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 with me most 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. Ed Rendell, the mayor, was investing in Center City and Old City, empowering arts organizations to spark economic development. This had a profound impact on me, showing me 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 allowed me to explore small towns and rural communities across the United States. I’ve spent time speaking 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 who their communities are and celebrate their stories. It’s also important to note that most people in these communities are neither racist, sexist, nor hostile to the LGBTQ+ community; rather, these topics simply aren’t often discussed openly or prioritized, allowing louder more extreme voices to fill the silence where they are picked up by media outlets. By providing a localized platform, these arts organizations allow for healthy expression and create a positive space for voices that might otherwise go unheard, celebrating the broad spectrum of identities within these communities.
In the wake of the 2024 election, I ask you if our educated upperclass is doing the same on a national level. Are they meeting people where they are, genuinely engaging with their concerns and experiences? Are we celebrating them for who they are, for where they’re from, and making them feel included in our national story beyond sharing memes of how these communities fall short of progressive hot button issues? Too often, the answer seems to be no.
Across the political spectrum, many people in rural communities feel overlooked, their perspectives reduced to stereotypes or simplified political talking points that spark anger. Their real needs are glossed over and they are “othered” just like immigrants are “othered” on the right. Much of our legislation isn’t 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 that seems designed to serve larger, wealthier, more elitist communities. Is it any wonder, then, that they’re drawn to leaders who speak to their frustration, leaders who make them feel seen—even if through a lens of anger?
The arts have the power to provide people with means to express themselves. When communities can share their own stories—through public art, performances, and cultural projects—they are seen and valued. This sense of belonging isn’t just a nice addition; it’s a fundamental need, a way for people to feel human, respected, and woven into the fabric of something bigger than themselves. I will also share, this lack of opportunity to be heard is not 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 who are poorer in these communities feel disconnected from the impact of our American project. They, too, feel alienated from a system that often appears to focus on economic growth for the few while ignoring the daily realities of their lives. Many residents in these areas feel left out and dismissed. They struggle with affordable housing, quality education, accessible healthcare, and fair economic opportunity—challenges that don’t seem to be priorities in a system built on abstract indicators. Is it surprising, then, that the call to “tear it all down” resonates just as powerfully in these poorer urban neighborhoods as it does in rural America?
In both rural and poorer urban communities, people feel marginalized and are 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 the reality of their lives, and they are increasingly drawn to candidates and leaders who promise to upend that status quo. If we genuinely want to bridge these divides, we need to stop looking at these communities as merely rural or urban, poor or wealthy, college educated or not—and instead, 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 reveal themselves in not so subtle ways. After Kamala Harris’s loss, I noticed a popular video clip circulating among people 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.” It’s a joke for many, a way to feel power in the face or powerlessness. But to me, it embodies the very problem we’re facing. Rural doesn’t mean ignorant; but, too often, rural does mean disrespected.
I just listened to a strong essay by Ezra Klein of the New York Times. He asks the following: “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 need to begin by making sure 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 where they can 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 start to heal these divides. When people in these communities feel that their voices are valued and that their stories matter, they’re 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, can feel respected, heard, and part of a shared national story.
Funders: it's time to direct arts funding to our smaller, often-overlooked communities to build a healthy platform for these communities. Specifically communities with populations under 100,000 people. 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 and smaller population cities is not 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.
It won’t be easy; building a new national coalition will require us to rethink the way we engage with one another and the way we make policy and fund the arts. But if we can make this effort—by listening to people as they are and meeting them where they are—perhaps we can create a culture where people can begin to listen to each other and where we, as a nation, can finally start to understand.