Red State Blues

by Martha Bayne

  This is one of the many paradoxes of life in Knox County. Ohio was, of course, with the Union during the Civil War. Kenyon College, where I am president, takes pride in having educated not only Civil War generals but also Lincoln’s secretary of war, Edwin Stanton. The town square of Mount Vernon, near Kenyon, features a monument to veterans from the area who fought to preserve the Union. That rich history would suggest that a public display of loyalty to the Confederacy would not be justifiable on the oft-expressed grounds of “history and heritage.” And yet, less than half a mile away from that monument, several homes regularly fly Confederate flags on its front porches.

  I grew up in Cleveland, and I consider myself a loyal son of Ohio and the Midwest. Throughout the thirteen years I spent living in New England (while I was a chemistry professor at Mount Holyoke College), I missed the friendliness of the community and the sense of connection found in a place where neighbors greet and welcome new arrivals. And of course I missed the deep local connection to the sometimes frustrating professional sports teams. My wife is from the Cleveland area as well, and we were incredibly excited when job opportunities at Oberlin College brought us back to Northeast Ohio from New England in 2008.

  When I was offered the opportunity to come to Kenyon, my family had much to consider. Kenyon is an excellent institution, with a renowned reputation and international student body. Most of my life has been spent at small residential liberal arts colleges, and I felt instantly at home on its campus. And, it was in Ohio, still close to family and part of the culture I loved. But, central Ohio—in particular, a largely rural and white section of central Ohio—was very different than our familiar terrain of greater Cleveland, and as an African-American in a multiracial family I wasn’t sure whether the transition would work for us. But we decided to take the leap, and we became blue-state Ohioans living deep within red-state Ohio.

  Five years later, I am happy that we made the move. In many ways, we felt at home from the start. That famed Midwestern friendliness does reign supreme here, just as it did closer to Cleveland. We’ve made friends, and our son had a remarkably smooth transition into a new school. Like many of our neighbors, we spend a lot of weekend time on the sidelines of youth athletic events; we commiserate with our fellow parents when it is cold and rainy, and we celebrate victories or just good, solid play of all members of the team. There are many opportunities to share in the pain of being a Browns fan with our friends and neighbors, and the eruption of joy over the 2016 Cavs championship was felt in Knox County as well.

  Yet there are still difficulties, like the flags. I cannot separate the Confederate flag from its function as a symbol of racial intimidation and white supremacy, so living in its midst is discomforting, to say the least. There is the annual music festival named for Dan Emmet, a Mount Vernon native and “pioneer” in blackface minstrelsy who is credited for writing the song “Dixie” (though scholarship suggests that authorship rightly belongs to a local family of black music performers from the same era; so the festival manages to celebrate cultural appropriation as well). I know that an overwhelming majority of the people I have had the chance to know well would never brandish the Confederate flag with pride, nor would they espouse an ideology of white supremacy. But, their silence on these issues, which reifies the invisibility of the concerns and feelings of people of color here and across the country, is disturbing.

  And yet race is only part of the complexity at work here. With a college president married to a tenured professor, our family is marked by financial privilege—especially in a region shaken by poverty and its effects. This is a county hit hard by the rise in opioid addiction; where new jobs require a level of technical skill that many are not equipped to meet; where parents in many households are holding down multiple jobs, working long hours, and still feel like they are not getting ahead. Despite the constant stress and burden of race that my family feels, we have an economic security and confidence in our long-term socioeconomic position that many of our neighbors do not share.

  And Kenyon’s role within the region is complex. Kenyon has been home in Knox County for over 190 years, and the histories of the college and the county are deeply intertwined. However, over 85 percent of Kenyon students are from outside the state of Ohio, many from large urban areas and/or one of the coasts (there are nearly as many Californians as Ohioans at Kenyon). Not surprisingly, at times this produces a cultural divide between folks from Kenyon and longtime residents of the local community, to whom Kenyon can seem elite, aloof, and unwelcoming.

