As a native Coloradan, I tend to feel nothing but pride and ownership for my state. Its luscious landscapes surround Denver’s urban sprawl, and our home-grown culture of exploration can be seen in just about every local coffee shop and ski resort. Colorado is my home.

Nebraska, on the other hand, is Nebraska. In some senses, I would now consider it a home away from home. In other ways, it also serves as a subtle reminder of how location influences culture, and culture influences people. For the month of October I lived in Nebraska, following a political campaign trail that sent me all across its agrarian lands. And now back in Colorado, I can look back at my experiences across state borders in introspection, and I find it difficult to call Nebraska anything more than by its own name.

Nebraska is, well, Nebraska.

Nebraska, the Place

Most people my age downright neglect Nebraska, in part due to its small population (like Wyoming) and in part due to its heavy emphasis on agriculture (like Kansas). In my mind, the entirety of the midwest was composed of cookie-cutter farmland towns and corn fields. Unfortunately, that included Nebraska, whose presence I couldn’t have cared less for. When I received the call about a Senate race in Nebraska, I forgot it was even a state. At the time, I was at work in North Carolina, a state that I did know of. A few days later, I began the drive towards Omaha. I thought of my move as an inherent downgrade; Nebraska wouldn’t have North Carolina’s rainforest-like trees and it definitely wouldn’t have Colorado’s mountainous wildlife. I was expecting nothing but corn (heck, their university football team is called the “Cornhuskers”).

Most importantly, Nebraska was a job: I was to drive in, work nonstop for 6 weeks, and leave. 

For the first 2 weeks, that’s precisely what happened: I mostly ignored the state as I kept cranking out phone calls to volunteers. What little time I had off from official campaign work was mostly spent on unofficial campaign work; I didn’t think Nebraska had anything to offer. I deliberately blinded myself to where I was. That is, until I finally met the Senate Candidate himself: Dan Osborn.

Dan Osborn is, in every sense of the word, an American. In his late teens he joined the US Navy, serving 4 years atop the US Constellation CV-64. After returning, he joined the Nebraska National Guard and later joined Kelloggs as an industrial mechanic. Forced to fight by the COVID-19 pandemic, Dan oversaw successful labor strikes against the company. The first time I saw Dan was at a local union hall, and the first time I shook his hand was in a bar. Both times he wore a baseball cap and plaid. Dan Osborn became my definition of “Nebraska”, and his inspiration encouraged me to open my eyes to Nebraska itself.

I was still caught in the politics of my job, but now it finally began contextualizing in context to where I was: the major cities of Omaha and Lincoln, but also extensions into the tri-cities of Grand Island, Kearney, and Hastings, and as far down the panhandle to Scottsbluff, Alliance and Chadron. Its cornfields supply the produce for the most significant beef production in the US, and its North Platte “Bailey” railyard is the largest in the country. What Nebraska lacks in landscape (Thrillist has them ranked 45/50 in natural beauty) it makes up for in charm and culture. Suddenly, I became conscious of Nebraska as a state. 

Nebraska, the Politics

Of course, knowing geography didn’t necessarily make me “Nebraskan”; it just meant that I could finally begin doing my job correctly. I initially thought of Nebraska’s politics as alarmingly straightforward: a “red” state fueled by local businesses and agriculture. I was very wrong.

Nebraska wasn’t (and isn’t) a one party-dominated state, as many believe, but is perhaps the most unique political battleground out of all non-swing states. Nebraska remains one of two states that divides its electoral votes into regions, with a “blue dot” single-vote area surrounding the Democratic-leaning Omaha. Individuals in this area either take extreme pride in their electoral separation, or despise it. As one drives through suburban Omaha they’ll quickly notice the rows of signs depicting a literal blue dot. Disagreeing neighbors, in protest, have signs with a red Nebraska (or, in some humorous situations, a red dot with President Trump’s hair swiveling atop). The politics of Omaha surround the city with an implicit aura of controversy, as neighbors sit on edge cursing out the houses across the street. 

Simultaneously, there’s an intriguing beauty to seeing houses lined up red, blue, red, blue. On one Wednesday, I drove down Dodge Street, Omaha, only to find protesters over a pedestrian bridge, waving their blue dot signs. The next day, another group of protesters lined the same street with pro-life signs. It’s impressive to see such a culture of coexistence, even in a state presumed to be politically passive.

The same trends exist throughout the rest of Nebraska as well. Lincoln’s demographic is split nearly 50/50 in partisan leanings. Meanwhile, rural Nebraska, while still Republican-dominant, has significant flourishes of Democratic presence. I remember driving out to small-town Peru, only to see Democratic Candidate Preston Love out campaigning (and receiving mild cheers). A few weeks later, the Nebraskan Democrats hosted a candidate forum in Cedar Bluffs, another rurally dense town.

At first glance, Nebraska’s political climate would be the world place to host an Independent candidate; its seemingly one-sided nature would kill any shot at victory. But a more in-depth glance proves just how multifaceted the state is. Dan Osborn describes it best when he describes his campaign’s best win: by the end, there were Osborn signs next to Trump signs and Osborn signs next to Harris signs. Neighbors were, despite all the bitterness and discontentment, still neighbors.

Nebraska, the People

And that, perhaps, is what encompasses Nebraska best: its people. As a Field Organizer for the campaign, my sole job was to talk to people on the phone and at their doors for hours per day (13 hours per day), and by doing so I’ve seen my fair share of unique interactions. A local grocery store clerk who bought back their childhood home. A die-hard libertarian who had just moved to Nebraska. A blind man who wanted to volunteer to knock on doors. The most common trait among everyone I met was a surprising tolerance towards new ideas, and an innate sense of hospitality. It came as a surprise that the amount of positive experiences far exceeded the infrequent short-comings.

I can’t help but think the stories of Nebraska aren’t exclusive to the state, either. These political complexities are very much present in just about every state, from North Carolina, which is a swing state, to Colorado, which very much isn’t. Each location influences its culture, and in turn that culture influences its people. Yet, I would argue that a large majority of people are more welcoming than fearful. Dan Osborn, to everyone’s surprise (but my own), outperformed expectations in traditionally conservative areas. Perhaps people are more ‘human’ than ‘political party’, despite what modern portrayals may say.

A Duluth jacket now hangs in my closet, bought in Omaha. Printed on its back is a bright outline of Nebraska. State identity can serve as a method of community, as it does with Colorado and I, but it’s important to recognize when it becomes an oversimplification, both in politics and beyond. I surely let myself oversimplify Nebraska, first as a red state and then as a state of corn. Nebraska is far more complex than its given credit for, and in reality most places are.

In that sense, North Carolina is just North Carolina. Colorado is, well, Colorado.

And Nebraska is Nebraska.