I moved to Vermont several years ago after having spent four summers here in the mid ‘90s. I came to escape the overcrowded summer conditions on Martha's Vineyard, which had been my home for some 25 years. I found the relief from stress I was looking for and also discovered a place filled with sensible, decent folk.

We rented a lakeside cottage in Calais and one of the thoughts that stayed with me after going back home was that whenever we were out walking the dog every car that went by waved a greeting. Of course, there weren't many cars going by, which made that behavior possible.   

When it finally came time to leave the Island (actually, the alternative community that had attracted me so long ago had melted away with the yuppie invasion), I headed to Montpelier where I had made several friends who I thought might be able to help me get started. I also chose the capitol city because I had read and absorbed The Long Emergency by James Howard Kunstler and agreed with him that the suburban lifestyle, which rested on a steady flow of cheap, abundant oil, was going to evolve into a less mobile, less wasteful society. So I got rid of my car.   

Like the eponymous character in the film Bob Roberts said, “the times, they are a'changing. . . back.’ Back to a closer, more intimate, more localized way of life. Away from the sprawl of contemporary suburbia where your neighbors are the people you wave to as you drive by on your way to pick up the newspaper. There will be anguish across the land and resistance to this change. After all, for two generations now we have been told repeatedly that what we have here is the American Way of Life. And that it's better than what anybody else gets. We've been told that privacy and freedom from each other is living on a higher plane; that a cul-de-sac is a better place to raise our children. That living in cities is harmful, destructive, only fit for lesser peoples.   

But is it? Who are we and what do we really need?   

I had an experience last summer which prompted thoughts that moved me to join the Vermont secession movement.    Circus Smirkus - Lessons For Vermont Independence.

I spent the summer touring with Circus Smirkus, Vermont's home-grown, internationally renowned youth circus. The personnel consisted of some 30 troupers (performers) – all between the ages of 14 and 19 – and approximately 40 staff. The Circus travels around New York and New England from late June to late August. The typical pattern is to arrive at a location one day, do two days of shows, pack up after the last show, and jump to the next location the following day.   

The Circus is self-contained: besides the tents and equipment required for the show we had our own generator to provide power for all operations, a kitchen-equipped trailer (called the pie car), porta-potties and bunk trailers for the staff. Troupers at each location were housed in homes provided by local supporters.   

The four bunk trailers were some 25 feet long, eight feet wide, and were divided into five rooms each, plus small spaces for showers and laundry. Each room contained two bunk beds, a small closet and some storage for personal effects. Pretty tight quarters for normal-sized adults. It was immediately apparent that the walls between rooms were paper-thin; you could hear every word of conversations carried out in a normal tone of voice in adjacent rooms. And anyone entering or leaving his room on the steps provided would cause the whole trailer to rock back and forth.   

The bunk trailers were usually arranged in a quadrangle forming an enclosed area called the courtyard. This is a circus tradition which provides staff with a sense of continuity, privacy, and home no matter where we were set up. The courtyard was off-limits to troupers, outsiders, anyone who was not staff. It was our space, which we shared with 39 others – which brings me to my point   

After a few weeks and several jumps into the tour, something became apparent to me. Here we were, 40 disparate people living in close quarters with very little conflict. No one had to tell us what the rules were and, in fact, no one did. We all seemed to intuit what we could and couldn't do to maintain the social equilibrium. Mutual consideration was the watchword. No loud talking or music. No going into another's space. Folding chairs left out in the courtyard were available for use by anyone. If you heard something which wasn't your business, you ignored it. The unspoken, subliminal adjustments we all made came automatically without any conscious awareness.

When I reflected on this I realized that we had all tapped into something which went deep into human nature. To paraphrase Lincoln Steffens, I have seen the past – the deep past – and it works.   

Humans evolved in small groups, bands, numbering between, say, 10 and 50 individuals. This pattern lasted from the very beginning of humanity until the adoption of agriculture some 7,000 years ago. The band provided protection from external threats, cooperative effort in the search for sustenance, and the comfort of familiarity within the safety of the group. Each member of the band knew all the others. It struck me this summer how quickly we all learned each others' names and roles. It also struck me how readily we all pitched in to help whoever needed it.   

We are social creatures. Empathy has immense survival value. It is our ability to identify with each other and cooperate that is our greatest strength. The emphasis on competition in recent American mythology is misplaced. Collective intelligence will usually triumph over individual effort. The traits that allow us to function – no, thrive – in small groups are still in us. They served us nicely for countless millenia. Given circumstances like I experienced last summer they surface readily, unbidden. They are what we are.   

We've fallen away from this concept in our political organization, largely because of numbers. There are too many of us – more than 300,000,000 – to identify with. Group identity falls away when the numbers get too large, so our collective identity has come to rely on abstract symbols instead of personal relationships. Things like the flag, songs, the Statue of Liberty. But symbols can be, and have been, manipulated. The power of the mass media, in the hands of a few, to shape and control thought are frightening and real.   

There's excitement in the land after the election of an intelligent, capable black man as president. But the problems we face are deep and structural: militarism, inequality, a lack of accountability, a lack of voice, the failure of the rule of law. They can't be solved by any man, no matter how well-intentioned. Ask yourself if you think Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, et al will be brought to court to answer for the crimes they have committed in the last eight years. If not, what does that say about us?   

We need to come up with an organizing scheme that is small enough to tap into our basic humanity. It's not likely that we will be able to effect such a change given current conditions. But it seems that we are heading for a fall, perhaps soon. If things come crashing down it's important that the seeds for smaller, more-responsive local governance be prepared. That, to me is what the secession movement is all about.

Bill Morancy is a projectionist at the Savoy Theater and will be running an outdoor film series at The Vermont College of Fine Arts this summer. He lives in Montpelier.