  All of this was made more visible in the election of 2016 and its aftermath. Knox County was “Trump Country” in 2016: visitors to campus from liberal enclaves in New York and California would often comment with surprise on the number of prominent Trump/Pence yard signs, and in the end Donald Trump carried Knox County with over 70 percent of the vote. If you discount the almost 1,000 votes from Kenyon students—which went almost completely to Hillary Clinton or one of the third-party options—the percentage of the vote to Trump is even greater.

  The election reminds me of thestrals from the Harry Potter series, the magical creatures who can only be seen by those who have seen someone die; invisible to most, they are made visible by the trauma of witnessing and accepting death. Similarly, race, class, and culture divisions in Knox County and elsewhere existed before the election of 2016; these divides were not created on Election Day, but rather like the thestrals became visible, and the appearance was shocking and disorienting.

  Confederate flags were always here (though they seemed to proliferate during the 2016 election), and the occasional racist shout from a passing pickup truck driving through Gambier occurred before November 2016, but in the time since these incidents seem to have taken on new meaning and weight. Politics always felt like a tricky subject for small talk on the sidelines of a sporting event, but now everyone works hard to avoid it at all costs.

  Yet the thestral-like appearance of these community divides also gives me a hope that a path forward is also becoming visible. The actions of the new administration have provoked serious conversations on race, religion, and immigration in our community, and several efforts have arisen in the past year to have community conversations on race, some led by local clergy (this is a deeply religious community, so clergy-led efforts have particular power and resonance). Nearby Mount Vernon is in the midst of unprecedented investment in its downtown community, not only improving the quality of life for residents but also generating serious discussions about what is needed to make the town a center for entrepreneurial development, and I know that, historically, economic growth is key to bringing about social and cultural change.

  And at Kenyon, we have launched a strong effort to reach out from behind our gates and into the community. Instead of isolating the campus from the town in the wake of a cultural divide, we are leaning in, doing our part as an institutional citizen to invest in the community and to help move important conversations forward. We approach this work not as outsiders attempting to remake a community in our own image, but rather as partners in a shared commitment to ensure that all in our community thrive, now and in the future.

  Do I belong here, on the sharp edge between red and blue? It is not always comfortable, nor should it be—but the work of bridging divisions, taking the risk of building community where it is hard to do so is meaningful. There will always be moments when I feel like I don’t belong (and fortunately, Cleveland is not too far away, so neither is familiar barbecue, haircuts, and other features of urban life). But I feel confident—perhaps naively so—that the Midwestern values of community building will be embraced by us all, and help to move us all towards a more inclusive future.

  GUIDING A PROGRESSIVE PITTSBURGH THROUGH THE TRUMP ERA

  DAN GILMAN

  After the election in 2016, the roles of Pittsburgh and cities across the country have shifted. State legislatures, the United States Congress, and the White House have become more conservative than ever, focused on reduci
ng access to health care, maintaining stagnant wages, creating little opportunity for people of color, attacking the LGBTQIA+ community, and criticizing immigrants and refugees as a threat to our democracy. Cities across the country are taking a leading role in creating jobs that pay, more sustainable and safer communities for families, and a more welcoming city for people of color, the LGBTQIA+ community, and immigrants and refugees. With a City Hall that is more progressive than ever, Pittsburgh has seized the moment and stood up for its inclusive values, using both ordinances and the bully pulpit to do so.

  Shortly after the election, cities across the country reflected on their core values and the threat posed by the newly elected administration and its allies in Congress and state legislatures. How will mayors, city councils, and county commissions govern and advance progressive values in the Trump era? How do “islands of blue in large seas of red” resist state legislatures moving determinedly to the right?

