Red State Blues

by Martha Bayne

  “I read like a book a week,” Billy says. “And I’m a pretty serious gamer. But it won’t interfere with my studies,” he promises. The animated bravado appears to be a new approach for Billy. I picture him in front of a mirror, pep-talking himself that college is a place of reinvention.

  Fatima is waiting outside my next class. I sign papers stating I understand that she is to have extra time for test-taking and speech preparation if necessary. She is a Syrian refugee who, despite having lived in the States for four years, still suffers PTSD and anxiety attacks. I ask if she’s certain she should be taking a speech class. She says yes, she wants to study medicine and needs to overcome issues with talking in front of groups, among other things. She is sweet and soft-spoken in a bright yellow head scarf, long-sleeve t-shirt, and blue jeans.

  Urban or rural, all the students are eager for the semester to start. It’s a new beginning for them: new classmates and experiences, broadened horizons, finding themselves for the first time in a long time, or the first time ever. I spend the weekend setting up gradebooks, preparing lectures, and finalizing rubrics.

  With a few productive hours remaining on Sunday, I volunteer at Hillary headquarters. Today I’m phone-banking—rustling up volunteers for three upcoming rallies. I’m not worried about the election. I’ve volunteered and canvassed before, for Mondale, Bill Clinton, and Obama. The convention was exciting and historic, the opponent is stumbling and deplorable, but campaigns go on regardless and I feel better doing my part.

  October

  As autumn arrives, I get into a routine of classwork and commuting. The students are getting to know one another and feeling comfortable. We discuss the differences between informing and persuading, what it means to be extemporaneous, and what topics are appropriate for speeches. At the community college, the students struggle with schedules—children are at home with the flu, jobs have hours that increase near the holidays; two students are dealing with unemployment benefits.

  Tanner is a strapping young man broad-shouldered from farm work. I’ve seen him a few times being dropped off by his even younger wife, a toddler in a car seat squealing with delight as daddy kisses him through the window. Tanner is cheerful and focused. He left the farm at nineteen to work in a local canning business. While there, he was given an opportunity to do IT work and found that he had a knack for such things. “Go to college,” the company told him, “and we’ll give you a better job when you graduate.” So Tanner is here, completing an associate’s in cyber security. His soft spoken demeanor belies the bulk of his chest and shoulders. For his first speech, in which students bring a physical object and tell the class what it represents about them, Tanner brings in antlers that he’s found while hunting. It’s a clear representation of the person—though he participates peripherally in the sport, he prefers collecting artifacts left by nature, not taken by force.

  Recently, Tanner missed a few classes, including the first chapter test. He asks if he can speak with me.

  “So I had a few doctor’s appointments last week, that’s why I missed class. They found a mass on my thyroid and they’re not sure what it is,” he says. “They say it’s nothing to worry about, though. They’ll go in and remove it and either way I’ll just not have my thyroid any more. They did a biopsy and I’m just waiting to hear.

  “My wife works part-time and since I left my job we didn’t have insurance until last year when we got Obamacare. Before that, we were going to clinics and the ER. So I didn’t really have a family doctor to see when I started having stomach pain. I guess I put it off longer than I should.”

  “You have a doctor now?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I like this guy I’m seeing, but it’s still three weeks to get an appointment. There aren’t a lot of docs out here anymore so I’m going to one in Ohio. But he’s good, I like him.”

  I tell Tanner to let me know how things work out, to not worry about classwork as we’ll work things around his schedule. He is driving a hundred miles round-trip to see a doctor, is only twenty-two and has a two-year-old son. Having lost my husband to cancer, and a close friend to thyroid cancer, I can’t stop thinking about Tanner and his young family as I drive home.

  Through their speeches, I get to know my students. Sean brings in tennis trophies and speaks of dedication and teamwork. Jose brings in a voltage tester and talks of becoming an electrician; Erica shows a tattoo. Debra is the first to be political. She brings in her Bernie 2016 t-shirt and talks about what it means to be politically engaged. She’s careful not to campaign, but rather to talk about her political activism during her earlier years of college when she volunteered for Al Gore. She tells the class it’s important to believe in something bigger than oneself.

  Colleen balances out Debra with a talk about hard work. She brings in a perfect attendance certificate from her nursing home employer and tells the class that she had second thoughts about bringing it because, really, she only did what is expected. “I loathe freeloaders,” she says. “I am always on time, and I show up when I’m expected to. Nothing in this world is free, you only get anywhere from hard work.”

  Ahmed is one of very few Middle Eastern students in the community college. A US military veteran, he has lived here for twenty years, though his English is still quite broken. For his speech, he brings his Iraq War license plate and tells the class that his next-door neighbor, Jim, wouldn’t speak to him when he moved in. “He tell me not to talk to him or his wife. Once I try to mow his lawn to be friendly and he make me stop, half-way done. But then I go to the Secretary of State and they tell me I can get this special license plate for my car. I park in my driveway with the new plate and Jim ask me, why do I have this. I tell him I was in the army in Iraq. I was a soldier and translator. Next day, Jim leave flower on my porch. His wife leave cookies. We are now friends.”

