Vagneur: Weakened community ties, disrupted social networks
Tony Vagneur/Courtesy photo
We were standing in a rather congested grill line at the Sundeck, the last week of what might be called “busy” ski season, even though the guys preparing the orders were getting them done fairly quickly. As I looked around to see where my partner was, I gave a quick smile to the man behind me, clearly a visitor; he smiled back, moved closer, and said, “How come everyone around here is in such a bad mood? People just seem angry.”
Maybe everyone notices it, even those in a bad mood, but it appeared to be a rather cogent observation, coming from someone spending a small fortune just to be in our midst. And I told him so, but it got me thinking about the fragility of society and how small changes lead to bigger changes in one’s attitude. Occasionally, a local columnist or letter writer, with some regularity, bemoans the change in attitude amongst their customers or clientele and, more to the point, changes in their own attitudes because of it.
There’s the man, or woman, with beaucoup cash in their pockets, following their dream of becoming a Western figure, master of their own destiny, and plunk down $10, $20, or $30 million or more for a little spread around here. You can’t get much land for that kind of money, but you can get a nice house and maybe enough grass to keep a couple horses or some goats.
But then, the realization comes, too late, that imagination can be the enemy of reality in such circumstances. Guess what? Not as happy as intended. Plus, it’s difficult to be a Hooray Harry at the watering holes (or anywhere) when you have to drive home to Woody Creek, or Starwood, or the top of Red Mountain. Even the West End.
Why the hell did we buy here?
It used to be that you could go into almost any store in town and find a friend who lived down the street, working there. Just a drive-by hello was good for the soul, helped keep the spirit of community alive. Maybe have a beer together after work. The friendly bartender might have been a neighbor; you knew most of the people around town when you went out at night. You could find a handyman, plumber, electrician — someone you likely knew who might have lived next door to you.
Think of the Ik, a group of people, a tribe, living in Uganda, high up on Mount Morungole, at about 8,000 feet. They had a good life, good hunting and gathering, even raised a few crops. But they were small in number, didn’t have much money or political clout, but they were happy and kept their culture alive. Until, and finally, the government took most of their territory, turning it into a national park and making them vacate the area.
Their good hunting was gone; they entered a period of famine, almost starving to death, and they were not a happy people. The were understandably angry at the situation, but they were tough. They’ve spent decades adapting, finding other areas in which to live. Think about the Utes, whom we banished to Utah.
Replace “the government” with “Big Money” in the above example, and there is something eerie about the Ik that is very close to home. Where have our workers gone? Our standup citizens? Where are they living? Is our sense of community drifting into the setting sun?
People are not pleased to live 50-70 miles (or more) from where they work. Is the unhappiness becoming noticeable? How about the others, the ones who spend a small fortune to buy-in to our envied lifestyle? How soon they learn you can’t buy yourself into the culture — you have to work your way in, sort of like newcomers had to do after the mining died.
Though Aspen and the Ik face vastly different contexts, there are intriguing parallels in their experiences with displacement and adaptation.
In Aspen, the displacement of workers and long-time locals is economic, hard to duck when it’s at the hands of soaring property values and an enormous influx of big money from outside. It was physical for the Ik because they were unilaterally forced out of their millennial traditional land and into much less hospitable environments. They could no longer hunt.
For both the Ik and in Aspen, the result is weakened community ties and disrupted social networks. It is very important that in both instances, going down the road, we maintain community cohesion.
The Ik don’t ski; we don’t live in communal, partitioned-off enclosures. But the relational closeness of us one to the other from a social networking standpoint is remarkable.
Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.
Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.
