Post-Election: Rural America and the Human Need to Be Heard
I have never truly felt like I fit in anywhere I’ve lived. Growing up as a mixed Asian in rural Virginia, I often felt out of place. Interestingly, what resonated most with me during my youth was Hip Hop, an art form born out of urban America. It was a genre that empowered people who, for generations, had been told they were powerless and didn’t truly belong.
In 1996, I moved to Philadelphia to attend college during what I would call an artistic renaissance. The Roots had emerged as a unique and important voice in Hip Hop. Meanwhile, Ed Rendell, the mayor at the time, was investing in Center City and Old City, empowering arts organizations to drive economic development. This had a profound impact on me, showing how artists could be empowered and how their platforms could activate a community. I begin this post with this context because I now want to speak on behalf of rural America.
Growing up in rural Virginia but coming of age in Philadelphia has given me a unique perspective on the power of the arts and the need to be heard. Over the past two years, my work has taken me to small towns and rural communities across the United States. I’ve spoken with arts leaders, community organizers, and local artists who dedicate themselves to capturing and celebrating the identities of these places. Through these conversations, I’ve developed a deep appreciation for what makes these communities unique—their values, resilience, distinctive demographics, economies, and cultures.
One thing stands out in all these places: the arts organizations that thrive are the ones that meet their communities exactly where they are. These organizations don’t come to “bring art” to people; instead, they listen, honor, and reflect their community’s voice. They take pride in their communities and celebrate their stories. It’s important to note that most people in these communities are not racist, sexist, or hostile to the LGBTQ+ community; rather, these topics are often not openly discussed or prioritized, leaving a silence that louder, more extreme voices can exploit and that media outlets amplify. By providing a localized platform, these arts organizations create a space for healthy expression, allowing voices that might otherwise go unheard to be celebrated and fostering the broad spectrum of identities within these communities.
In the wake of the 2024 election, I ask: Is our educated upper class doing the same on a national level? Are they meeting people where they are, genuinely engaging with their concerns and experiences? Are we celebrating people for who they are and where they’re from, making them feel included in our national story? Or are we reducing these communities to stereotypes, sharing memes that highlight how they fall short of progressive ideals? Too often, the answer seems to be no.
Across the political spectrum, many people in rural communities feel overlooked. Their perspectives are reduced to stereotypes or simplistic political talking points designed to spark anger. Their real needs are ignored, and they are “othered,” much like immigrants are “othered” on the right. Much of our legislation is not tailored to the realities of these areas, where resources are scarce and capacity building is limited. People in these towns feel dismissed and unrepresented by a system designed to serve larger, wealthier, and more elite communities. Is it any wonder, then, that they’re drawn to leaders who validate their frustrations—even if through anger?
The arts have the power to give people a voice. When communities can share their own stories—through public art, performances, and cultural projects—they feel seen and valued. This sense of belonging isn’t a luxury; it’s a fundamental need, a way for people to feel human, respected, and connected to something bigger than themselves. I should also note that this lack of opportunity to be heard isn’t limited to rural places.
It’s not a coincidence that Democrats have also lost ground in many poorer urban communities in this most recent election. Just like their rural counterparts, those in these communities feel disconnected from the impact of our national project. They, too, feel alienated by a system that seems to prioritize economic growth for the few while ignoring the daily realities of their lives. Residents struggle with affordable housing, quality education, accessible healthcare, and fair economic opportunities—challenges that don’t seem to be priorities in a system focused on abstract indicators. Is it surprising, then, that the call to “tear it all down” resonates just as powerfully in poorer urban neighborhoods as it does in rural America?
Both rural and poorer urban communities feel marginalized, searching for voices that acknowledge and respect their struggles. Though they are often seen as worlds apart, these communities share a bond in their frustration. They feel that mainstream narratives and policies are out of touch with their realities, and they are increasingly drawn to leaders who promise to upend the status quo. If we genuinely want to bridge these divides, we must stop categorizing these communities as merely rural or urban, poor or wealthy, college-educated or not. Instead, we should recognize them as places where people simply want to feel heard and respected.
As someone who often moves in progressive circles, I am struck by the biases that emerge in subtle but telling ways. After Kamala Harris’s loss, I noticed a popular video clip circulating among those I algorithmically align with. The clip is from Blazing Saddles, where Gene Wilder’s character says, “You’ve got to remember that these are just simple farmers… the common clay of the New West… you know… morons.” For many, it’s a joke—a way to feel powerful in the face of powerlessness. But to me, it embodies the problem we’re facing. Rural doesn’t mean ignorant, but too often, rural does mean disrespected.
I recently listened to a powerful essay by Ezra Klein of The New York Times, in which he posed this question: “Emotionally, there are two ways Democrats can respond: contempt or curiosity. I’ve seen plenty of contempt already. If Americans are still willing to vote for Trump, given all he’s said and done, then there’s nothing Democrats or Harris could have done to dissuade them. There’ll be a desire to retreat, to hunker down, to draw the boundaries of who is decent and who is deplorable ever more clearly.”
If we are serious about creating a coalition of understanding, we must start by ensuring that all communities have the opportunity to be heard. We can’t let the loudest, angriest voices dominate the narrative while the true stories remain untold. Both rural and poorer urban communities deserve a genuine platform to share who they are, take pride in their lives, and contribute to the larger American story.
Listening—truly listening—is one of the most powerful ways we can begin to heal these divides. When people in these communities feel that their voices are valued and that their stories matter, they are more likely to feel connected to a larger collective project. This is a chance to build a future where everyone, regardless of where they live, feels respected, heard, and part of a shared national story.
Funders, it’s time to direct arts funding to our smaller, often-overlooked communities—specifically, those with populations under 100,000. These places are a critical part of our American identity, and their stories deserve to be shared, celebrated, and supported just as much as those in large urban centers. Investing in the arts in rural areas and smaller cities isn’t just about economic growth; it’s about fostering human connection, building community pride, and giving voice to those who feel sidelined in the national narrative.
Building a new national coalition won’t be easy. It will require rethinking how we engage with one another, make policy, and fund the arts. But if we make the effort—by listening to people as they are and meeting them where they are—we can create a culture where people begin to listen to each other and, as a nation, finally start to understand.