by Gaylord Livingston
Vermonters don’t dance in the streets. We walk them. We build them. We shovel them. We drive through them in battered pickups with a plow blade strapped to the front and a tired dog in the back. But we don’t dance in them. Not like they do in the cities we never asked to become.
Because this place—this whole state—is changing. And not in the ways that matter.
We’ve got new sidewalks in town centers. Painted crosswalks. Poles with progressive flags that someone from away thought would look good on the grant application. We’ve got DEI initiatives in schools that used to just teach reading, writing, and showing up on time. We’ve got a flood of ideas—and money—to fix problems that weren’t ours until someone moved here and declared them so.
What we don’t have is honesty. What we don’t have is belonging. What we don’t have is the Vermont we once knew, or at least recognized.
The people moving in aren’t all bad. Some mean well. Some stay quiet and just want the view. But too many come with an agenda already typed up, funded, and packaged with a consultant attached. They arrive with the expectation that we’ll step aside, fall in line, and pretend we’re grateful. They bring money, but not humility. They preach values, but don’t ask questions. They hire out the lawn work, sip local cider, and wonder why we seem cold.
The truth is, Vermonters aren’t cold. We’re wary. We know when we’re being handled.
Have you heard of “Pretending Not To Know”? It’s the operating system now. It’s how people—good people—go along with madness. They nod at the school board, clap at the select board meeting, shake their heads at the rising prices, and then vote the same way again. Not because they believe in what’s happening, but because they’re scared to say they don’t.
We pretend not to know that education has become political. We pretend not to know that public health has become a business. We pretend not to know that addiction is profit, and that social services are a career ladder.
We pretend not to know that Vermont is being turned into something else entirely—and that many of our fellow Vermonters are afraid to say so.
Forget heroin. That’s an industry. People profit from it. Alcohol? That’s how everyone else copes. Behind every community event, every nonprofit gala, every board retreat and backyard wedding is a cooler, a case, a bar tab. There’s not enough alcohol in Vermont to wash down what people feel in their gut: that something is wrong and they’re supposed to smile anyway.
But hey, we got solar panels on the school roof and a new public art project coming to Main Street.
You want to see what diversity looks like now? It’s not just people. It’s symbols. Hair colors. Flags. Yard signs. It’s loud, performative, and carefully curated for Instagram. It’s not subtle—it’s theatrical. And if you don’t clap, you’re the problem.
Boomers shuffle across the street too slowly for the new timers. Farmers don’t speak the language of consultants. And old Vermonters get told they should retire—not just from their jobs, but from the conversation.
Is that what progress looks like?
My brother flew a helicopter in Vietnam. Got shot down three times. The people moving here? They want to go leaf-peeping from one. But they never ask if someone like me wants to come along. They don’t even ask if we can afford to live on the same block.
I’m not bitter. I’m awake.
I once took dancing lessons for the woman I wanted to marry. I dreamt of dancing with her in the street, not on stage, not for a campaign photo, just because the music was good and the moment was right. That’s what Vermont used to feel like—quiet dignity, hard work, and honest joy.
Now? If we danced every day in the streets of Vermont, it still wouldn’t be enough to bring it back. Not until we stop pretending. Not until we remember who we are. Not until we speak plainly, even when it costs us something.
So no, Vermonters don’t dance in the streets. But maybe we should. Not for show. But because we finally remember that this is still our home.