  After class, I ask Ahmed about other experiences in this rural community. He says most everyone is nice, but he knows the current election has driven people apart. “I’m Republican,” he says. “I love George W. Bush. Someday history books will look good on Mr. Bush. He freed many people from despots. You don’t know what life was like. Whole Arab Spring happened because of America.”

  “You really think the Iraq war was a good thing?” I ask.

  “Yes, definitely. But this new guy? He will start a war with his thumbs. He say things to make others mad and make him look good. He will have us in war very soon. I worry. I am signed up to go back to serve as a translator and that could happen any time. I will let you know if I get called up.”

  In the city, students perform speeches using objects that mirrored their wide variety of religious and cultural beliefs. Lily showed the headscarf she no longer wears because she discovered feminism. She still believes she made the right choice despite being shunned by her family. Fatima brought in the Colorado Rockies t-shirt from the Red Cross she was wearing when her family left Syria. Once in the U.S., the sponsor organization asked her father where they wanted to go and he pointed to her shirt. “Colorado,” he said. And that’s where they spent the next four years before moving to Michigan to be with family. Students consider how these connections that could determine someone’s future could come to be.

  Their bravery in sharing these speeches leaves me humbled. One young woman shows the tattoo she got after coming out to her parents. Mira shows the scrubs she wore while delivering a baby in Guatemala. There are student athletes and debaters with awards, cheerleaders with hair ribbons, and metal screws removed from someone’s healed leg.

  Billy is still animated as he talks about gaming. Holding an X-Box controller, he talks about the lesser-known benefits of video games. But when I assign Billy to a small group of female students to complete a citation exercise, a verbal altercation erupts. I separate the group and take them outside.

  “I’m tired of every other week, somebody telling me they want power from me,” Billy says. He was uncomfortable with the leadership roles taken by two young women in the group. “I’m
the target of everyone’s hate because I’m a white male. I can’t help that. I work two jobs to be here. I don’t have ‘privilege.’ It’s like they’re ganging up on me.”

  I referee as best I can, asking the women if they understand that no one, male or female, wants to be assumed to have certain attributes because of their gender. Then I ask Billy if he understands that people aren’t trying to take power, only to join him in a place they feel they’ve never been allowed.

  “As a woman, it’s important for me to have a place at the table. You’ve been at that table all your life. I understand that you don’t have the same place at that table as some of your classmates who don’t have to work, but you are there. Many of your fellow students are barely allowed in the room, much less at the table. And all they want is to join you. They’re not asking you to leave, nor should they. They’re only asking for you to scoot over. The more people and voices around that table, the better we’ll all be. That’s just my way of thinking about it,” I say.

  “I never thought about it that way,” Billy responds. “It feels like I’m being blamed for being who I am. And being asked to give up what little I’ve got.” Billy is the white working class male whose votes may swing the election. I don’t believe Billy is inherently racist or misogynist, but he is impressionable and has verbalized what many in his economic situation believe is true.

  As they leave, I notice Billy walking with one of the female students, continuing the discussion. They sit together during the next class.

  The last speech is Carla who steps up with no prop. She’s listened to students—white, black, Arabic, Hispanic—tell of accomplishments, and hold up mementos of family trips, obstacles overcome, and dreams realized. She holds out empty hands and says, “I have nothing.”

  With that she tells us that she is lucky to be alive, having seen family members shot, assaulted, and riddled with cancer. She’s never vacationed, gone to camp, or learned to play an instrument. What is the value of our lives, she asks her classmates. Can it be summed up in clothing, athletic equipment, or hair ribbons? She is the first in three generations to not be pregnant by age sixteen. She has courage, a heart, a brain, and a strong, straight spine that allows her to stand up to anything. Some lines rhyme, perhaps from practice or perhaps from serendipity, it’s impossible to tell. By the time she finishes, the class is left silent and staring; many, including me, are in tears. She receives a standing ovation.

  If this class learns nothing else, I think, over the past three weeks they’ve learned empathy and some level of understanding of the differences and commonalities between them. Everyone is trying to overcome challenges. Sometimes we can see it in the looks on their faces, the clothing they wear, or the way their shoulders hunch. But sometimes we have to listen and bear witness.

  November

  On election night, I canvass in a Bangladeshi neighborhood with a friend. We knock on doors asking if residents voted and offering directions to the elementary school if not. Most proudly show their “I Voted” stickers. I have a full heart as I walk to a neighbor’s place to watch the election returns. Of course, that feeling dissipates as the night unfolds, until the beer is gone and we watch, disbelieving and sad. I answer text messages from my daughter, away at school and confused by what is happening. I sense her tears and wish to be with her, but can only tell her that it isn’t as bad as it seems, despite not feeling that myself.

  As I drive through the farmland, the previously ignored Trump-Pence signs make me angry. The two-lane road is mostly empty but I notice a pickup truck ahead, parked on the shoulder, Confederate flags waving from the truck’s bed. As I pass, slowing slightly, the driver whoops and hollers from the truck, waving his arms in celebration. I am enraged, disgusted, and fearful for the first time in this place.

