I'm not a sociologist, and my evidence is anecdotal, but I suspect that the rural south is dying.
I've just gotten back from four days wandering around Tennessee, Virginia, and Kentucky. The kinds of roads I look for on a motorcycle trip dictate that I stay far away from population centers. I spent a whole lot of time in rural, agrarian Appalachia over the last 96 hours and saw a whole lot of people who ... well, let's just say that likely Obama voters were thin on the ground.
I got to thinking about this because the first day I passed an abandoned elementary school on TN 116 near Brushy Mountain State Prison. I was familiar with it because I've stopped to photograph it before; as the trip went on I noticed that a lot of the tiny little towns I passed through have closed, abandoned schools. Closed restaurants and service stations are emblematic of rural areas, but not necessarily the end of a way of life; if the schools are closing it means the people are leaving. If true it's a fascinating development because it's not the usual story of displacement and gentrification; this is true flyover country - areas so remote and rural that if the current occupants die off, it will be a generation or more before urban sprawl begins to fill it in again.
Part of my issue with this is simply nostalgia; for better or worse, this is
my culture we're talking about. As infuriating as I find some of the social strictures and anti-intellectualism, I can't deny that my work ethic, sense of personal responsibility and basic no-nonsense values also stem from this culture. Rural America is also a time capsule to comforts we've forgotten; I love staying in neglected roadside motels long past their prime where the water comes out of the shower head at five gallons a minute, so fast that it hurts to stand under, where the towels lack fabric softener and complete the cleaning process by abrading two layers of epidermis. I love it that there are still restaurants in America where you are asked a smoking preference.
Nostalgia only goes so far, though. Nothing reasserts your faith in the modern world faster than blasting down a back country road, speedometer ticking over triple digits, the Manson cut of 'Tainted Love' cranked through your helmet speakers, past a Mennonite farmer harvesting tobacco behind a mule.