength once again. Miles of undeveloped land stretches as far as the eye can see, and in the rearview, only more land is visible.
All is quiet. When driving down back highways and two-lane roads, it’s rare to find yourself behind another car for more than a few miles — or even, see another car at all. American flags hang on the farmhouse porches, blowing gently in the breeze.
Out of seemingly nowhere, buildings crop up again and you find yourself in a small town, miles away from the last sign of urbanization. At first glance, it looks idyllic, until you look more closely: faded awnings, closed storefronts, and empty streets come into focus. Often, they feel frozen in time.
The struggles rural communities face have been well documented over the last fifty years. A changing global economy has shifted the available jobs all over the country, but arguably most directly impacted these small towns: mills, factories, and plants appear close more often than they open. When these businesses close, they leave hundreds of families wondering: what’s next?
This question can lead to a new frontier for many small towns: investments in tourism or infrastructure that create ripples of success through the surrounding area. But for others, particularly ones who struggle with the loss of these golden years, change is furloughed by frustration.
Back in the fall, I sat in another small town in another state: a hamlet in upstate New York. The bar was similar, more in feel than appearances. A row of congenial locals buzzing off a long workday: eager to share their thoughts with the traveling writer, confused why the traveling writer had ended up her win the first place.
Like many conversations, it’s not long until they devolve into community concerns and politics at all its levels. Two friends bantered back and forth, debating about national politics until they agreed to disagree: after all, they disliked one person even more, and that person was the same.
“The governor,” she said, shaking her head.
“He’s an idiot,” he confirmed, rolling his eyes.
“If it wasn’t for the city, he’d never be elected,” she said.
Her husband leaned forward, looking at me down the bar: no one up here likes him.
“The damn city makes too many decisions for us,” he piped in. “All of us are just left by the wayside.”
Conversations like the ones I witnessed in Illinois and New York are hardly unusual. Over and over again, I hear about how people in cities don’t “get” or respect their contributions to America. There is resounding frustration about how politics seem to benefit the big cities, but leave small towns behind in the dust.
According to census data, nearly 97 percent of the country is considered rural — yet only 19% of American citizens live in these areas. Since the majority of rural policy comes from Washington, there is some undeniable truth to their frustration: much of these policies are made for urban populations and then retrofitted for these rural communities.
The problem remains that rural Americans face many different challenges than their urban peers, which leaves many of them feeling unheard with policies that don’t work for their own lives. This disjunct can, in some cases, lead to skepticism about Washington politicians, dismissal of urban citizens’ contributions, and yes — frustration about being “left behind” in America.
When President Trump first ran for office in 2016, there was a large resurgence of voters referred to as the “silent majority.” (This voting bloc first entered the lexicon in a speech by former President Nixon in the 1960s.) While this group of voters remains largely unknown in size and other demographics, it appears to be more of a state of mind; the general consensus remains that this group is made up of moderate conservatives who feel “silenced” by modern political discourse.
Traveling through parts of rural America in the past nine months, I have met people who consider themselves part of this group. There is a mounting “us versus them” attitude, resentment that stems from feeling “left behind” in the United States. No longer does it appear accepted that we can all succeed; instead, there are murmurs of whether the American Dream can truly be accessible for them — for all — after all.
The way today’s economic climate seems to be heading, the answer to that question is unknown.
Rural areas are crucial sources for water, food, and energy for all Americans, as well as the source of 10% of our nation’s GDP. They, and the people who live in them, deserve national support crafted for their own distinct needs.
Beyond support, there is a clear need for communication and education on the relationship between rural and urban communities. Frustration exists not only in rural areas, but on both sides of this location-based divide — yet, in reality, the people in both places are often more alike than they are different.
Many of the same dreams, concerns, and values drive people in all corners of the country; it is not necessarily reliant on how close your neighbors live.
