For the first time, the pig asked the farmer to avoid the Thruway and take the back roads on the way to their next big stop.
“The Thruway’s not the best way to get a sense of Used-to-Be,” the pig said.
“Used-to-Be?” asked Green, sitting in the back seat.
“Used-to-Be,” replied the pig, “says everything about this town.”
They entered that city on the towering cloudway, an elevated interstate bridge that rose high above what once were the grain mills and steel plants along the shoreline of the Great Lake. “There was a time,” the pig softly, “when the smoke from that steel plant was so thick it burned your eyes, and the women who lived in the houses across the street would hang out white sheets and watch them turn gray on the line. Great fires, sulphur torches, burned in the air, and to little children driving through it was a picture straight from hell.”
“But there were jobs,” said the farmer.
“There were jobs,” said the pig.
The Cloudway was massive and ugly, but when they built it in Used-to-Be it seemed a statement of great progress, the highway of the future. Instead it became a wall between the city and the lake, and the land beneath it and around it turned into a wasteland.
“Long ago,” the pig explained, “it didn’t matter what it looked like around this bridge, because the smoke and the soot was so thick you couldn’t see. But then the steel plant shut down and everything turned clear and now everyone can see Used-to-Be for exactly what it is.”
“Used-to-be,” said the cat.
“Exactly,” said the pig.
The bridge seemed to go on forever, passed a lakefront area that had once been a bust port on the Great Lake, until the Canadians decided to build a grand canal. Finally, the farmer swung around a great turn in the highway and the Cloudway dropped abruptly into the downtown of the city. People were beginning to look up and notice as this old Cadillac DeVille crept down the street, its seats filled two young men wearing their colors and a farmer at the wheel in his big straw hat and the black cat standing on its hind legs, front paws against the glove compartment and most striking - regal and silent - this bald eagle, one burning eye slowly looking around the city as men and women walking to their offices stopped and stared …
“Perfect,” said the pig. “Drive slow, and let them look.”
As the farmer almost idled the Caddy along the street, the pig told them stories about Used-to-Be: About the great architects, Wright and Sullivan, who built mighty buildings there, and the city leaders who used their prowess in 19th century Used-to-Be to propel them all the way to president, and the great works of art and commerce that sprang up across the city.
Then things changed, the pig explained, and they changed fast. For a moment after World War II, Used-to-Be had almost 600,000 people, one of the greatest, most powerful cities in the nation, an industrial titan that was the unofficial Upstate capital, until it began a fast and ongoing decline: Jobs vanished, and working people either left the city or moved away altogether, leaving only the poor and suffering in a ring around the once-grand downtown. Taxes climbed and the industries that fouled the air and water moved away, taking their jobs and leaving behind their filth.
Civic leaders, bred and trained only for the personality wars of ward politics, were not equipped or prepared for such great changes. Many knew nothing of planning, and they thought Jane Jacobs was the mother on “The Jetsons,” and they reached out for miracle cures: A domed stadium! A grand shopping mall! There was always some idea! To make room for cars downtown they leveled timeless landmarks, destroying the legacy of some of the great architects in history, and the only thing that grew up in their place was the tall grass.
Silver bullets, it was clear, were no cure for Used-to-Be, and the city only continued with its long and slow decline.
“How do you know all of this?” the eagle asked, his one eye on the pig.
“I read,” said the pig. “But I assume you don’t, since you symbolize our country.”
“Education,” the eagle replied, “does not equate to admiration.”
“Not in this country,” said the cat, as the Caddy pulled slowly into the great circle in front of the 40-story Art Deco City Hall of Used-to-Be. Television trucks were also spilling into the circle, and men and women in work clothes had stopped to point. Even street people gave up their daily battle for survival to come and see, and a crowd in Used-to-Be gathered around this convertible Caddy, parked in the circle.
“Introduce me,” the pig whispered in the farmer’s ear, and the two of them crawled up to stand on the trunk.
People smiled. They pointed. They were ready for the show.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the farmer shouted. “Here’s the pig!”
The pig, on his hind legs, took in his surroundings. By now, a few hundred people stood and watched, and more were arriving by the minute, and he glanced at the television cameramen muscling through the crowd. This was it. No speech would be more important on his journey, because everything he needed to say was at play in Used-to-Be.
“Greetings,” he said. “I am proud to stand at the heart of your once-great city.”
There was a wave of delighted laughter from the crowd. “He can talk!” someone shouted, and someone else said, “It’s the farmer! Watch his lips!” The pig, hearing this, reached over and squeezed the farmer’s mouth shut.
“I assure you,” he said, “these are my own words. And I think the words to focus on are these two words: Once great.”
A titter of laughter, but that was all. The crowd grew silent. You could hear the cry of he gulls coming in from the Great Lake.
“Ah,” said the pig. “You feel those words, as do I. You will not, however, hear those words from politicians. In each election, they promise the answer to Used-to-Be: A casino, maybe, or another stadium. What they don’t say is this: What they don’t say is that your city has gone through as catastrophic a slide as anyplace in this nation. What they don’t say is that 100 years ago, Used-to-Be was the Charlotte or Seattle of today, a city of great promise in arts and industry.
“Then it changed,” the pig said. “Your city has been bleeding people since just after World War II. Your political machine, once capable of turning out great leaders of the nation, is no longer capable of even turning out a great mayor. As for Albany, your problems are hardly on their mind. Each governor tells you to look up at the sun, that your worries are not so bad as you imagine, that your city is on the brink of turning the corner!
“But the only corner you see turned,” the pig said, “is the corner your sons and daughters turn when they bag their bags and leave this town.”
Silence in the crowd, growing bigger by the minute.
“Let me ask you,” the pig said. “Are you a bunch of chumps? Why aren’t you angry about any of this? Why aren’t you angry that your leadership built these roads that walled off your lakefront from your city? Why aren’t you angry that your city’s been declining for half a century?
“Why aren’t you angry that your leadership knocked down landmarks built by some of the greatest architects in history? Why aren’t you angry that Albany lacks the courage to even admit your problems? Why aren’t you angry that the best the governor can offer you a casino, which is like offering salt water to a thirsty man?
“What’s the matter with all of you?” the pig said. “Why aren’t you angry about the industries that dumped their poison, then ran away from town? Why aren’t you angry that Albany is run by a downstate cabal? Why aren’t you angry that the tail wags the dog in this state, that the entire Upstate region has not been able to elect a governor since 1920, and that your last Upstate senator left office 36 years ago?
“Wake up,” shouted the pig. “The only thing in this town that’s not Used-to-Be getting screwed!”
The words were a jolt, and they caused the faintest murmur of response, and then it grew and rippled across the crowd and suddenly there was a great tumult of anger and applause and someone shouting “The pig! The pig!” while the pig raised his arms and basked in the response.
“I am going …” the pig started, unable to speak over the noise, until the bald eagle took flight in a great dramatic burst and cried in a wild voice to silence the crowd.
“I am going to Albany,” the pig said. “I am going to sit in the governor’s office. I am going there to take the governor’s chair for all of Upstate, but I cannot do it unless you come when I call.
“So how about it?” he cried. “How many are with me?”
In Used-to-Be, a few refused. But far more were with the pig.
To read "The Upstate Rebellion," chapter 4
"The Upstate Rebellion," chapter 3
"The Upstate Rebellion," Chapter 2
"The Upstate Rebellion," chapter 1