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  FOR THE KIDS

  Introduction

  The Audacity of Despair

  This is a collection of essays I wrote between 2012 and 2014. It covers topics such as the collapse of the U.S. economy, the abandonment of the American heartland, the loss of opportunities for youth, the rise of paranoia and the erosion of social trust, the soaring cost of living, and the transformation of industries like media and higher education into exploitation schemes for elites. An old adage says to write what you know. As a journalist living in a decayed Midwestern city waiting—and waiting and waiting—for the Great Recession to end, that was what I knew.

  Now, almost five years after I originally wrote these essays, it is still, unfortunately, what I know.

  I did not set out to write a book, and I certainly did not expect this book to become a guide for those struggling to understand what happened to the United States in 2016 and the mass frustration and rifts the election of Donald Trump exposed. I simply wanted to cover what were, at the time, topics very few of my colleagues wanted to discuss: systemic corruption, the breakdown of institutions, and a post-employment economy where you pay to play or you fall through the cracks.

  As the industries I worked in kept collapsing, I fell through the cracks myself a few times, and the only consolation from that experience is that the view from the cracks is a lot clearer than the view from above. I was not alone in my frustration, as I watched friends from all walks of life—people with education levels ranging from a GED to a PhD, people from all sorts of professions and backgrounds—face that same feeling of futurelessness and receive the same empty assurances. “The economy is cyclical,” experts assured us, in a line that reeked of spin.

  At a time when Americans were being continually informed that our crises were over—the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were ending, we lived in a post-racial society, the good jobs would be back any day now—I saw no improvements on the ground. America had returned to “normal,” politicians and pundits proclaimed, but “normal” felt like a crisis. And when you live in a crisis, you write with urgency, because you need problems to be solved.

  So in the era of the audacity of hope, I made a case for the audacity of despair.

  This is where you may be thinking to yourself, “Wow, this is going to be a really depressing book!” And it might be, but that never was and is not my intent. One cannot solve a problem until one acknowledges a problem exists. That is the lesson that Americans learned the hard way during the 2016 election and its aftermath.

  It is easy, when people feel frightened and abandoned, for a demagogue to exploit those feelings of despair for political gain. It is easy for that demagogue to translate fear into fanaticism, to shift extremism into the mainstream and market it under the guise of populism. By the time buyer’s remorse hits, a new and more brutal political culture has arisen. A gaslit nation becomes engulfed in flames.

  The United States’ current contentious climate is the flip side of the false promise of hope we saw half a decade ago. In the aftermath of the recession, hope was wielded like a weapon by corporations that lured in desperate Americans with exploitative assurances: work for low wages now and you will be rewarded with a raise later; rack up college debt because a steady job is guaranteed. Hope was flaunted by pundits and politicians safely ensconced in elite coastal enclaves, who implied—with their endless proclamations that prosperity awaited if you worked for it—that the lack of prospects for the rest of us must be our own fault.

  Above all, we were told not to complain. Don’t complain about exploitation. Don’t complain about discrimination. Don’t complain that you feel trapped. Don’t complain, because the problem is not real—don’t complain, because then people will think the problem is you.

  Before I began writing about the problems of the United States, I spent my career studying authoritarian states: countries where citizens cannot complain in public because officials will punish them for doing so. Friends of mine living in countries like Azerbaijan and Uzbekistan had been sent to prison for talking about the same issues I wrote about in the United States. They were criminalized for exposing institutional corruption, systemic discrimination, and opportunity-hoarding by elites. Complaining, to me, always seemed like a gift and an obligation, a path to prospective change that one should never take for granted. So in the course of the two years I spent writing these essays, I used the platform I had at Al Jazeera to complain.

  My essays went viral, often attracting millions of views despite (or perhaps because of) their bleak subject matter. I heard from readers living in places like St. Louis—postindustrial regions where the economy had long bottomed out. I heard from debt-ridden young people struggling to survive in expensive cities where the cost of living had tripled within a decade. I heard from people from all sides of the political spectrum, who disagreed with each other on many issues but shared a common sense of marginalization and betrayal. I also heard from readers who were doing well, but who felt concerned by what I reported. I tended to get two kinds of reactions from my readers: “I’m so glad someone is finally talking about this,” and “I had no idea.”

  In the fall of 2014, I quit Al Jazeera English following Al Jazeera’s decision to rebrand itself for an American audience, a decision which, ironically, curtailed my own ability to talk bluntly about problems in America. (The rebranded Al Jazeera America went out of business in early 2016.) I moved on to covering other topics for other outlets. By that time, my own city of St. Louis had become an international symbol of dysfunction following protests against police brutality in Ferguson—but my old essays remained popular. My work served as a disturbing reminder that the political and economic crises I had documented not only remained, but had gotten worse. In 2015 I decided to collect the essays I had written for Al Jazeera, to call the collection The View from Flyover Country, and to sell it on the Internet.

