Fly-Over States

The trade-offs of being passed-over.

When I was younger, fascinated by history and politics, I often embellished the role Tennessee plays on the global stage. Convincing myself that simply because Oak Ridge played a part in the Manhattan Project that we, Tennesseans, were in the crosshairs of our enemies and were held in high regard by our peers. I remember on the day of the September 11th attacks I was searching a globe for possible suspects while keeping in mind that we could be next - the distance between middle and East Tennessee was irrelevant to me at the time.

At some point I recalibrated the scale on which I measured Tennessee’s import, and adjusted accordingly. I realize now that an assault on my home state was never on the table should the Cold War have turned hot, or had the Third Reich reached across the Atlantic. I no longer exaggerate our relevance, instead, I embrace it. This feels like an advantage particularly now as, yet again, the specter of war looms larger by the week.

Cheers ~ FA

This post is accompanied by a playlist of loosely suburban and real estate themed songs - ironically the band Real Estate was omitted.

Somewhere past Forrest City, Arkansas I angled my head as close to the window as I could to see the scope of the blue sky stretching out before us.  Out over the vast country the sky was dissected many times over by streaking contrails still lingering in the air.  Some of which you wouldn’t have to trace too long until you found their makers, giant passenger planes ferrying unnamed and unnumbered travelers across the country.  At any given time I could spot three or four, sometimes five, planes racing across the sky sometimes looking as if a collision is not only likely but inevitable - wondering if it’s just a bunch of baseball teams flying up there from one game to the next narrowly avoiding catastrophe like George Costanza asked Keith Hernandez.  But no, air travel is exceedingly proficient at mitigating any calamity way up there especially knowing that on average there’s a couple hundred thousand people in the stratosphere speeding above Anywhere, USA.  

John Steinbeck, when writing Travels with Charley, remarked that he’d grown unfamiliar with the land and its people that were often the main subjects of his prose.  He spent the next half year or so driving his truck around America in hopes of finding Doc or Tom Joad, the quintessential Americans.  Air travel is by no means a sin, just an efficient variety of teleportation full of sleepy limbs, manicured speech, ginger ales and mediocre service.  When I fly it doesn’t seem to matter how how much I stare out the window, by the time I’ve landed I’ve got no regard for where I am in relation to where I’d come from, or the distance in between.  The only thing separating point a and b are hours in the air, not necessarily mileage.  Traveling by plane doesn’t readily illuminate that the majority of Americans live in towns less than fifty thousand people; it’s easy to forget that America is still a nation of small towns.  But Steinbeck realized this and reintroduced himself to his country on the ground, with his dog, town by town.  

While it was still morning we stopped in Forrest City for gas and breakfast.  Forrest Donuts proved to be sufficient and familiar.  I paid for our breakfast, thanked the owners of the shop, and left.  The shop itself could have served as a stand-in for a shop in my town, Donut Palace; identical menus and decor; and my apple fritter proved that the similarities didn’t stop at the aesthetics and offerings.  We filled up our tank and rolled back onto I-40.  Fueled by debates of  issues of national import - rarely local politics - we arrived in Oklahoma in no time.  In the outskirts of Tulsa we ate dinner at a restaurant converted from what looked like a Discount Tire.  Bellies full with hamburger and local beer we strolled across the conglomeration of parking lots, and strip malls to a Sprouts for a couple days’ supplies.  We bought a couple of six packs, some chips and hummus, eggs, etc - this was not to be our Fear and Loathing.  After checking my friends’ IDs the cashier talked to them about their signs.  When it came to my turn she inquired if I too were a Scorpio, a conversation I rarely am willing to engage with.  This occasion being no exception I told her I didn’t believe I was, offered no additional information regarding my zodiac sign, paid, thanked her and followed my friends out to the parking lot. Nillson singing ‘they say you never made it with a Gemini?’

I remember thinking that this exchange could’ve been anywhere, including here, at any blasé middle American bazaar with its Sprouts, its Starbucks, its nondescript local burger joint.  Such is the ubiquitous nature of the fly-over states that I would wager that this a reliable observation through time.  

If you don’t guard against it you can easily delude yourself with the importance of the place that you live.  It’s only by visiting another fly-over state that I’m acutely aware of the irrelevance of my own town in contrast to the national landscape.  These are the towns and cities that feel of great consequence to their inhabitants and rightfully so, they’re the ones living there, but it’s not as if the rest of the country are taking notice.  Middle American towns aren’t taking the lead, the coastal populations aren’t taking cues from the heartland. After all, what lies in between the east and the west? Wheat and mountains?  

We checked into our house for the weekend, a mid-70s ranch that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the original owners had moved out, wood panelling, pink tile and all.  I knew that house, I could trace its floorpan on a napkin immediately after entering the foyer.  That house is everywhere.  In fact this neighborhood is everywhere.  This house was one of the last of its kind in the neighborhood, homes around it had been razed and replaced by sprawling five bedroom homes like its white French provincial neighbors, or Tulsa’s own brand of contemporary living - moderate impressions of Spanish villas with light brown stucco and red clay tile.  As stylish and in vogue as our towns may be don’t mistake their idiosyncrasies for intrepidness.  Save for their few proprietary parts these types of cities are essentially interchangeable as if Eli Whitney had designed the heartland himself. No, Tennessee and Oklahoma may not be on the American masthead but that’s okay; there’s a certain freedom that the inner pages allow that the cover does not.

