But what does “making our peace” and “moving on” really mean? In many ways, I think our region has been going through a collective period of mourning for the better part of four decades. Nostalgia and angst over what has been lost (some of our identity, prosperity, and national prominence) are part of the grieving process. The best way out is always through.
But we should grieve—not so we can wallow in the experience and refuse to move on, but so we can gain a better understanding of who we are and where we come from. Coming to grips with and acknowledging those things ultimately enables us to help make these places that we love better.
We Americans are generally not all that good at, or comfortable with, mourning or grief. There’s a very American idea that grieving is synonymous with “moving on” and (even worse) that “moving on” is synonymous with “getting over it.”
We’re very comfortable with that neat and tidy, straight, upwardly trending line toward the future (and a more prosperous, progressive, and enlightened future it will always be, world without end, Amen).
We’re not so comfortable with that messy and confusing historical cycle of boom-and-bust, of evolution and de-evolution, of creation and destruction and reinvention. But that’s the world as we actually experience it, and it’s the one that we must live in. It is far from perfect. But for all of its trials and tribulations, the world that we inhabit has one big advantage: it is real.
“Moving on” means refusing to become paralyzed by the past, living up to our present responsibilities, and striving every day to become the type of people who are better able to help others. But “moving on” doesn’t mean that we forget about the past, that we pretend that we didn’t experience what we did, or that we create an alternate reality to avoid playing the hand that we’ve actually been dealt.
Second, I don’t think we can, or should, “get over” the Rust Belt. The very phrase “get over it” traffics in denial, wishful thinking, and the estrangement of one’s self from one’s roots. Countless attempts to “get over” the Rust Belt have resulted in the innumerable short-sighted, “get rich quick” economic development projects, and public-private pyramid schemes that many of us have come to find so distasteful, ineffective, and expensive.
We don’t have to be (and can’t be, even if we want to) something that we are not. But we do have to be the best place that we can be. This might mean that we are a smaller, relatively less prominent place. But it also means that we can be a much better connected, more cohesive, coherent, and equitable place. The only people who can stop us from becoming that place are ourselves.
For a place that has been burned so badly by the vicissitudes of the global economy, big business, and big industry, we always seem to be so quick to put our faith in the Next Big Project, the Next Big Organization, and the Next Big Thing. I’m not sure whether this is the cause of our current economic malaise, or the effect, or both. Whatever it is, we need to stop doing it.
Does this mean that we should never do or dream anything big? No. Absolutely not. But it does mean that we should be prudent and wise, and that we should prefer our economic development and public investment to be hyper-nimble, hyper-scalable, hyper-neighborhood-focused, and ultra-diverse. Fetishizing urban designer Daniel Burnham’s famous quote—“Make no little plans, for they have no magic to stir men’s blood”—has done us much harm. Sometimes “little plans” are exactly what we need, because they often involve fundamentals, are easier to pull off, and more readily establish trust, inspire hope, and build relationships.
Those of us who came of age during the great economic unraveling and (still painful) transition from the Great American Manufacturing Belt to the Rust Belt might just be in a better position to understand our challenges, and to find the creative solutions required to meet them head-on. Those of us who stuck it out and still live here know where we came from. We’re under no illusions about who we are or where we live.
When I look at many of the people of my generation in Akron, I see pragmatism, resilience, self-knowledge, survival skills, and leadership.
He wanted to care, and he could not care. For he had gone away and he could never go back any more. The gates were closed, the sun was gone down, and there was no beauty but the gray beauty of steel that withstands all time. Even the grief he could have borne was left behind in the country of illusion, of youth, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.
“Long ago,” he said, “long ago, there was something in me, but now that thing is gone. Now that thing is gone, that thing is gone. I cannot cry. I cannot care. That thing will come back no more.”
—“WINTER DREAMS,” F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
So, let’s have our final elegy for the Rust Belt. Then, let’s get to work.
CONNOR COYNE
Bathtime
THE BATH DELIGHTS HER.
When it’s 6:45 in the evening—dark or getting darker—and we ask her, “You ready to go night-night?” Ruby toddles over toward the stairs, muttering: “Bobble, Eejee.” A bottle of milk. Geegee, her stuffed giraffe. She is one year old.
Her eyes light up when we carry her into the bathroom. We drop the plug and press down the plastic mat—you don’t want little babies slipping and banging their heads on the hard porcelain—and fill the small room with the silver sound of falling water.
She gives us a big smile as the lukewarm bath surges up around her sides. She laughs brightly when she sees she can make waves by slapping her hands down against the water. She feels buoyed by
