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Republican America: How Georgia went 'red'
Ozzie, Harriet, and a white picket fence
Yet these two worlds, as much as they contrast and increasingly collide, are both finding a home under the Republican banner, even if for different reasons. The old timers reflect a conservatism rooted in race, religion, and an enduring ethic of self reliance. The denizens of the new middle class are more socially moderate, upwardly mobile, and increasingly focused on preserving their lifestyles. Both find some solace in Republican tenets, though there is a tension between the two groups that portends both risks and rewards for the party.
Mark and Sandy, a young married couple who don't want to give their last name, moved into the White Columns subdivision of Crabapple two years ago. As college students, both saw themselves as Clintonian Democrats. Indeed, on social issues, they're well to the left of mainstream views here: Both support abortion rights and are unfazed by the notion of gay marriage. They oppose the Iraq war.
But now they're registered Republicans. Economically, Mark explains, they see the GOP as friendlier to corporations like the one they work for, which, they reason, is paying for their lifestyle and new home. Come November, they plan to vote for Bush.
Likewise, the bottom line seems to transcend social issues and other matters for Michael Reed, a phone-company executive who recently moved to the Crabapple area from California. An African-American in a town that is 84 percent white, Mr. Reed says he has questions about the Iraq war, and harbors doubts about Bush. But in the end, he says he is "basically a conservative," and plans to vote Republican in the fall.
For many who migrate here, Crabapple seems the closest thing to picket-fence perfection, a real-life American dream. And political leanings are a key part of that picture, marking a set of values and priorities for their families and their town. For many of the new professionals, the chase is not just to make money, but to keep it.
"Right now, what you find in Southern suburbs is a focus on religious values, family, a strong sense of the individual, and economics," says Merle Black, a political scientist at Emory University in Atlanta and coauthor of the "The Rise of the Southern Republicans." "It's part of an important change in the region that still hasn't been fully appreciated."
In a region with a strong identity, even newcomers who arrive with different political views often find their beliefs conforming to their neighbors', rather than the other way around. "People come for the good life, the promised land," says John Reddick, a medical-equipment salesman. "They come looking for Ozzie and Harriet."
Tall and clean cut, dressed in the local uniform of tan slacks and a golf shirt, Mr. Reddick is one of the few remaining "unashamed" Democrats in the area - though he says his vote for Kerry is hardly assured. One of the first of a wave of newcomers who moved to the "fun and happening" city of Atlanta back in the 1970s, he's now settled in Crabapple for what he describes as a more domestic Phase 2.
The change, he admits, is starting to impact his politics: "Guys like us eventually get married, have kids, and start looking around for a spread of our own. And what happens? We get more and more conservative in our views."
From the wallet to the pews
Freedom from too much government meddling is a canon for many old timers and newcomers alike. Robert Anthony is a high school teacher with a salt-and-pepper goatee who chats with the gruff intensity of the wrestling coach he is. He assails the Democrats for suppressing workers' dreams through too much taxation and government interference. The Republicans, he says, want to provide opportunity "for everyone." "The free market can provide way more than government ever could," he says.
That laissez faire ethos takes root early here. Mr. Black says his research shows that graduates from Southern colleges are far more fiscally conservative than their Northern counterparts, attitudes that the young Dixie capitalists take straight to their first jobs. "White Southerners don't attack corporate values, they admire them," he says. "They see Bush as a businessman and Kerry and Edwards as lawyers who come in like thieves to take their money."
If the Republican brand of economics strikes a chord with many here, so does the party's more overt embrace of values and religion. This is, after all, the Bible Belt, where the church remains the center of social life and people often wear their religion on their cotton sleeves. Jan Cunningham, the proprietor of a gift shop on the outskirts of town, draws a common values-based line on the candidates when she labels John Kerry as "wishy-washy" and Bush as a "moral, Christian man."
