Jake Turx's political and roots journey in Pennsylvania’s rural Trump country
Judging by the applause, no one disagreed.
Seeing Trump talk about giving “the farmers a little help — $12 billion and they are so happy,” something in me stirred. Something older than any speech. For me, northeastern Pennsylvania is home turf.
My mother’s family, the Berlinskys, once worked the soil just a few miles from here, on a farm in a little cozy hamlet of White Haven, long before the interstate carved its way right through their land. They hauled milk cans at dawn, canned jam in the summer, prayed for rain in the dry months, and built a little shtetl on in the middle of Pennsylvania’s backwoods. Cousins lived in Hazleton. Stories lived everywhere.
“I have fun. I haven’t read practically anything off the stupid teleprompter,” Trump continued, his voice sounding amused with itself.
But as the applause rolled through the casino ballroom, I could heard the echo of families like mine, who carved out a life of faith and stubborn hope in these hills long before politics turned them into talking points.
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