A Nation Divided by our Mutual Mistrust

First, an apology for the utter silence going on over here lately. I'm afraid that full time dissertation writing [and dissertation writing evasion] have made for a lack of interesting things to say.

Last Thursday/Friday I drove across the country to spend time first with family and now in Champaign. A couple hours out from DC, after the suburbs had given way to copper colored ridges and dusky hollows, I pulled off the road to fill up my tank.

From the top of the ramp I could see a gas complex off to my right, but I had seen a sign for a BP to the left, and decided to head that way. I crossed the highway, followed the curve, and came across a little brick building with a dingy BP sign. I couldn't tell if the place was actually open, but it had the now ubiquitous pay-at-the-pump option, so I pulled in, disregarding the little misgivings that welled up inside as I realized how empty the road was and how few buildings there were around me.

The main building was surrounded by cars in various stages of junker. Just beyond the pumps was a 1970s sedan with the windshield shattered in. I told myself I was being silly to feel vulnerable. I was, after all, a rural kid myself.

But, talking-to aside, my heart sank a little as a skinny jeans-and-t-shirt clad man with salt and pepper beard and oil co. cap made his way toward me. I started the gas flowing and, to my embarrassment, gripped Ceisaf's leash a little tighter.

The man didn't say anything for awhile. Instead, he scuffed the aging asphalt, seeming fixated on the front of my car. I realized he was looking at my DC license plate... the only license plate in the country that proves beyond a doubt that you're an urban dweller.

Finally he looked up and said slowly, "What're you doing out in the country?"

"Going to see family in West Virginia," I replied, taking refuge in my distant Appalachian heritage (though my midwestern voice must have undermined my claim).

He grunted, and asked if Ceisaf could have a fried pork rind. I said yes.

He proceeded to win over my little dog who knows that anyone who gives him food is his kind of guy.

I paid. We said goodbye to the guy in the oil co. cap, who tossed Ceisaf another pork rind with a smile. I got back on the road.

Danielle Allen argues, in Talking to Strangers, that widespread mutual distrust is the greatest threat facing our democracy today. After a campaign where liberals slammed the Republican vice presidential candidate, not only for her limited resume, but also for her small town, frontier origins, and that same candidate described the nation as divided into real and [implicitly] fake Americas, we can only hope that a president elect who staked his campaign on the idea that we can be better than these politics of division and mistrust can inspire the rest of us to live that possibility.

I bristle at the accusation that being liberal, gay, decaf-latte-drinking, doctorate-pursuing, urban-dwelling, etc. somehow diminishes the content of my citizenship. I would defend to the last minute my belief that it is my *love* for this country, not my hatred for it, that makes me criticize it, argue against its imperialistic behaviors, and hold it to higher standards.

And, yah know? I'm pretty sure the guy at the BP would have bristled himself at the thoughts running through my head as I filled my tank.

We didn't talk much. Mostly about the dog (Ceisaf is the biggest reason I talk with strangers). We didn't exchange deep thoughts on our citizenship or broach the subject of the election. We passed five minutes in mutual mistrust, leavened slightly by a dog, and then I went on my way. What could I really expect from a gas station conversation?

But the moment and my shameful response to it, made me remember how far we have to go to reshape the ordinary habits that Allen says are the stuff of citizenship.