  In increasingly conservative Pennsylvania, cities face the seemingly insurmountable challenge known as state preemption, which prohibits municipalities from superseding state law with legislation. The charter prevents cities like Pittsburgh from advancing progressive ideals through legislation. In addition, Pennsylvania is one of the most gerrymandered states in the nation. Despite a sizable edge in Democratic voter registration statewide, our congressional delegation is comprised of 13 Republicans and 5 Democrats and our state house and senate have a near veto-proof majority. Our state’s conservatism has forced Pittsburgh’s leaders to legislate creatively and effectively use our voice to defend and advocate for the progressive ideals on which our city was built.

  As city councilman for the 8th district, for instance, I introduced legislation to ban forced conversion “therapy” for LGBTQIA+ minors, a psychologically and physically harmful process that was championed by the Vice President during his time as Governor of Indiana. The legislation, which was introduced as a measure to protect the well-being of minors rather than a new regulation on business, passed unanimously and earned Pittsburgh national recognition for our efforts to resist the President’s agenda.

  A few months later, the nascent presidential administration began publicly speaking out against immigrants. Considering its history as the nation’s onetime leader in steel production and other industries, Pittsburgh was built by the hands of hardworking immigrants who first came to the city in search of better lives for themselves and their families. As a new generation of immigrants and refugees come from across the globe to live, work, and learn in Pittsburgh, our corporate, university, nonprofit, philanthropic, and government leaders across all sectors understand that our city must extend the same welcoming hand it did for previous generations. The threat posed by the new administration compelled our Mayor William Peduto, myself, and my council colleagues to act rapidly, to legislate where we can, and to use our influence to affirm our core values as a city.

  In the weeks following the inauguration, as headline after headline declared the Trump administration’s intention to divide our country, break up families, and ramp up deportation, I convened a meeting with people from all sectors to identify the most pressing needs of our immigrant neighbors. A roundtable of immigrants, refugees, union leaders, educators, advocates, faith leaders, and organizations serving immigrants and refugees shaped the narrative surrounding the treatment of the newest Pittsburghers and those from around the world who have called Pittsburgh their home for decades. Through an all-encompassing package of legislation, we created an Office of Multicultural Affairs within the City’s Department of Public Safety to affirm that all are valued here. We also reaffirmed that city services are available to all individuals regardless of citizenship status, improved language access for all Pittsburghers, and we restated that in Pittsburgh, we refuse to act as an arm of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency.

  Later in the tenure of the new administration in Washington, at a news conference declaring his opposition to the Paris Climate Accord, the President uttered the now-famous words: “I was elected by voters of Pittsburgh, not Paris.” Mayor Peduto responded swiftly, noting that Secretary Hillary Clinton won the city of Pittsburgh with over 80 percent of the vote and reaffirming Pittsburgh’s commitment to a sustainable future. The quip earned Pittsburgh the international spotlight, with many global news outlets highlighting Pittsburgh’s remarkable transformation from an industrial powerhouse to a city that has shaken off its rust and diversified its economy, which is now based in education, medicine, technology, and green energy. The mayor also issued an executive order to power our city’s government on 100 percent renewable energy by 2035. This exemplifies the ability to not simply legislate, but also, to advocate for progressive policies.

  Pittsburgh will continue to legislate where we can and use our bully pulpit to stand up for progressive values despite threats from conservatives in Washington, D.C. As scandals continue to rock the White House and as our state and federal governments become increasingly conservative, our city is looking ahead to the future as a gleaming example of the power of inclusivity and sustainability.

  A DEMOCRATIC HOPEFUL FROM RANCH COUNTRY

  CHRISTOPHER VONDRACEK

  “You’re on the fastest route,” Siri told me about a mile outside Bonesteel (pop. 216). I buzzed down an empty country road, passing by a brown calf staring curiously from behind a mesh fence. Between the Christian radio stations, I heard a scrambled NPR news report announcing that President Trump had yanked the U.S. out of the Paris Climate Accord. Beside me, yellow ditch flowers sprouted along the green fields and rolling hills ended in summits over the Missouri River. Pro-life billboards crawled up wooden posts standing in grass, and the mud on inert ATVs—seemingly paused mid-torque of the steering column—crusted over in the sun.