  After the 2016 election, The View from Flyover Country became an online bestseller. This was partially due to the fact that I had predicted nearly all developments of the 2016 election and Trump’s win—my foresight was an unfortunate by-product of a lifetime spent studying foreign demagogues, along with an intimate understanding of deteriorating conditions in the United States. But my book also became popular because the issues I had started writing about way back in 2012 never lost relevance. They had simmered and then exploded, startling elites who still thought of our country as one of prosperity and possibility. Because I had tracked the death of the American dream in real time, and because I focused on those who suffered, many people turned to my book for an explanation.

  Today, the problems I exposed in The View from Flyover Country, which were controversial five years ago, are now a part of mainstream political discourse. This would be a matter of profound relief if I believed the result was that they would be remedied instead of exploited.

  As the book gained
popularity, I stayed where I am: in an impoverished blue city in a bright-red state, squarely in the center of the country. In the publishing world, this makes me an anomaly. In the 2015 introduction to this book, I wrote, “This is the view from the other America, from flyover country, the places and people often ignored.” Two years later, we are still ignored. The Midwest, in decline for decades, still suffers disproportionately. We get attention when there’s a murder, a protest, an election. Otherwise, we are treated as pawns in a media-staged hunger games, as parachute journalists swoop in for riots and rallies, as people who would never deign to live in a place like my city tell the world what it truly represents, who we truly are.

  As a result, the complexity of our plight—and of America’s in general—has often been misconstrued. Since the 2000 elections, pundits have been proclaiming there are “two Americas,” red and blue. This has never truly been the case. There are dozens of red Americas, with extreme variations in demographics and values, and dozens of blue Americas as well. There are endless variations of “America” in St. Louis alone. There is no America that is “real” or “fake.” This insistence that we have an inherent divide has in some respects become a self-fulfilling prophecy. At this contentious point in our history, these divergent Americas are unified most, unfortunately, by a collective sense of pain. America is purple—purple like a bruise.

  I live in the middle, and when you live in the middle, you see things from all sides.

  This edition of The View from Flyover Country contains the original essays in their original form because my goal has not changed. I am motivated today by the same thing that motivated me when I first wrote these pieces: I believe that problems, if exposed and documented, can be solved, and that suffering can be abated. It’s never clear what the result of discussing problems will be, but ignoring them is a clear road to destruction.

  Blind hope, in the end, is only blindness. If we want to figure out a way out of this situation, we need to reexamine how we got into it.

  —September 2017

  PART I

  Flyover Country

  The View from Flyover Country

  In St. Louis, you can buy a mansion for $275,000. It has twelve bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a three-bedroom carriage house, and is surrounded by vacant lots. It was built in the late 1800s, a few decades before the 1904 World’s Fair, when St. Louis was the pride of America. In 1904, everyone wanted to live in St. Louis. A century later, the people who live here die faster. A child born in Egypt, Iran, or Iraq will live longer than a child born in north St. Louis. Almost all the children born in north St. Louis are black.

  In St. Louis, the museums are free. At the turn of the twentieth century, the city built a pavilion. They drained the wetlands and made a lake and planted thousands of trees and created a park. They built fountains at the base of a hillside and surrounded it with promenades, white and gleaming. Atop the hill is an art museum with an inscription cut in stone: “Dedicated to art and free to all.” On Sundays, children do art projects in a gallery of Max Beckmann paintings. Admission is free, materials are free, because in St. Louis art is for everyone.

  In St. Louis, you can walk twenty minutes from the mansions to the projects. In one neighborhood, the kids from the mansions and the kids from public housing go to the same public school. On the walls of the school cafeteria are portraits of Martin Luther King Jr. and Barack Obama, to remind the children what leaders look like.

  In St. Louis, the murder rate is high and the mayor is named Slay but few think that is funny. In St. Louis, things are cheap but life stays hard. In St. Louis, an African-American man with gold teeth and a hoodie and baggy jeans rushed toward me in a mall, because I was pushing a baby carriage, and he wanted to hold the door open for me.

  Ahead of Its Time

  St. Louis is one of those cities that does not make it into the international news unless something awful happens, like it did last week in Cleveland, another American heartland city with a bad reputation and too many black people to meet the media comfort zone. The city is treated like a joke, and the people who live there and rescue women and make concise indictments of American race relations are turned into memes.

