Even in a swing state, views are hardened

Curtis Levin may live in a swing state, but there's nothing wavering about his intention to vote for John Kerry this November. Picking up some hoagies at Barton's Deli, he pours forth a ready list of political grievances: George W. Bush is "a puppet who doesn't have any original ideas," and who will appoint antiabortion justices to the Supreme Court. The war in Iraq is "a joke." And while "they say war is good for the economy," Mr. Levin scoffs, "I don't have any extra money."

He and his wife work long hours - he at a medical marketing-research company, she as a medical illustrator - and they're paying more for healthcare, a particular concern now that his wife may need an expensive back operation.

Less than 15 miles away, Brian Annillo sees this election in equally stark terms - only from the opposite view. Senator Kerry is "a flip flopper," for whom he has "zero respect." The war in Iraq is being undermined by the media and has in fact gone relatively well: "I don't believe any country in the world has ever been taken over with less than 1,000 casualties." The local economy is strong - housing prices are skyrocketing, he notes. Indeed, his only real grievance has to do with traffic: Tired of commuting into Philly, he's opening a new business selling children's furniture.

Both Messrs. Levin and Annillo live in one of the most contested congressional districts in the country, tucked within one of the nation's top battleground states. Stretching from the working class neighborhoods of Northeast Philadelphia to the ritzier suburbs outside the city, and the farm-dotted exurbs beyond, pollsters have already labeled the 13th district a bellwether - the area most likely to determine which way the state, and possibly the nation, tips.

Over the past 10 years, the seat has switched from Republican to Democratic, back to Republican, and then back to Democratic again. Pennsylvania pollster Terry Madonna recently claimed: "If the term swing voter didn't exist, it would have to be invented to describe many of the voters in the 13th congressional district."

But while voters here have a long history of moderate views and ticket splitting, almost no one is undecided when it comes to this fall's election.

"Purple" states like Pennsylvania are often held up as the exception to the red-blue divide - and they are, in the sense that they're not reliably tilted toward a single party. Republicans and Democrats within these states have plenty of exposure to one another, and theoretically are more likely to cross party lines at the ballot box.

But that doesn't mean the nation's purple states aren't exhibiting the effects of polarization. In fact, in some ways, the red-blue divide shows up with even greater intensity.

Here in Pennsylvania 13, the relatively even mix of partisan views and looming sense of high stakes - all condensed within a small radius - combine to lend a prickly tension. Throughout the district, voters on both sides of the divide express strong political beliefs, and even stronger frustration with members of the opposing party, many of whom they count as neighbors.

One of the few things Levin and Annillo agree on is that the bitterness between the parties hasn't always been like this. But lately it seems to be growing. Annillo, for one, blames the media. "The media is extremely biased," he says. News consumers on both sides are getting "opinion and not the facts," inflaming debate.

Levin traces the schism to "an economic division." His hometown of Abington, he says, is increasingly split between wealthy residents who are getting richer by the day, and middle and lower-middle class people who are struggling to get by. "You're either one or the other," he notes. He also blames the rise of cultural issues like abortion, which he sees as inherently uncompromising: "You're either pro-choice or you're not." Having picked a side, "people are stuck," he says. "There's really no bending."

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