I am a devout viewer of Meet The Press, a Latin Mass for Those Who Fancy Themselves Informed.
So, like many others, I was glued to NBC News last week when it broke the news that Tim Russert, the 58-year-old moderator of Meet the Press, died of a heart attack while at work.
A constant theme throughout the subsequent Russert tributes was his working-class background.
Russert was the son of an Irish-Catholic garbage man from South Buffalo, an upbringing that was the polestar during his rise to the pinnacle of broadcast journalism.
Or, as Tom Brokaw put it, “...even though he rose to the heights, being one of the most important journalists in America, a guy who could drive a political debate in this country [and] had all the good fortune that goes with the success that he had, he never forgot his Buffalo roots.”
Russert’s biographical arc is a familiar one in American life: A kid from the sticks moves to the city and makes good.
But once you get to the city, if it’s New York, Los Angeles, or D.C., there is the nagging aspect of your roots. People who grew up in working-class towns or cities are often compelled to “remember their roots” and “where you came from.”
This seems to me a romantic, if not pernicious, expectation.
There are plenty of people who view the life they lead now, outside from where they grew up, as a true escape.
I have gay friends who grew up in less-than-cosmopolitan New Hampshire and who fled to the loving arms of West Hollywood. Are they expected to celebrate their roots?
I know writers from nowheresville suburban San Jose, Calif., who are happy as ever in Chicago. Are they obligated to pay homage to home?
Or, am I expected to pretend that my hometown, Montville, was the most nurturing place for someone with a less-than-mainstream temperament?
I don’t know how life in Montville is now, but I can recall the funny looks I would get because, as a youth, I opted to play soccer as opposed to God-fearing, star-spangled football.
Perish the thought.
Last week’s high school graduation speakers no doubt told graduates to “remember what they learned here.” What they learned, however, might be that they need to get out because “here” just won’t do.
The tether we are expected to have to our roots is a psychologically powerful and, for some, a financially lucrative prospect.
Consider, for instance, how many cornpone hit country songs there are celebrating the virtues of small-town life.
Just now, I spent an hour of my life that I will never get back listening to a duo called Montgomery Gentry, who play a cloying, polished brand of country music that, if you have any soul, will have you scrambling for Steve Earle albums.
Montgomery Gentry have a sugary new single called “Back When I Knew It All,” that arrives at the revelation that hick antics such as jumping pickup trucks over mud puddles isn’t so bright when you are all grown up with the kids.
An older MG song, “My Town,” takes place in a burg where the singer “was born...raised...and celebrates the packed church on Sunday and his uncle who lowers the Canadian [just kidding] flag at the courthouse.”
Here’s hoping there’s a kid living in these country-music towns who can’t wait to bust out, move to New York City, and take some art classes.
What Montgomery Gentry are saying is that the simple, uncomplicated life is preferable. But it is a lie to equate the simple life with an authentic one. Real working-class towns, not the ones in these sub-mental country songs, can be suffocating for some. Because as any student of American culture can tell you, sometimes you have to leave it all behind and light out.
Some of you might say it is pointless to be bitter about where you grew up, but to paraphrase Russert’s favorite singer Bruce Springsteen, that bitterness can lead you to “case the promised land.”
This is the opinion of senior staff writer Stephen Chupaska.