A sociologist and a stranger

Tomorrow morning, your Neighborhood Sociologist will toss a few pieces of luggage into the back of his beat-up Kia Soul and begin a six-hour drive down the Eastern Seaboard, from Norfolk, Virginia, to South Carolina. I’m heading home for Turkey Day.

It’s a relatively quiet drive along Interstate 95 — an endless reel of pine trees, farms, and highway exits. There are no tall buildings and, for many miles at a time, no buildings at all. Unlike the stretch of Interstate 95 north of Norfolk, which runs through Richmond, Washington, D.C., Wilmington, and Philadelphia, there are no skyscrapers piercing the sky and no cityscapes illuminating the pre-dawn hours. Fayetteville is the largest city along the way, though it’s modest in the grand scheme of things.

This part of the country — and indeed much of rural, low-income America — is conservative territory.

Until recently, this drive had a calming effect on me, even if I initially dreaded the idea of driving for so long. For one, it was a way to recenter myself. I’d find a good audiobook, grab some pork skins along the way, and set off. Often, I’d spend the first hour of the drive — before the caffeine kicked in — reflecting in silence. Many a research project and personal revelation have germinated in those early moments when it’s just my thoughts and the ambient sound of tires rolling on pavement.

I could also reconnect with my working-class Southern roots. Maybe this is why I look for pork skins to snack on along the way — it’s a…