Chronicle from the Divided Heart of the Nation
I arrive in Ranchester, Wyoming, on a windy
summer afternoon, with the feeling of having crossed an invisible border. To
the west lies Cody, birthplace of Buffalo Bill and sanctuary of patriotic
kitsch: motels shaped like forts, signs with crossed rifles, and caravans
heading toward Yellowstone. But once you take Highway US-14, the road climbs
into the Big Horn Mountains—those ancient masses that seem to have aged along
with the continent—and then plunges into a green valley where cows graze,
blissfully unaware of history. There, tucked among the folds of the prairie,
lies Ranchester.
It’s a tiny town of barely a thousand souls,
with a gas station, a couple of restaurants, and a Western Motel that must have
known more optimistic times. Nothing seems to move, except for the flags
flapping in the wind. And yet, something stirs here: a fracture, a division
that isn’t only political but spiritual.
Since Donald Trump’s victory in 2016, European
culture has developed a kind of perverse fascination with white working-class
Americans: the descendants of poor settlers, farmhands, and truck drivers who
inhabit what they call the heartland. That America that looks upon government,
journalists, intellectuals—and anyone who orders a cappuccino—with suspicion.
In the 1990s, Jim Goad published The Redneck
Manifesto, a book that seemed like a fringe pamphlet and turned out to be
prophetic. It denounced the classism with which urban elites treated poor
whites—the white trash—a group that for centuries had been both a cultural
pillar and a national scapegoat.
Twenty years later, his diagnosis came true at
the polls. Resentment, wounded pride, religiosity, and nostalgia drove millions
to vote for a billionaire who spoke their emotional language: the language of
fury.
As I drive through Wyoming, I think of J.D.
Vance, of the hillbillies in Hillbilly Elegy and the nomads in Nomadland,
elderly Americans roaming the country in vans in search of seasonal work. The
United States has always had a restless soul, but now it seems to be fleeing
from itself. On the local radio, a preacher-like announcer declares with
conviction that “God saved America once and can do it again.” Along the road,
signs proclaim: “Trump 2024 – Make America Great Again.” They’re not campaign
relics; they’re acts of faith.
The heart of Ranchester beats along a strip of
asphalt that serves as its main street. On one side stands a bank with a
Western-movie façade that seems to await the Howard brothers from Hell or High
Water. Across the street, a taxidermist called Rahimi’s displays stuffed bears,
deer with glassy eyes, and a cougar that looks like it’s wondering what on
earth it’s doing there.
That night I have dinner at the Buckhorn
Saloon, a place of amber light and elk heads on the walls. There are no
pretensions here: the menu offers portions fit for an army and beer served in
mugs the size of a baseball helmet. The patrons wear camouflage jackets, work
boots, and America First caps. The atmosphere is masculine, dense, almost
tribal. At the bar, a man with a biblical beard and a Harley-Davidson T-shirt
insists that the press “lies like Satan” and that vaccines “change your DNA.”
No one argues.
The waitresses are kind but brisk: “Other
refill, hon?” The walls are covered with flags, antique rifles, and photographs
of smiling hunters posing with dead bears. Outside, a giant stuffed grizzly
guards the entrance to the liquor store. While I pick at a plate of
beef-and-cheddar nachos the color of mustard, I feel like an undercover
anthropologist. There’s no hostility, but there is distance. Distrust of the
outside world hangs in the air, like cigarette smoke or the smell of grease.
The next morning, the light falls obliquely
across the prairie, and the air smells of pot-brewed coffee. I decide to have
breakfast at the Innominate, a newly opened café that looks like a direct
export from Portland or Brooklyn.
The contrast with the Buckhorn Saloon is almost
comical. Here everything is bright, clean, minimalist. Recycled wood tables,
hanging plants, smoothies named after philosophers. A sign at the counter
reads: “Local Oat Milk” and “Discount if you bring your own mug.” The customers
are young, smiling, and polite. Some carry binoculars; others scroll through
bird photos on their phones. They are birdwatchers, a growing urban species
expanding into the nation’s interior.
No bacon or gravy here: just yogurt with
granola, sourdough bread, and fair-trade coffee. On the walls hang photographs
of Wyoming landscapes and portraits of bison with soulful eyes. The
conversation drifts toward PBS documentaries, hiking trails, and the state’s
new environmental policies. No one mentions Trump—but his presence floats
invisibly in the room, like the hum of a distant generator.
It’s hard to believe the Buckhorn and the
Innominate stand barely three hundred meters apart. They seem like two
different worlds: the America of hunters and the America of birders; those who
collect elk heads and those who collect hummingbird photos. The former believe
the country belongs to them and is being stolen; the latter believe it never
did and must be cared for. Some worship the flag; others recycle. Some pray;
others meditate.
The divide isn’t just political—it’s aesthetic,
moral, emotional. The same road that links them is, in truth, a line of
separation. The resentment of the rednecks runs deep. For centuries, they were
the poor whites, the crackers, the clay eaters, despised by both Northern and
Southern elites. Their poverty was blamed on genetics, inbreeding, laziness;
their culture mocked on television and turned into caricature.
And yet, much of the nation’s music,
literature, and religious fervor came from them. Their answer to contempt has
always been rebellion: clutching rifles, embracing conspiracy theories, voting
for anyone who promises to blow up the system. In that sense, Trump was their
prophet—the millionaire who convinced the dispossessed he was one of them.
Leaving Ranchester, I glance in the rearview
mirror and see the two eateries lined up in the distance. One serves burgers
with flags; the other, eco-conscious muffins. Two Americas having breakfast in
parallel, speaking languages so different they can no longer hear each other.
The richest country on Earth seems to be living through a silent civil war—a cultural battle fought not with rifles but with hashtags, menus, and ways of seeing one’s neighbor. As the car rolls away along US-14, the Big Horn Mountains rise ahead, immense and indifferent. Perhaps that’s the only America still whole: the landscape, the wind, the endless road. Everything else—politics, flags, oat-milk lattes—feels like passing symptoms of a country that still hasn’t decided who it wants to be.