But the rise of the megachurch movement is reinforcing some of the region's turn to the right - and playing into Republican hands. These nondenominational churches are popular in part because they reflect the attitudes and even political ideals of their parishioners.
"Megachurches have found themselves adapting to the social and economic climate," says Ferrell Guillory, director of the Program on Southern Politics, Media and Public Life at the University of North Carolina (UNC) at Chapel Hill. "They have become real social centers that are reflective of the culture ... they are part of. And you see some evidence that Republicans see in these churches an entree into a Republican-leaning voting group."
And most of these churches have no lack of adherents. On a recent weekday, a line of crisply dressed visitors was waiting to join the North Point Church, a 7,500-member megachurch in nearby Alpharetta. Newcomers were greeted by a small cadre of women in skirts and heels welcoming them to "our family."
One who is already a committed member of the pews is Dan Sylvester. When the rock-ribbed Republican moved to the Atlanta exurbs three months ago, he conducted a thorough "church hunt." The high-tech worker from Virginia grew up in an Episcopalian household, but found himself drawn to the large crowds and "entertaining" services of North Point. At first, his wife, a Baptist from Texas, thought the nondenominational format was too "nontraditional." But Mr. Sylvester was smitten.
"It's the first time in my 47 years that I've gone to church not because it's the right thing to do for the kids, or because the wife insists, but because I'm really looking forward to Sunday," he says.
An awkward balance in a new South
Yet the tilt toward the Republicans in these expanding exurbs and beyond does not represent just a blind fealty to the GOP. In some cases, it represents a repudiation of the Democrats. For decades, one reason the Democratic Party maintained a grip on the South was its opposition to federal intervention on race issues.
After World War II and the end of the Jim Crow era, the disappearance of the "race card" weakened the Democrats' hold, which was accelerated by the national party's embrace of the civil rights movement - and government intervention - in the 1960s.
Today race is more of a side issue for many Southerners. Many of the new middle-class whites here are more concerned about taxes, big government, and, as Mr. Black puts it, "making and keeping money." They see themselves as a conservative counterweight to the cultural liberalism of some Northern states.
"The modern South and rural America are as foreign to our Democratic leaders as some place in Asia or Africa," writes Zell Miller, the Democratic senator from Georgia, in his book "A National Party No More: The Conscience of a Conservative Democrat."
Mr. Wyman puts it more bluntly: "The Democratic Party is seen as the party advancing the interests of African-Americans and the GOP is seen as, well, I wouldn't say 'looking out for white people,' but looking out for the country as a whole. Southerners feel left out of the Democratic Party, and nobody likes to feel left out."
A look down the road
Still, the Republican lock on the South at the moment is hardly unbreakable. A possible opening for Democrats is even evident in the tensions rising here in Crabapple. There's a discernable divide between the wealthier newcomers, who are focused on managing the town's growth and protecting their investments, and the older residents, who see their way of life being eroded.
Many of the new arrivals want good schools, parks, and other quality-of-life accouterments - and are willing to pay for them. "The people in these new suburbs ... want their kids to have a good education," says Mr. Guillory of UNC. "They want a good hospital nearby, and they want recreation. So they're putting pressure on even Republican legislators not to move too far to the right."
From his cluttered antique shop on Crabapple Corner, Emory Reeves has watched his town change for 35 years. These days, the talkative D-Day veteran shares a ZIP code with singer Kenny Rogers, media mogul Ted Turner, and several of the Atlanta Braves. With wealth, he notes, has come a rise in Republicanism.
But while he's a member of the GOP, too, he doesn't feel much kinship with his new neighbors - or see all the changes for the best. "The economy is down, traffic is bad, and people are buying from the Internet. It's an area of change, I can tell you that."
For now, he "wants no part of" Kerry or the Democrats - they "give away too much money." But, after a pause, he adds one other point: He's not getting much help from Republican officials, either.
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Next in the Continental Divide series: how Illinois became a 'blue' state.
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SCOTT WALLACE - STAFF
SOURCE: US CENSUS
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