The Urban-Rural Divide, A Culture Gulf.
“You see, this is why they are wrong…” began our guide Ibrahim. My wife had just asked him to explain the difference between Shi’ites and Sunnis. He was Sunni, as are the vast majority of Moroccans.
We prepared ourselves for a very unbiased and nuanced theological discussion…
No place in the world has made me feel so “other” than Morocco. Sure, in Taipei I was an obvious Westerner, a novelty. In Moscow, I was suspicious as an American, but could blend in. In Istanbul, I was barely worth noticing.
In all these other places, I was different – a rare breed perhaps – but still recognized as part of the same species. Only in Morocco have I felt as though I was something else entirely. I came from another world, another plane.
In the mountains of High Atlas, the desert Palmaries of the Sahara, and the markets of Marrakech, my wife and I were more other than I can explain.
Increasingly, I see this dynamic playing out between Urban and Rural America. As someone who now spends two thirds of his time in one world, and one third in another, I want to talk more about it.
This will be the first post on the Urban-Rural Divide I have navigated since I was 18 and currently straddle in my professional life.
A Foot in Two Worlds
I never thought of myself as a two-culture kid, a common phrase for first generation children of immigrants. I am a white male, who grew up in an overwhelming white place. In theory, I fit in growing up.
At least some of my family have been in the US for a couple of hundred years. Some are more recent, but we don’t have any living memory of immigration from abroad. So, I can’t even claim Polish-American, Irish-American, or Italian-American as a second culture.
My father was born in the poverty of the post-Dust Bowl Northern Plains. He didn’t have running water until his family fled to California when he was nine. My mother grew up an Urban girl in the Bay Area of Northern California. Both graduated from UC Berkeley.
Somehow, I was born and raised in the middle of grass, beef, and sky country. A full days drive from a Major League Sports Team.
Where all the women are strong, all the men are good–looking, and all the children are above average. – Garrison Keillor
I did what a lot of us curious ones did, I left. I began wandering an archipelago of institutions of higher learning. Initially, I enrolled at a highly selective liberal arts college, on scholarship.
For the first time in my life, the majority of people with which I socialized voted like my family. Difference was not an inherently suspect trait.
It was a revelation. After an entire childhood of feeling different because my family wasn’t from “here,” I finally fit in. Then, as I got to know more and more people, it became clear that I was still different.
You cannot spend your formative years in a place like the rural Northern Plains and “fit in” with the children of hyper-educated, suburban Tiger Mom’s.
A common refrain became, “You’re the first person I’ve ever met from that state.” There it was, I was again a novelty, to be wondered at.
“Well, there aren’t very many of us.” Became my standard laconic reply. I fell back on my tried and true survival technique, talk less about myself and more about events, ideas, politics, etc. People like that love to share their opinion on things they think “matter.”
The Trouble with Normal is….It Only Gets Worse – Bruce Cockburn
By the time I reached medical school, my very existence confused people. I had learned Latin in High School. I had lived in Russia and spoke Russian. I could follow a basic conversation in Spanish. I read, I mean really read. Not just because I had to.
Yet, I couldn’t shake all my ruralness. Sushi was still suspect in my book. Professional sports still seemed an alien and foreign thing to me. Traffic left me jittery.
During medical school, I often left for the mountains and spent several days alone, a tonic to counteract the volumes of people I dealt with on a daily basis.
People like me weren’t suppose to come from places like mine. My being in medical school challenged their assumptions about places and people they didn’t think mattered or were worth knowing.
I was aberration, a statistical outlier, noted and then discarded so as not to skew the data.
What Rural People Know
Shortly after I graduated medical school, my medical school started to count people of “Rural Origin” in their diversity statistics. It was a shallow ploy to make their overwhelming white, suburban, upper middle class cohort look more diverse.
Nonetheless, the logic was reasonably sound. Those of us who grow up in Rural, or even Frontier counties face significant health and educational disparities. The geography of suicide is decidedly rural.
In nearly all the indicators which the Left uses to identify historically disadvantaged or marginalized groups, Rural Americans meet the definition. Yet, we don’t make those lists.
And we think we know why. We have all heard what Urban America thinks of us. No one wears “rural origin” visibly. Because when we leave, we learn to blend in. There is no definite marker of being culturally “rural.”
So, we hear what Urban America has to say about us, our families, our communities – in classrooms, conference rooms, at happy hours. That doesn’t mean all of Urban America disdains Rural America.
Nonetheless, it is the strongest narrative Rural America has about how Urban America feels about Rural America.
What is She, from Kansas or Something?
Medical School was where I truly came to know this disdain, it slipped out accidentally, but often. Usually without malice, but with an odiferous smugness.
Once, when discussing a formula for estimating height in a medical school workshop, the professor asked the class if it didn’t apply to anyone. My friend, Steve, a first generation Chinese-American, raised his hand.
The professor, who knew nothing of Steve’s personal background, said, “Well, it doesn’t apply as well to immigrants or children of immigrants.” She assumed, based on his Asian appearance, he was an immigrant.
Later, over beers, he vented. It had clearly touched a wound.
“How the hell does she get off just assuming I’m an immigrant?” He fumed. “She’s faculty for god’s sake. You’d think she’s from…Kansas!”
It never dawned on him he had just made the same transgression he was fuming about. Kansans – coastal code for Rural Americans – apparently weren’t deserving of the same level of consideration he demanded for himself.
Another evening, I was sitting having beers with a classmate and her significant other. Both had transplanted from some Coastal megalopolis and we were discussing travel around the state.
In discussing regions of the state, her significant other stopped and said, “Oh, I don’t go there, those are mutant towns.”
“Mutant Towns?” I asked.
“You know, there are some towns in this state that are just full of people who kind of look like mutants. Fat, unkempt, ugly.” I don’t go to those places. He laughed.
I stared in silence and disbelief.
In other words, poor rural people. He thought he was sincerely funny. He also thought he was worldly and cultured. He thought he knew things.
This is what Rural America feels.
Sure there are nice, decent people everywhere, but we don’t remember those people. We remember the people who made us feel like nothing.
Can I get a Witness?
Urban America paid no mind while Rural America stewed in its hurts, limited opportunity, declining population, closing schools, and disparate health outcomes. Rural America doesn’t matter after all, it isn’t wealthy, mass culture is not produced there, fortune 500 companies don’t put their headquarters there.
“Why don’t they just move somewhat nice?”
But, Rural America votes. ‘Merica is religion on the High Plains and many other redoubts of Rural America. And the Religion of ‘Merica demands voting. And, Rural America is the only human community of in this country who has their Affirmative Action enshrined in the constitution – the Electoral College.
Rural America was tired of being ignored and forgotten. So, when a huckster who shits on a golden toilet showed up and made them feel heard, they showed up in return. That is how important it is to people to feel heard, to feel counted.
People want their suffering heard, and will sacrifice a great many other of their values to feel heard.
I hope these posts will help you get to know Fly-Over Country a little better.
You don’t have to like Rural America. I certainly know its flaws better than most. Nonetheless, it is cold and smug to deny its hurts and foolhardy to ignore the power it has to make itself heard.