Fear and the Urban/Rural Divide

or, what I learned on my summer vacation

the view from the Ferris Wheel. Image by Katharine Strange.

I just got back from a week in Montana. Before this, I hadn’t been back since Christmas 2018. There were a lot of reasons for this, including conflict with my mom and a global pandemic. But as my born-and-raised city kids get older, I had this odd sensation that they were missing something. Last year, I walked around the Washington State Fair rolling my eyes, because

1. not enough livestock demonstrations, and

2. Washingtonians think scones are the quintessential fair food??? (Come on!!! They’re not even FRIED!!!)

I began to grow increasingly incensed that my kids have never ridden in the back of a pickup truck or floated the river. It was time to go back.

When I moved to Seattle at eighteen, I could ride a horse but was baffled by the rituals of the city bus. I knew the taste of elk and bison, but not sushi or curry. When my new boss offered me a clementine, I froze, having no idea what that could possibly be. I spent the first year feeling like a clueless hick, but I was determined to become a suave urbanite. In response to years of teasing from the cowboy hat wearing boys who lined the senior hall, I’d adopted a defensive fuck-you-and-your-one-horse-town attitude. The city, to my mind, was salvation—a place without the smothering pressure of conformity.

Small town social ostracization can feel like death, as the work of Shirley Jackson attests. For weirdos like Jackson and myself, small towns often feel like that Japanese proverb, “The nail that sticks out gets hammered.” For the most part, rural communities are fundamentally small-c conservative spaces—little changes from generation to generation, whereas my urban zip code boasts 80+ different languages and myriad types of clothing and cuisine. In Montana, I was once teased for several months because I put a scarf over my hair during a snowstorm; here, I could shave my head and wear pants on my arms and I doubt anyone would spare me a second glance.

The Big Sort that began in the early 00s has only accelerated since the pandemic. More and more people are feeling “unsafe” living among people who are different than them. We can generally agree that this is bad for us—"Groups of like-minded people tend to become more extreme over time in the way that they're like-minded,” wrote journalist Bill Bishop all the way back in 2008.

I see this often in Seattle, where people seem to trip over themselves to prove they’re the most Liberal and accommodating. I cannot tell you how many gluten-free, vegan soups I’ve had to imbibe over the years not because anyone who RSVP’d to the party actually had these dietary restrictions, but on the off chance that someone might show up who did. (Where are all these demanding, non-RSVPing, celiac vegans, huh?) Much like its soups, Liberalism can feel like a race to the blandest and least offensive. Such levels of accommodation can become their own type of conformity.

The Big Sort and our increasing polarization should concern us. We need communities where everyone isn’t in lockstep on every issue. This includes faith communities. We are so averse to discomfort that we’d rather maintain our quiet prejudices instead of risking an uncomfortable conversation. Increasingly we only know each other through digital spaces, which are usually sensationalized and often toxic. We are taught to fear, rather than know, each other.

That’s not to say unsorting ourselves will be easy. I’m certainly not selling my house and moving to a red state. But I do believe that there is a path towards understanding when we can engage with each other with curiosity and honesty. Not to say we’ll agree on everything, but many of us share the same values like generosity, responsibility, and caring for others. Where can we draw upon those shared values to find common ground?

Looking back, I wonder how much of my perception of urban and rural life had to do with that old high school chip on my shoulder. How much of that old “fuck you” attitude am I still carrying around, judging others before they can judge me? How many of my classmates did I find complicit in bullying, when really they were equally intimidated by the redneck brigade?

The funny thing about going to Montana now is that even with my purple hair and nose piercing, I felt less conspicuous than ever. Part of that is probably the slow trickle of trends outward from cities (my hometown now has both banh mi and boba) but a large part of it has to do with myself. At almost forty, I know who I am, and I am truly known by those I care about. The bullies who once preoccupied my mind haven’t crossed it in decades.

The Western Montana State Fair was smaller than I remembered. The food was healthier. The livestock was still A+. I briefly toyed with the idea of forcing my kids to join 4H before their whining convinced me otherwise. (Ten-year-olds raising goats! My ten-year-old can barely raise himself off the couch!) But the most remarkable sight was a tall, skinny cowboy walking the midway in a black hat and a jersey that spelled out PRIDE in rainbow letters.

Have you moved because of the Big Sort? Do you maintain relationships with people who have different religious/political ideologies than you? Do you have any tips for talking across the ideological divide? Please share in the comments!

BONUS MATERIALS:

• this classic short story by Shirley Jackson

• did you watch The Olympics? I LOVED it, and so must share this reel