When I first stumbled upon the printed words of “Lebanon, N.H.” in the New York Times, I was shocked but not surprised. An article, printed by a nationally recognized newspaper, detailed the cities that experienced the largest changes in net migration during the coronavirus pandemic. Seventh on the list: Lebanon, N.H. with a net-in migration shift of 3.7%. Lebanon, my city, the 22nd largest populated city in New Hampshire, the 41st most populated state in America, printed on the New York Times…?
It seemed all too arbitrary. But then I realized that all the signs of rural migration were there, manifesting in the changes of the city I grew up in.
The census declares that, by special state legislation, there is no definitive population qualifying a place as a city in New Hampshire. Therefore, in spite of its meager population of roughly 14,000, Lebanon is considered a city by virtue of the fact that it has a city hall. But, all things considered, census data doesn’t accurately represent the geographic landscape in New Hampshire. While Lebanon’s municipal boundaries outline an area of 41.27 square miles, in rural America these borders seem nebulous and irrelevant. We all live on the margin of others in nearby towns; in small communities like these, you grow up alongside familiar faces. Perhaps it is this rural intimacy, this personal association with place that attracted people in the first place, especially in times of pandemic related quarantine that catalyzed feelings of isolation.
Or, perhaps it was a romantic nostalgia for the American rural landscape rooted deep in a transcendentalist fantasy of New England’s meadows and forests and mountains. To live simply and deliberately, Thoreau says. Though, to some extent, these over-intellectualized, conceited, and problematic portrayals of rural America are admittedly not false. Founded in 1761, Lebanon’s history is predicated on an agricultural and mill economy––industries that work and live off of the land, a legacy that continues to nurture an intimate, self-identifying connection to place.
I owe my entire childhood to the remnants of mill factories and railways that once flourished in the area. Growing up in New Hampshire meant jumping off of old wooden covered bridges into the rivers that once powered an industrial economy, walking along train tracks in the dark with clear views of the stars, or exploring abandoned factories in woods and forests overgrown. Weekends in high school were spent driving along dirt roads off of Route 4, oftentimes without destination, finding familiarity, stability in the land. And yet, by the time I graduated high school, the trains whistled less frequently, steel infrastructure replaced wood covered bridges, Bagel Basement became Dunkin’ Donuts, and Everything But Anchovy Pizzeria was replaced by a Domino’s. By the time I returned home for winter break my freshman year of college, a new Target had opened where a Listen center thrift store once presided.
Just as Lebanon had once shifted away from a mill economy due to a globalizing market and the import of foreign goods, Lebanon is now gravitating towards high-tech enterprises fostered by its proximity to Dartmouth College. In an attempt to enter this market, the academic elite and New York City bourgeoisie purchase lake-front properties and cheap real estate, slowly gentrifying rural, low-income communities such as my own. Moreover, COVID related desires to escape the city have encouraged unprecedented rural migration; the perfect catalyst for commercial urbanization. And now, when I drive through Lebanon, I can no longer recognize the places that I grew up––all I see is the rural city’s sense of self buried under newly paved parking lots and Walmarts; a once familiar place now shrouded in anonymity.
People may dismiss the rural city as an absurd oxymoron, but I grew up in the urban gray area that is Lebanon, the 22nd largest populated city (due to its city hall) in New Hampshire, which is the 41st most populated state in America. Lebanon, N.H, whose name was once printed on the New York Times. It’s true that urbanization often benefits many––creating greater access to growing markets, providing jobs, reducing poverty and inequality, developing more robust infrastructure. But all that is good with urbanization obscures what cannot be seen: the gentrification of rural cities, the erasure of local nuance, and the loss of place.
References:
Kolko, Jed; Badger, Emily; and Bui, Quoctrung. How the Pandemic Did, and Didn’t, Change Where Americans Move. The New York Times Company, 2021. https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2021/04/19/upshot/how-the-pandemic-did-and-didnt-change-moves.html
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