Rust Belt Blues?

I read an interesting article in The Atlantic, "Stuck, Or Content?", by Julie Irwin Zimmerman.  She responds to writer Richard Florida's post, "The Geography of Stuck", in which he claims that in certain parts of the country, namely the Midwest and most parts of the South, residents are unable to move to more "mobile" places, such as the East and West Coasts, and the Rocky Mountain region, leaving them stuck in hapless, run-down, areas without a future.  The implication from Florida is that these people, if given the opportunity, would happily abandon their homes in Ohio, Kentucky, and Wisconsin, for greener pastures in Las Vegas, New York, or Miami.

Zimmerman, who grew up in Silicon Valley, a "mobile" place on the West Coast, has now lived in Cincinnati (land of the Stuck) for fifteen years and has no plans of leaving.  She mentions her beautiful, historic, large, yet affordable house, her easy drives around town, and the close-knit, long-lasting relationships that exist in abundance in these places as reasons why she feels many people are not stuck here, but content.

This struck me because I have returned to a "stuck" location, my hometown of Anderson, Indiana, after living for seven years in a "mobile" locale - Phoenix, Arizona, and I agree with her.  I didn't leave Arizona because I had to.  I also didn't leave because I wasn't happy.  My time in Arizona was amazing and I wouldn't trade it for anything.  But there are special characteristics about places like Anderson, Indianapolis, Cincinnati.  And despite the weather, the mountains, the palm trees, the pools, the new neighborhoods, the shopping, the Mexican food, and the resorts, eventually it came time to leave the Valley of the Sun and come home.

The responses from friends in Phoenix were funny when they found out I was leaving for Indiana.  At first came the expected, "Why would you do that?  It's so cold there!  So grey, so old, so blah!"  But then, from those who had come from places like Illinois, Wisconsin, Ohio - "Man, but I sure do miss the leaves changing.  I miss Wrigley Field.  I miss my high school buddies.  I miss my favorite ma and pa restaurant that makes the greatest barbecued ribs, beef tenderloin, cheeseburger, chili dogs, milkshake.  I miss my parents.  The lake.  Summer - you know, real summer, when it's not 110 degrees and there are cookouts and county fairs and family reunions."

There are few hometown loyalties that run deeper than most people's love for their region's sports teams.  So go to a sports bar in Los Angeles on any fall Sunday.  You'll see them there every time.  The guys in the corner from Pennsylvania wearing Steelers jerseys.  The folks at the bar from Ohio clad in Browns gear.  The men in the back dressed in navy and orange from Illinois.  It is their weekly connection to their true identities.  (Bob may live in Marina del Rey, but he is a Pittsburgher.) Seeing all those residents of Southern California decked out in apparel from a city thousands of miles away makes me wonder if each of those people who has left their longtime home in the Midwest for some place newer, warmer, or more trendy, still wonders if that was the way it was "supposed" to be, and, if eventually they should maybe get back home. 

I know that's how I felt.  It was almost like my time in Arizona was hitting the pause button on my "real" life in Indiana.  "Just let me get away for a while," I thought, "because I'd like to explore for a while, but don't worry, I'll be back and we can pick up where we left off."  And that is exactly what happened.

In Anderson, I have moved back into my old neighborhood of Edgewood.  In many ways it is the antithesis to a Phoenix neighborhood.  Each house looks different.  The yards are spacious.  The trees are huge.  The ugly concrete block walls separating each house are...non-existent.  This is the type of fantastic neighborhood that really doesn't even exist in many large cities on the coasts.  Or if it does exist, each house costs hundreds of thousands of dollars.  The windy, hilly roads are all but void of traffic.  I see more dogs than cars on the road on my daily run through the giant Oaks and Sycamores.

I used to try to describe to my friends in Phoenix the taste of Gene's Root Beer, an Onion Burger from The Lemon Drop, a slice of Around the World at Art's Pizza, or a square of Pizza King's Royal Feast with Barbecue Sauce.  No description necessary now as I can just smile with my mouth full at the friend across from me in the booth. 

So I am content here, not stuck.  When I see old friends around town, those who have never left Anderson to live anywhere else, they ask, "Why in the world did you come back here?"  I say, "I missed it.  I love it.  I am so happy to be home."  They can't believe it.  I tell them if they just left for a while, maybe they would understand.

I don't think one place is greater than another.  Rather, I feel that a person can be content living in any place in this country.  And it saddens me that so many people feel it necessary to trash places like Anderson because they have bought into the idea that one must live in an exclusive place in order to be happy.  After a year of reuniting with old friends, family, restaurants, and stadiums, I've found that it's just not the case.