Federal policy is hardly made between the borders of the interior states, and more often than not its not their senators and representatives making the headlines.  Presidential candidates infrequently make campaign stops in these states - save for the odd swing state and Iowa with their absurdly early caucus.  Seemingly the next ‘it-town’ of middle America, Nashville, TN, was proving to be an exception to the rule when it hosted a presidential debate in 2020 - that is until Austin began to eclipse it in relevance both politically, and financially since Biden began his term. But the lack of attention and clout afforded to these states has a certain upside.  Generally, until the national spotlight is temporarily cast upon them - like the bogus Rolling Stone story of Oklahoma hospitals being overwhelmed by ivermectin overdoses or the Gatlinburg wildfires, or the Maus debacle in McMinn county, TN - they are generally left alone.   This is the trade-off we’re afforded; that during times of great national consequence life continues as usual if only slightly abated.

We laid claim to which beds in which rooms were to be ours for the weekend and once everyone else had arrived, we changed and headed out to the funeral home.  The sun was setting as we drove through the flat suburban outskirts of Tulsa.  Dimly lit shopping centers, car lots, restaurants, gated neighborhoods, banks, liquor stores and dispensaries lined the streets.  Businesses were open, Oklahomans appeared to be shopping and eating in abundance like Tennesseans have been for the past year.  Something states like California and New York can’t really attest to in the same way.  Sure, Texas and Florida can brag of their open economies during 2021 but by now they must be sore from constantly being used as a cudgel against their blue state counterparts.  In Tulsa ‘now hiring’ signs were taped up in shop windows and restaurant countertops just as they are in Tennessee.  Whether or not the ‘great American labor shortage’ is the fault of the government, business, or prospective employees was much debated in the nine hour drive earlier that day; no perfect solution had been agreed upon but political leadership should take notes on how to constructively hold a debate - name calling was kept to a dignified minimum.  However, unemployment in Tennessee and Oklahoma has been markedly less than the national average during these covid-tinged times.  Similarly, Tennessee’s dip in GDP was 4% in contrast to the national average of 10% during the ‘great recession’.  Thus are the strange comforts of irrelevance.

In the morning we were greeted to a sunny sixty degrees.  I was anticipating us getting breakfast but as the members of our party got up the subject was never mentioned.  I read Patti Smith’s M Train in quiet disappointment as the others tended to their own business.  After a little while the weight of the day’s coming events seemed to pull on everyone’s smiles.  I ironed my pants and grey Ralph Lauren oxford and put on a pair of smart black loafers my mom had given me.  It appeared every one else was able to forgo the ironing and had already adorned their slacks and sweaters or suits and ties.  We were in town to mark the sudden passing of a dear friend’s father.  There is a small comfort in taking care to look nice - the crease in your pants, the stiff collar of your shirt encouraging you to salute grief with good posture.  

In the funeral home we took up a whole pew.  The music playing over the speakers was recorded by the man whose funeral we were attending.  Keyboard covers of Steely Dan, The Doors and a few others.  During the service Joni Mitchell’s A Case of You and Neil Young’s Old Man played - the latter selected by his son, our friend.  Afterwards, we embraced and I offered my condolences, feeling incompetent in the role of consoler.  

Before heading to the reception we stopped at a sport’s bar and restaurant in a shopping mall.  Due to the crowded seating area we were given access to the bar.  Oklahoma Sooners jerseys and helmets lined the walls as well as photos of Muhammed Ali and Babe Ruth.   Drinks were had, food was not, and we left for the last scheduled stop of the day.  Fifteen minutes later, a new neighborhood, a new house.  This one a different design but just as predictable as its predecessor.  Its garage sticking out to the road like an outstretched heel with the rest of the house nestled behind closely between its neighbors on either side.  In the rear of the house, a small concrete covered patio and a small rectangle of a yard outlined by white vinyl fencing.  This was the house of our friend’s father.  A man who, evinced even by our own few brief encounters, clearly did not bare resemblance to the banality of the suburban America we all inhabit.  An admirable trait that he has undoubtedly passed on to our enigmatic friend.  

Later that night we did our best impression of normalcy.  Eating pizza and playing a drinking game that is more game than drinking in the garage of our rental.  Hurling insults, and challenges in lieu of commiseration, offering what little respite we could for our pal.

It rained all the way home on Sunday.  Yet again the car was consumed with talks of politics and debates of religion, the likes of which will likely never escape the confines of the sedan, but nevertheless feel productive.  We left our friend  back in Oklahoma since his ordeal was not yet finished and we had exhausted our utility; back to our own lives and our own circumstances.  

My mom told me that as a little girl she used to wonder if the people that flitted in and out of her life existed only when interacting with her - making everyone the cat and her, Schrödinger.  But we know (think we know) that this isn’t the case even if we don’t always behave that way.  It’s easy to check in on the New York’s and L.A.’s of the world, but less so with the Forrest City’s of Arkansas. 

And I’m not suggesting we all join the congregation of that church in the center of America that Bruce Springsteen talked about in that Jeep commercial during the Super Bowl - there’d never be enough seats.  I’m only suggesting that it may be worth its while to take a drive and let yourself be struck with the fact that, incomprehensibly, life is happening all at once full-bore anywhere and everywhere.  And maybe it’s occurring most of all in places like these, hidden in plain sight, shrouded by irrelevance. 

Fly-over states may never be afforded the status and adulation of the masses and no, Tennesseans and Oklahomans may not ever be pandered to by politicians currying favor as they would elsewhere, but maybe, through crises and turmoil, they’ll be allowed to carry on as if all the chatter and racket coming from the coastlines were just a dull roar overhead.