  Entering a place is not the same as knowing a place, but the drive from Sioux Falls, South Dakota’s largest city at under 150,000 people, had been a journey of years, not hours. And I’d come for a purpose. After eight miles, my dented Volvo scaled a winding gravel road, passing picks-ups, Subarus, and black SUVs. Some folks were walking. I’d foolishly worn sandals, so I hiked up my jeans so they wouldn’t drag on the rocks. Later, woman in line for the beef brisket asked me—a total stranger—“where’s the flood?” I smiled like she hadn’t insulted me, but I had thought we were allies. We had all come for the main event: 33-year-old Billie Sutton, a former rodeo star and four-term state senator from Burke (pop. 600), was about to announce he’d thrown his hat in the ring for South Dakota’s highest office. As a Democrat.

  “We rise to the occasion together,” Billie said that day on the stump. “No matter what the obstacles ahead, no matter what the challenges, we can work together to make South Dakota everything it can be.”

  South Dakota is a small state, and earlier that night Billie gave the same speech to the faithful gathered in a dingy American Legion off Minnesota Avenue in Sioux Falls. Billie had used his notes during that event, but now he had memorized it. But, to me, the night belonged to Rep. Troy Heinert, who strolled up to the pulpit in his black coat and cowboy hat.

  “I’m a rancher, a Lakota … and a Democrat,” he said, repeating a surprising line that had gotten him big applause weeks earlier at the McGovern Day dinner. Democrats—especially West River (what folks in South Dakota call those people west of the Missouri, a rougher, rowdier, rangier kind of living)—are more endangered than the black-footed ferret in the Badlands.

  When I talked to Billie, I offered to help him with his speeches if he wanted. What I wanted to say was, I can help you talk more about being a Democrat or even mention it at all, but Billie is obviously the savvier politician. And it wasn’t an oversight that the “D” word didn’t get mentioned this day on his family’s ranch north of Burke.

  A few weeks earlier, at a coffee shop in Sioux Falls, I bumped into the former chief of staff for former Republican governor and congressman, Bill Janklow, who lamented the gridlock in the state house. South Dakota is ground zero f
or the much ballyhooed colony collapse of rural Democrats in the twenty-first century.

  He told me there are three parties in Pierre. He saw far-right conservatives and mainstream Republicans as the power structure. Democrats are barely in the calculation. There are only 6 Democrats out of 35 seats in the Senate. One of them is Sutton.

  The state’s Republican governor, Dennis Daugaard, is a moderate by western-state standards. He vetoed a transphobic bathroom bill and mostly stayed away from the state party’s invitation to anti-Muslim extremist groups touring local churches and hotel ballrooms.

  It didn’t always used to be this way. My mom grew up in South Dakota and talked of the prairie populists—George McGovern, Tom Daschle—who were giants on the state and national stage. During the Great Depression, Tom Berry from Belvidere, South Dakota—now a dried-up town hugging a steakhouse and gas station adjacent to Interstate 90 that belts across the state—was mighty popular and earned the “cowboy governor” moniker. But there hasn’t been a Democratic governor in my lifetime. Or Billie’s.

  Billie is a local banker. His wife is an attorney. They have a child. And as he does at every stump, Billie rolls on stage buoyantly in a wheelchair and gives his speech.

  “We need to change the same-old, same-old!”

  A political reporter in the state recently called Sutton “is the real deal.” But it’s hard to know if this will stick.

  A cowboy string band plays “In Heaven on a Horse.” Near the vats of tinfoiled-over food stand the Rosebud Rancherettes. On a flatbed stretching over a grassy bluff along the Missouri, adjacent wagon wheels and hay bales covered in stars-and-stripes bunting, Sutton wears a white Stetson hat. A lot of people with belt buckles have gathered—horses swish tails on hill stretching behind him. Sutton’s voice is small and airy, like a rancher clicking his horse, as he runs off his platform.