They drove Dixie down

The Fam & I left Maryland over a year ago, but in some ways I haven't left it. I still have nagging thoughts about how my experience there fits into the larger narrative arc of my life. What remains within me is a jagged disconnect between my essentially "live and let live" nature and my urge to fling unpardonable epithets and brickbats in the general direction of the Old Line State.

While a Maryland resident virtually every day when I was out in the world, navigating public space, I suffered some insult to something that I judged a cherished element of a high quality of life. The drumbeat against decent disposition of the commons was constant: walking, biking, recreating, or passive appreciation of nature so often seemed to be a remote priority behind a host of private concerns. I left the state with a feeling of unease: maybe it was just me. Why couldn't I get with the program to drive everywhere, only interact with strangers at malls, buy an obscenely expensive house with water access, and ignore the environmental degradation that my lifestyle spawned? I better skeedaddle my po self back to the Midwest where I could find other bike-riding public amenity-obsessed losers like me...

Over the weekend I was reading a collection of Annapolis historical vignettes. The book contains a series of profiles of political and business leaders who founded prominent places or local institutions. Many of the family names mentioned are enshrined in places througout the city. So it's just history, right? No harm, no foul. But that wasn't my response. It felt very alienating to hear stories of a simpler, slower time from this city.

I find this response peculiar. I've lived in many places where I've happily accepted my role as the outcast: as a member of the middle class in an affluent suburb growing up; as a transient resident of New Orleans, where societal ranking was determined by your grandfather's identity- forget about your own esteemed accomplishments in this life; or as the faceless visitor in small towns where I lived for months. But something about the exclusivity that pervades Annapolis really got under my skin.

It took awhile for me to identify the root of my feelings: the roster of elites is somewhat mislabeled. They really represent the gallery of rogues. The decay of prime features of a sustainable quality of public life is a consequence of their direct (for economic or political profit) and indirect (negligence or ignorance) actions. City leaders didn't require sidewalks in new developments, push for adequate funding of the school system, preserve the rail right-of-way access to Baltimore, and based a street network on farm-to-market roads.

The result is a diminished quality of life for anybody who dares to venture from their private dwelling. The road network, often single roads on peninsulas stretching into the Chesapeake Bay, is burdened beyond capacity with little option to expand. The Bay itself is polluted, with algae blooms and a deoxygenated dead zone developing every summer. Private schools, all curiously founded in the same year- 1956- educate the wealthy's children. There is little public transit for commuters going to the major job centers, Washington DC and Baltimore. The strict regulatory framework that limits shoreline development is often disregarded.

To be fair, many of the decisions I criticize were made within the political arena, supported by the public, and mimicked national trends in development. Maryland shares Bay shoreline with Virginia and a huge influx of Bay water comes from Pennsylvania, so the environmental damage is not solely Maryland's responsibility. But those who benefited greatest from the loss of a vibrant public sphere are absent from any process to reclaim and revitalize it, yet retain the power to do so. It isn't even part of the public dialogue that the loss of vibrant public spaces is a problem. It's like the earth or public space is a color other than white, and thus can be dismissed, devalued, or otherwise shat upon.

Am I mad? Hell, yes. But I feel much more at peace with the realization that it's not just me.

Update: The reason I take such offense at Annapolis versus, say New Orleans, is that the elites of New Orleans still put the jelly jar on the bottom shelf so the little people can reach it. The essence of the place is still available to all, regardless of social or economic status. Possessing wealth will gain quite a different quality of life, but anybody can walk lazily under live oaks in the Garden District, peer into hidden gardens in the French Quarter, or swoon on the levee under a full moon. The same amenities aren't available in Maryland. The real gem of the place is the Bay, and unless you got the do-re-mi, you ain't doing that dance.

Water is the life blood of Minnesota as well, and access to it defines a quality of life. But here in the Socialist Republic of Minneapolis, a different rooster rules the roost. In Anne Arundel County, where I used to live, there are 534 miles of shoreline; only about 10 miles of that is public. In Minneapolis, home to 22 lakes with dozens of miles of shoreline, all the shoreline is public with the exception of about 5 or 6 house lots. Here, we've got the coddlewobbles because we're eating so much jam. (Some have even taken to slathering it all over their bodies, but we won't get into that.)