4.) We have antipathy to people not like us. Yes, we do. We're tired of "experts" from Ivy League schools and major cities who've never known what it's like to wonder how to pay the light bill coming to our towns and telling us what to do. You and Ted Kennedy need a reality check. Most Americans work hard for what we have, only to see people like you threaten to take it away. Yeah, we have antipathy.
I think this can found true for an entire state, too, such as Nebraska, the 9th-smallest state in the union.
But it can backfire.
In 2000, some people got the gay-marriage issue on the ballot (to okay it, not to ban it).
Ho-hum, most people here thought.
Barely were the petitions to put it on the ballot certified, and barely before the news had gotten out in the state, the gay lobbies from New York City and San Francisco decided to make Nebraska a "test case."
All these strangers were deplaning and deautomobiling before anybody here had any idea who, and what, they were, and why they had suddenly come here.
This happened within hours; no Nebraska voter even had a chance to think about the matter, to mull over the matter, of gay marriage in his own mind, and here all these strange people were telling us what we were to think of the issue. There were lots and lots of them running around, and they weren't soft and gentle in their "persuasion." It was like we were being bullied.
Constant "in your face stuff."
Now, Nebraskans tend to be live-and-let-live, and no one has any idea how this might have turned out if the rude outsiders had stayed away, although one quite reasonably suspects in the worst-case scenario (worst for the gay marriage advocates), it would have lost by a slim margin. It might have even won; after all, Nebraska has gay people too. As it was, it lost by an overwhelming margin.
What turned the Nebraska electorate so decisively was the rude inconsideration of the gay lobby, prancing and dancing and hopping and skipping and frolicking through Nebraska, their gaudy bright earrings and nose-rings and chin-rings and tit-rings and navel-rings and rings further down, jingle-jangling all sorts of noises and the sun reflecting at odd angles from the sparkling ornamentation.
All this noise, all these sudden spurts of bright lights, these strange things running around, spooked the cattle.
Even urbanities in Omaha and Lincoln know the importance of cattle to the state and its livelihood, and get nervous when something's wrong with the cattle. Spooked cattle, panick-stricken and running amok, are a difficult thing with which to deal; people get hurt, and even killed, trying to calm them down.
And so the issue lost, big-time.