There has been much talk over the past few months about how those of us on the coasts simply do not understand rural America. I do not necessarily agree with that assessment but, if true, then I would argue that the reverse is also true and that most rural Americans have little or no idea of what life is like in our large urban centers. You do not get a real sense of the city or the country by watching TV shows, movies or even great documentaries like Wiseman's. You have to be there.
Now, I have some experience living in rural areas. I have worked in a small town in Maine every summer for the past twenty years. I joke that I know more about the politics of Monmouth, Maine than I do about my own town in Massachusetts, and that's at least partly true. I honestly know more people in Monmouth than I do here at home, and I have witnessed that town go through several ups and downs over the years. One colleague stated that the economic recovery never quite made it that far north and that, too, strikes me as true.
In 1990, my parents moved to the Great North Woods of New Hampshire, which is a stone's throw from Vermont and not too far south of Canada. My mother still lives there to this day, so I know a good deal about the goings-on up there. She tells me that the mill in nearby Groveton is re-opening, but the economy there and across the way in the other mill city of Berlin is in tough shape overall. This is largely Trump country, as a trip up there shortly before the election drove home to me. The Hillary signs were few and far between. As you can imagine, the winters are rough, people look after one another and they don't expect much from the government.
You might not think of Maine and New Hampshire when you talk of the rust belt, but I have no doubt that there are many similarities and that the people in those areas share more than a few concerns. Even the town I live in here in southeastern Massachusetts could be considered rural and, though a large percentage of the population is blue collar, this part of the Commonwealth is a surprisingly Republican-dominated section in this most liberal of states.
While I may not agree with the local politics, I like living here. I do. But it took some time living in the city to open my eyes to the real promise of America.
I struck out across Jackson Heights and stayed on the residential streets (probably 35th or 34th Avenues), not paying much attention to my surroundings since I had already spent a good deal of time in those areas. I was enjoying the cool evening air and anticipating the excitement outside of the ballpark. Once I crossed Junction Boulevard into Elmhurst, however, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. The neighborhood seemed a bit rundown compared to the areas I had just come from and there were fewer people on the street. My back and my feet were getting tired but I pushed on to Corona and found I needed to cut down to Roosevelt Avenue to cross over to the stadium.
I was noticing fans on foot now who had found parking on surrounding streets and our numbers were rapidly swelling. Citi Field soon came into sight but the parking lots we still had to cross were vast and sometimes tricky to navigate. Once I arrived at my destination I briefly watched (but could not hear) a local sports desk broadcasting with the stadium as their backdrop. I moved on to get the above shot of the old Mets home run apple from center field of Shea Stadium. And I had already had my fill.
I headed for the long staircase leading up to the trains, staying far to the right since I was the only person going in that direction. Upon reaching the wide wooden walkway at the top I found I needed to keep over to the side as wave upon wave of fans came towards me from the 7 train and the Long Island RR. Everywhere I had been - up there on the walkway, back in the parking lots and outside the stadium - the Mets fans were pumped up and very confident. It was impressive to behold.
At this point I changed my plan and, instead of hopping on a train, I continued across the platform to the relative solitude of the tennis center. The gates were closed but I could see that work had begun on a new court that would debut at the 2016 U.S. Open. Once again, I pushed on and walked down the wide tree-lined path to the Unisphere. I have fond memories of visiting the World's Fair in both 1964 and '65 as a child. In fact, in 1965, my father's work had brought our family to live in - you guessed it - Jackson Heights. Though I did not realize it at the time, October 17th just happened to be the 50th anniversary of the closing day of the fair, which we had attended.
After snapping a shot of the Unisphere, I wandered over to a few of the only other remaining buildings from the fair, then sat on a bench for awhile, simultaneously resting and reminiscing in my mind. By now it was almost completely dark, so I pointed my weary feet up towards Roosevelt, this time determined to catch the train back to 61st Street in Woodside.
I passed by a street vendor grilling some kind of meat on a stick just before I had to cross underneath a dark bridge to get up to Roosevelt. It was somewhere right around there that I really began to pay attention and take in the sights and sounds of the world around me.
There were families, lots of families. There were food vendors on practically every corner. I was especially tempted by the corn on the cob on a stick, which I am told has not only butter but melted cheese on it, as well. There were an amazing number of barber shops where young men lined up to get their hair buzzed in the latest fashion. Women were also getting their hair done, not to mention their nails. Bottles of beer sold in a bucket seemed to be very popular among the working men at the end of a long day.
These people are no doubt struggling to make ends meet every single day. I honestly do not know what their lives are like. I do know that they are living in a city where everything - absolutely everything - is much more expensive than in Maine or New Hampshire or even southeastern Massachusetts. They are hard workers who are here because they want to make their lives better for themselves and for their families. Either they were born here or they came here because of the promise of America. Will that promise still be held out to them after today?
I can only tell you that I was never prouder to be an American than I was at the end of my long trek across Queens. I hope I can maintain that pride in the coming years. I saw a side of this country that, although millions live in it, few others ever see or understand. But this, to me, is why America already is, and hopefully will remain, great.
