𝗠𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗔𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮 𝗶𝗻 𝗠𝗶𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝗖𝗶𝘁𝘆

For a few days last week, I experienced a side of America far from the big city life I’ve always known.

I met up with college buddies in Miles City, Montana, a town of almost 8,500 strong-minded, decent people. Living in Miles City instills those qualities because of one reality – an unforgiving wind that rips across the High Plains at the junction of the Tongue and Yellowstone rivers. You’ve got to be tough to live in Miles City.

The wind seems to penetrate everything. My buddy Steve moved to Miles City 5 years ago after retiring as a high school English teacher in northern Virginia. He was attracted to the proximity of the homestead his grandfather built 30 miles north of Miles City. Steve’s dad spent this youth there before moving east. 

His last relative in Montana lived in the homestead until the 1970s, when he took his own life. He left behind this note: “I can’t take the wind anymore.”

Steve invited us to his home to enjoy the Miles City Bucking Horse Sale, the city’s major annual event. It is a combination country music concert-rodeo-parade-and horse sale jammed into three festive days. Steve thought this Brooklyn kid should meet the rural folk of Montana, and that maybe his friends might enjoy an accent uncommon in those parts. He was right.

I met a range of wonderful people in Miles City. There was Eric, the burly gentleman bartender at the historic Montana Bar, who wore a crisp white shirt with sleeve garters and a black vest. You be nice to Eric, and he’ll be nice to you.

And John, who tended a gambling table at Tubb’s Pub. He moved to Miles City after a life on the move, riding his three-wheel motorcycle from his home in Alaska to New York City before heading back West. John beamed as he told me stories of his travels across America and especially stories about his wife and son.

And then there’s Shane, a fine young man who wore a Boston Celtics jersey. We met at Tubb’s, and Shane immediately warmed up to my Northeastern accent and challenged my insistence that this year, the Knicks would take down his Celtics. (Sorry, Shane.)

Most of all, I talked to people whose lives couldn’t be more different than mine, but whose values were the same. Here’s what I learned:

America’s biggest problem is that we dislike each other without knowing each other. 

Perhaps the reason we’re at odds is that we don’t communicate directly. But we hear about each other in the howling wind that is the media, and come away with exactly the wrong impression of country folk, city kids, and every ethnic and socioeconomic group. 

Many folks, most notably retired Gen. Stan McChrystal, have suggested a national year of service. This would bring together American kids in conversations that would narrow the distance between us and broaden our minds, so that Brooklyn kids, in just one example, could feel at ease in Miles City.

I can’t wait to return.