There is a campaign poster in South Dakota that reads: “Save South Dakota.” After a week there, I’m wondering: Save it from what?
I stayed with a friend in Watertown over the Fourth of July. As a European who grew up in Berlin and now lives in Addis Ababa, I carry a great deal of enthusiasm for the American way of life, but also the usual assumptions about small-town America.
This part of the world, where Trump won two thirds of the vote in the last election, already seems great. It is not in decline in any visible way. There are small markers of prosperity everywhere. Not spectacular wealth, but quiet comfort. Watertown, with just over 20,000 residents, has a zoo, a water park, an ice rink, well-maintained roads, generous public spaces, and neighbourhoods of detached homes that feel well looked after. Even a twenty-year-old family house had central air conditioning throughout – something that still isn’t standard in European homes.
Water defines life there. The lakes shape how people spend their summers. It seemed that almost every family either owned a lake house or knew someone who did. Over the holiday weekend, families gathered by the water, went boating, rode jet skis, floated in the lake, watched fireworks, and simply spent time together. The lake wasn’t just a destination – it was the centre of gravity around which social life revolved.
That sense of community appeared everywhere. Watertown’s Fourth of July parade was modest: school groups, churches, veterans’ organisations, political candidates, local associations. There was nothing extravagant about it. Yet people lined the streets, applauded, greeted one another, and seemed happy to be there. It wasn’t entertainment so much as a ritual of belonging.
The place also felt remarkably cohesive. It is, at least to an outside observer, a predominantly white community whose German and Scandinavian heritage remains visible. Family names matter. People know one another. There appears to be little anonymity – a source of comfort and constraint. The same social fabric that creates belonging also makes it harder to disappear.
Almost nobody walks. Cars are not simply convenient; they are essential. Public transport is absent, parking is plentiful, and life is built around driving. Seeing someone on foot almost felt unusual enough to invite speculation. In a place where everybody knows everybody else, even ordinary things may become stories.
At the same time, I’m wondering about those who are less connected to the lakes and the middle-class comfort I experienced. Who goes to the aquatic centre instead of the lake? Where do those without boats – or without friends who own them – fit in? I caught glimpses of economic differences around fast-food restaurants or in patterns of health, but they were subtle and difficult for me to interpret.
Perhaps the greatest surprise was how much civic pride seemed to exist. Downtown revitalisation, public amenities, volunteer organisations, the municipal band – all suggested a community that is actively sustained by its citizens.
Watertown is a place built around family, community, faith, and recreation. A place where prosperity feels ordinary rather than ostentatious. A place whose politics sounded far more anxious than its daily life appeared.
As I drove away, I kept thinking back to that campaign slogan. “Save South Dakota.” After spending a summer week beside the lakes of Watertown, I’m still asking the same question I had on my first day: Save it from what?
Felix Youngman 