  St. Louis is one of those cities where, if you are not from there, people ask why you live there. You tell them how it is a secret wonderland for children; how the zoo is free and the parks are beautiful; how people are more kind and generous than you would imagine; how it is not as dangerous as everyone says. They look at you skeptically and you know that they are thinking you cannot afford to move. They are right, but that is only part of it.

  St. Louis is one of those cities that is always ahead of its time. In 1875, it was called the “Future Great City of the World.” In the nineteenth century, it lured in traders and explorers and companies that funded the city’s public works and continue to do so today. In the twentieth century, St. Louis showed the world ice cream and hamburgers and ragtime and blues and racism and sprawl and riots and poverty and sudden, devastating decay. In the twenty-first century, St. Louis is starting to look more like other American cities, because in the twenty-first century, America has started looking more like St. Louis.

  * * *

  This is the view from flyover country, where the rich are less rich and the poor are more poor and everyone has fewer things to lose.

  * * *

  St. Louis is a city where people are doing so much with so little that you start to wonder what they could do if they had more.

  Rich Are Less Rich

  In St. Louis, you reevaluate “fair.” In St. Louis, you might have it bad, but someone’s got it worse. This is the view from flyover country, where the rich are less rich and the poor are more poor, and everyone has fewer things to lose.

  The symbol of St. Louis is both a gateway and a memorial. The Arch mirrors the sky and shadows the city. It is part of a complex that includes the courthouse where the Dred Scott case was settled, ruling that African Americans were not citizens and that slavery had no bounds.

  On a St. Louis street corner, someone is wearing a sign that says, “I Am a Man.” Like most in the crowd gathered outside a record store parking lot, he is African-American. He is a fast food worker and he is a protester. He needs to remind you he is a human being because it has been a long time since he was treated like one.

  On May 8, 2013, dozens of fast food workers in St. Louis went on strike in pursuit of fairer wages and benefits. “We can’t survive on 735!” they cried, referring to their wage of $7.35 an hour—a wage so low you can work forty hours a week and still fall below the poverty line. At a rally on May 9, workers from Hardee’s and Church’s Chicken talked about what they would do with $15 an hour: feed their families, pay their bills. “If we can make a living wage, we can give back to the community, and we are part of this community,” a cashier from Chipotle said.

  In St. Louis, possibilities are supposed to be in the past. It is the closest thing America has to a fallen imperial capital. This is where dystopian Hollywood fantasies are set and filmed. It is the gateway and the memorial of the American Dream.

  But when the American Dream is dying for everyone, St. Louis might be the one to rise up. In St. Louis, people know what happens when social mobility stalls, when lines harden around race and class. They know that if you have a job and work hard, you should be able to do more than survive. They know that every person, every profession, is worthy of dignity and respect.

  St. Louis is no longer a city where you come to be somebody. But you might leave it a better person.

  —Originally published May 12, 2013

  Expensive Cities Are Killing Creativity

  On May 5, musician Patti Smith was asked what advice she had for young people trying to make it in New York City. The longtime New Yorker’s take? Get out. “New York has closed itself off to the young and the struggling,” she said. “New York City has been taken away from you.”

  Smith was not the only New Yorker to reject the city that had n
urtured artists for decades. In October, musician David Byrne argued that “the cultural part of the city—the mind—has been usurped by the top 1 percent.” Under Michael Bloomberg, New York’s first billionaire mayor, homelessness and rent both soared, making one of the world’s centers of creative and intellectual life unlivable for all but its richest citizens.

  At play, notes Byrne, was more than a rise in the cost of living. It was a shift in the perceived value of creativity, backed by an assumption that it must derive from and be tied to wealth. “A culture of arrogance, hubris and winner-take-all was established,” he recalls. “It wasn’t cool to be poor or struggling. The bully was celebrated and cheered.”

  New York—and San Francisco, London, Paris, and other cities where the cost of living has skyrocketed—are no longer places where you go to be someone. They are places you live when you are born having arrived. They are, as journalist Simon Kuper puts it, “the vast gated communities where the one percent reproduces itself.”

  There are exceptions in these cities, but they tend to survive by serving the rule. The New York Times recently profiled Sitters Studio, a company that sends artists and musicians into the homes of New York’s wealthiest families to babysit their children. “The artist-as-babysitter can be seen as a form of patronage,” suggests the Times, “in which lawyers, doctors and financiers become latter-day Medicis.”

  This is the New York artist today: a literal servant to corporate elites, hired to impart “creativity” to children whose bank accounts outstrip their own.

  The Times explains the need for the company as follows: “Parents keep hearing that, in the cutthroat future, only the creative will survive.” The “creative” will survive—but what of creativity? Enterprises like Sitters Studio posit creativity as commodification: a taught skill that bolsters business prowess for tiny corporate heirs.