GAIL WHITE Rust Belt sets shining example of values and the American Dream

Thanksgiving always gets me thinking about the many blessings in my life. A wonderful family, good friends and freedom are at the top of my list, as they are every year.
But this year, I kept coming back to a thought that I just couldn't shake. Every time I considered my good fortune, I returned to this thought. Never had I considered this aspect of my life a blessing -- in fact, at times I have been ashamed of it.
Maybe it is the war going on in Iraq that has me appreciating this more. Maybe it is the people I have met, interviewed and written about that started me thinking this way. Maybe it is the traveling I have done in past years that has opened my eyes. Or, perhaps it is simply wisdom, settling in as I grow older.
The blessing in my life that I am most grateful for this year is growing up in what our nation has called the Rust Belt.
It's not exactly a term you use with your chest puffed out and a smile on your face. Up until now, when someone has asked me where I come from I have used the put-your-hand-over-your-mouth-and-mumble technique. The response is always the same, "Oh yeah, where the steel mills closed."
When mills shut down
I was growing up right when the mills were shutting down. I remember driving down the freeway and seeing the fiery furnaces and then the next time, the fire was gone. I remember friends leaving town and families struggling.
I never fully understood the impact that the mill closings had on the Valley. Graduating in the mid-'80s I thought everybody, everywhere went away to college and didn't come back.
But here's what I have come to realize. Here is the blessing for which I am eternally grateful.
Beneath the rust of those old mills lies pure, solid gold.
Day in and day out, men and women worked in the mills. It was hard, grimy work for the most part. They came home and sat down to dinner with their families. Afterward, they played ball or sat together around the television.
Neighborhoods were filled with families of mill workers. The children played together. The parents socialized together. No one was terribly rich, and anyone who was needy was taken care of.
Way of life
The mills were more than just a workplace; they were a way of life. Many of the first workers were immigrants, and the opportunity the mills gave them represented the American dream that they had traveled across the ocean to find. Their hope was that their hard work would enable their children to live that dream as well. For generations, their children did live that dream.
Then one day, the dream ended.
For many, the end came literally in one day. There was no time to prepare; no period of adjustment. Just poof! And the fires were out.
Boys no longer knew that the day after they graduated from high school they would begin working alongside their fathers. Girls no longer held the thought of marrying like their mothers had and raising a family in the brownstone down the street.
And so they left. It was as if the Pied Pier had come to town.
YSU did a study on the mass exodus of young people in the '80s. They called it the brain drain. I witnessed the brain drain first-hand. At one point, I could count on one hand fellow high school graduates who still lived in this area.
It's been more than two decades since the mills closed. For years, we watched the metal turn to rust. Then the rust was torn down.
But underneath the rubble, below the surface of those old fiery mills, gold is rising to the surface. Every year it is shining brighter and brighter.
The children are coming back.
The generation that left is returning as adults with educations and families.
Having been other places and witnessed other lifestyles, they have come to the realization that extended family and the close-knit communities of the Valley are a great place to call home.
Rewards
For some, the journey home has meant pay cuts and lost promotions. Their reward, the "gold" that their parents instilled in them, is an evening meal with the family, coaching the baseball team and Sunday dinner at grandma's.
For the generation whose children are returning, those dinners are their American dream come true.
The mills are gone, but the values and morals that made the Valley a great producer of steel are still alive, glimmering like gold in the rubble of the rust.
I grew up in the Rust Belt. For that, I am so thankful.
gwhite@vindy.com