A different way to look at polarization

I had a conversation with an area stakeholder last week, and the word that lingered longest in my mind afterward was “polarized.” The individual was concerned that McCook’s polarization was impeding progress, which is, by any measure, a legitimate concern.

The question in my mind was, which poles? I asked cautiously, almost apologetically, concerned that raising the question might contribute to the problem itself.

The stakeholder did not specify the type of polarization he had in mind, though, in 2025, it would be natural to assume the familiar national script: far left versus far right, serious news versus social media, red versus blue. That framework, however, fits McCook only awkwardly.

Local politics here tend to follow a more purple hue. They are shaped less by party labels than by an active and determined resistance to the notion that population decline is inevitable; that we are doomed to follow the regional pattern of outmigration, cultural and economic decline.

If there is indeed a fault line in McCook and Red Willow County, it is not easily reduced to national political ideology. Evidence suggests the divisions are murkier, more personal and often far older. As in any small community, disagreements are just as likely to trace back to long memories and unresolved slights as to competing visions of policy. As we have often observed, with only slight exaggeration, most troubles in life have a statute of limitations except capital murder and a small-town grudge.

The conversation brought to mind an oft-repeated anecdote from Washington that, stripped of its crudeness, offers a surprisingly useful lens. When Lyndon B. Johnson assumed the presidency in November 1963, he inherited not only the trauma of an assassination but a federal government thick with unresolved tensions. Among them was the status of J. Edgar Hoover, who had led the FBI for nearly four decades and was well past the agency’s mandatory retirement age. On paper, Hoover was vulnerable. Johnson could easily have removed him, but he did not.

When asked about that decision years later, Johnson offered an explanation so indelicate that editors have spent decades translating it into language that is acceptable in polite company. The remark, quoted by journalist David Halberstam in a 1971 New York Times article, revolved around “the tent,” a term political insiders use for the loosely defined circle bound by cooperation and trust.

“The tent,” in any community, is the space of mutual trust between people and institutions, where disagreements are handled with candor, context is offered before conclusions are drawn and mistakes are corrected quietly when possible rather than loudly after the fact. It is the realm of good-faith cooperation, where returning calls and explaining decisions are understood not as favors, but as responsibilities. It is an informal compact that allows a community to govern itself without unnecessary friction, grounded in the understanding that independent thought is not inherently adversarial.

The other element of Johnson’s indelicate quote referenced Director Hoover’s urinary flow. Johnson speculated as to whether that flow was better directed outward from inside “the tent,” or inward from outside “the tent.” That, Jonson contended, was the logic behind keeping Hoover around.

Readers curious about the original phrasing can easily find it by searching for the terms “Lyndon Johnson Hoover inside the tent.” The value of the anecdote, however, lies less in its shock than in its insight. It’s a timely question.