I’ve noticed something on the road trips. It’s got me perplexed.
I’m just a rural Southwest Missouri girl, living in an even more rural part of central South Dakota. The older I get and the more I travel around, I’ve noticed that some of us not living in rural America seem to think we are the prescribers. The ones that say they know better.
We wake up in a new suburban home. Or a nice downtown loft. We put on our suit, tie, heels, shift dress. Don’t worry, I’m not singling you out. I wear a suit a lot. I like a good strong black shift dress as much as the next administrator. We hit Starbucks. On the weekend we golf, we hit the gym in the basement of the corporate office. We hop on the Metro and ride to the Michelin Star rated restaurant that opened two weeks ago and was featured last week. And when we see someone from a fly over state and we smile sweetly. We think in our head “oh the poor thing” or “bless their heart, they have no idea how to live” and we start to think of all the ways we can help them. That we are better because we know how to live the right way. We pat ourselves on our back for being able to take several vacations a year, often to a beach or overseas. Or maybe snow skiing at the time share we have in Aspen. Or maybe it’s that we have Target in our town, and bless those rural folks little hearts, they barely get by with a Dollar Store. They must be doing something wrong. They must not know how to grow and prosper like the town we live in. We must help them standardize, so they can get with the program. And so we must be smarter, better, and wiser.
We all do this in one form or another. I’m not accusing anyone of something I’ve not caught myself doing. I hold people to my measuring stick. I’m guilty of it. I think I know what it means to be successful and the right kind of citizen. But do I really? Is being successful eating at a fancy restaurant? Is it taking trips? Is it having a two car garage or a four car garage? Is it putting out white Christmas lights? Is it making lunch for your kids school lunch? Is it going to church every Sunday?
Oh you say, these things are material things or outward representations of material things. So of course, silly me, these aren’t measures of success. Fine. Let’s talk more personally. Is success saying you’re a Christian because you go to church every Sunday? Is it keeping your house clean and your yard free from stuff so as to not offend your neighbors? Is it having indoor plumbing and AC/heat in your home?
What if success were giving up your child to adoption because you knew you couldn’t make the situation work? Or loving your family, while living in poverty that didn’t allow you to have running water, heating or cooling?
What if success meant you finally gave up an addiction, quit a bad habit, made a difficult life choice?
None of those examples are rural versus city. But it brings home a point. Success is circumstantial. So if we all agree that all of the above doesn’t define success, why do we think where we live does? Why do we draw the analogy that rural means dumb country bumpkin and city means slick and smart?
I’ve noticed that we even go so far with this as not look at people outwardly and try to place where they live. I’ve shown up in a room of business professionals and had folks ask me where I’m from. Most look surprised when I say “Pukwana.” I’ve even had acquaintances say “It must be hard for you there. You don’t dress the part.” What does that mean?
Oh now, my rural friends before you go gathering up the pitch fork in an angry mob, we are guilty too. I’ve had concerned community members tell me to “watch what I wear and drive.” I once had a coworker widen her eyes in shock when she realized the dirty, bug laden SUV in the parking lot was mine. She had assumed I drove a convertible. Clean, shiny and fancy. I’ve been the community member that saw someone dressed sharply and wondered where they were from, because it couldn’t be here.
The anchoring point in all this is something we all learned in grade school: Respect one another. No matter the choices you think need to be made. They aren’t yours to make.
Stop looking at people based on where they’re from and start valuing them for what they bring to the table. Each one of us is valuable. We are all humans, all fighting a fight on whatever walk we are currently on. Just because your road is paved and mine is gravel — don’t go thinking you have the better option.