I grew up in Connecticut. It is a small footnote on the map, about which the most common thing said is “it’s close to New York,” and the second is “it’s close to Boston”—the third is a half-baked take on New Haven “apizza”; Sally’s is the best. I have known for a long time that the rest of the country rarely gives Connecticut a second thought. Yet, I will often find myself defending the Nutmeg State and claiming its greatness, particularly now that I am living out-of-state and making friends from across the country.
I have become surprised with myself. Sure, I loved growing up in Connecticut, but I rarely found myself arguing—even playfully—for its absolute excellence. Now, in the wee hours of the morning, you can find me listing the great people of Connecticut—Mark Twain, Katherine Hepburn, Helen Keller—firing their names like grapeshot over the walls of Fort Trumbull, fruitlessly trying to claim that my state has influenced history more than California.
Last year, these names sat in gold lettering across from my office door when I worked—well, interned—in the state legislature. “Connecticut Hall of Fame,” the wall read. I was employed by Rep. Jillian Gilchrest (D-18), a state representative now running for Congress in the first district (remember to register to vote!). Working in the state government, I think, is where much of my conviction for Connecticut’s greatness originated. In fact, it is almost impossible to avoid such convictions while working there. The jurisdiction of the government is limited to its borders, so everyone in the building is focused exclusively within that area. The state seal is plastered everywhere, instilling a sense of pride. Then, of course, there are the politicians. Being elected officials, they are beholden to the people of the state—they need their vote.
Who are you more likely to vote for: someone who only discusses policy, or someone who discusses policy and tells you that your decision will shape the greatest state in the nation? Politicians are incentivized to push grandiose narratives, and repetition of such messaging fosters, at least in those campaigning and those working around them, a sense of greatness. If it were unimportant, why would we be talking about it? Granted, this belief is not necessarily a fabrication. Some people do genuinely believe in the superiority of their home state, absent any political messaging. However, I think this often comes from a lack of exposure, from people not seeing what other states have to offer.
Over the winter break, I left the comfort and safety of my home for the shadow realm: New Jersey. My father, a born-and-bred Long Islander, instilled in me a playful, but genuine, disdain for the Garden State: “It’s always on fire… it smells… the food is nasty.” There was no end to his grievances. I will admit, in my limited experiences in New Jersey, I tended to agree with him.
This journey, however, was different. No longer was I a transient wanderer, passing through on the way to brighter things. This time, I was a welcome guest, brought to a friend’s home, someone who could show me more than the bottom-of-the-barrel that I stumbled into on my previous trips. What I saw was largely similar to Connecticut. Sure, the Garden State Parkway pales in comparison to the Merritt Parkway, but the trees looked the same; the cars looked the same; the drivers were worse; the people were the same. Connecticut and New Jersey are close in size, while New Jersey has nearly 6 million more residents, so everything was denser and a little closer together. There were some architectural differences in homes, but everyone was living life the same way I was, the same way everyone I knew was.
What was the point of trying to say any state is better than any other? All it is is people—people living in an area. I will admit, political and governmental differences do matter. Connecticut recognized gay marriage in 2008, it has protected abortion access since the 1990s and it is one of the many states suing the Trump administration for numerous allegations of illegal action. Things like this are important to me—especially when considering where I want to work or live. There are arguments to be made about which state government is the most progressive, or which serves its citizens the best, but those are not the arguments I am concerned with. I take issue with the assertion that a state as a whole—from its government, to its landscape, to its culture, to its people, both notable and ordinary—can be argued to be better than another in any way, not relying on pure emotion and bias.
Every state is great. Every state is a mess. I do not want to hear about what makes your state great or my state bad. Just tell me what about it matters to you—your favorite pizza shop, that one gorgeous view that no one knows about, the place where you first fell in love. Those matter; your state itself is irrelevant. Maybe that is mean, but, hey, I grew up in New England.