  I try to keep class focused on the task at hand. Debra, the Bernie supporter, is distraught. After class, she says she almost didn’t attend, having stayed up until the bitter end at 3:00 a.m.

  “I don’t understand this. I’ll never understand how people could vote for him,” she says. I give her a quick hug before we part. Tanner missed another day of class and I’m worried. I make a mental note to send an email.

  The tone is far more somber in the city, with two female students nearly in tears. Mira has been a vocal Hillary supporter during class, wearing t-shirts and pins. The previous Friday, I attended a Hillary rally and there was Mira, in the bleachers waving a placard. She could be seen on the CNN event coverage. Now she sat in my class, shaking her head, reading aloud the terrible online comments made to a Jewish reporter who questioned the outcome.

  “These people are frighteningly anti-Semitic,” she says.

  Billy is shocked as well, and tells me that his family is full of union plumbers and auto workers, none of whom would vote Republican. “They may be on the conservative side, but they all thought he was a doofus. No way they voted for him.”

  We spend time in class debriefing. I don’t voice any disappointment or frustration as I feel that it’s not my place, but the students need to talk, to try to understand and make sense of it. I spend a few minutes during the next class talking about fake news. “My generation has created lots of problems for you to fix, but this one is all yours. You must learn to listen and discern reputable sources,” I warn.

  December

  One of the most troubling aspects of this new breed of conservatism is the disdain for post-secondary education and the branding of such as the playground of the liberal elite who no longer care about the working class. I see it as a ploy to keep the undereducated ill-informed and easily manipulated, but I see it play out routinely in community college. Numerous very bright students—like Andy who spoke six languages and was learning Mandarin by tutoring Chinese students online at night—ignore my questions about four-year degrees because their parents don’t want them in college. Some transfer to the small private college nearby, but many others select two-year programs when they could do much more. It took weeks of prodding and introductions to university professors to convince the smartest student I ever taught to apply to Michigan. He was accepted with a full scholarship to study philosophy. No one had ever suggested that a four-year degree was an option.

  In class, we’re discussing the power of words and language. I show a clip of a debate about use of the “n-word” and we have a respectful discussion about who is permitted to use this word and why. We discuss labeling and words that stereotype. This is always one of my favorite sessions. Sean speaks up.

  “I love my dad, but when I started playing tennis and had matches around the state, I made African-American friends and he wouldn’t let me post pictures of us on Facebook. He called them the n-word. I know he’d do anything for me, but it’s not right that he feels that way. These are friends who go through the same things I do, cutting weight and stuff. I also realize that my mom’s a feminist and that’s not a bad thing. She’s an engineer in a plant and gets harassed all the time. People use the word feminist like it’s bad, but it’s just women wanting equality. I’m proud of her.”

  I’m proud of Sean for articulating all this. I’ve said nothing all semester about how I lean or vote and I didn’t need to. I’m not brainwashing Sean. He is seeing the world in new ways because of new experiences. The more he is educated, the more likely he is to be progressive in his thinking. It’s about understanding nuance and gray areas.

  Tanner emails that he’ll begin treatment in a week. I arrange for him to take the final before class ends so that he doesn’t have to worry. Once he’s taken the final, he’ll be finished with class. I am tempted to buy his family Christmas gifts, but I don’t know them well enough to know if that would be appreciated or if it would feel too much like charity. He is worried about health care and may return to full-time work just to make sure that he has insurance.

  Ahmed makes it to the last class, but tells me he will ship out the following weekend. He cannot tell me where he’ll be or what he’ll be doing. I shak
e his hand and thank him for his service, though he barely passes the final.

  I trudge through the gray-black slush across campus to hear the last university speeches. We wrap up the semester and I wish everyone well. They are tired and excited and want the semester to be over. Billy tells me this was the best class of his first semester of college. I take that as a win. Carla gives her last speech on the need for more job counseling in college and I’m proud that she’s taking a stand on something that impacts her directly.

  After class, as I’m packing up to leave for the last time, Mira asks if she will see me at the Women’s March in D.C. in January.

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  CODA

  ON BEING MIDWESTERN: THE BURDEN OF NORMALITY

  PHIL CHRISTMAN

  This essay originally appeared in The Hedgehog Review, Fall 2017, hedgehogreview.com. Reprinted with permission.

  After my Texas-born wife and I moved to Michigan—an eleven-hour drive in the snow during which time itself seemed to widen and flatten with the terrain—I found myself pressed into service as a regional expert. What is the Midwest like?, she wanted to know. Midwestern history, Midwestern customs, Midwestern cuisine? I struggled to answer these reasonable questions, about a region where I was born and where I have spent most of my life, with anything more than clichés: bad weather, hard work, humble people. I knew these were inadequate. Connecticut winters and Arizona summers are also “bad”; the vast majority of humans have worked hard, or been worked hard, for all of recorded history; and humility is one of those words, like authenticity or (lately) resistance, that serves mainly to advertise the absence of the thing named.