Four Pennsylvanias and the State of America

Ryan Haylett

You ever drive across Pennsylvania? It’s like a crash course in American decline. One exit, you’ve got a town that used to make half the country’s steel. Next exit, it’s nothing but a Sheetz, a vape shop, and a Dollar General. I’ve seen more of these places than I can count, and trust me—no politician’s dropping by unless it’s an election year. Meanwhile, the people left behind are doing the hardest job in America: trying to keep a community alive on fumes. It’s brutal. It’s depressing. And yeah, sometimes it’s funny, too, in that dark, ‘if you don’t laugh you’ll cry’ kind of way.”

Ryan Haylett

Personally, I have lived in all four corners of this state. I’ve frozen my ass off on Lake Erie, bounced around the Delaware, even booze-cruised on Lake Wallenpaupack.

Ryan Haylett

I have driven through heavy construction from 79 to 84 on the same day. Nobody’s out-Pennsylvanian-ing me. And here’s what that gets you: perspective—a weird, sometimes depressing, sometimes hilarious, bigger picture of what “real America” looks like. Because nobody in D.C. or New York is running a segment on Erie in January.

Ryan Haylett

Erie’s the kind of city that tells the whole American story in fast-forward. Once upon a time, it was an industrial powerhouse—factories pumping out locomotives, plastics, heavy machinery. Union jobs, pensions, neighborhoods where every block had a couple retirees who’d spent thirty years in the plant and still wore the same work jacket to the corner bar.

Ryan Haylett

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was stable. People built lives on that foundation.

Ryan Haylett

Now? Drive through Erie today and the ghosts are everywhere. Massive brick factories that look like mausoleums to the Manufacturing Industry, whole stretches of boarded-up houses, corner stores that can’t decide if they’re selling groceries, cigarettes, or lottery tickets.

Ryan Haylett

The population’s been hemoraging since the 70s, and with every family that leaves, another crack opens in the foundation. You’ve got kids growing up in neighborhoods where they’ve never seen anyone with a job that wasn’t retail or healthcare. And those jobs? They don’t pay enough to cover rent, let alone build a future.

Ryan Haylett

Here’s the part the national media never touches—Erie isn’t some abstract cautionary tale. It’s real people trying to navigate a rigged game. I’ve worked with small business owners up there—mom-and-pop shops that still keep ledgers in a drawer, owners who would rather shut down than “pivot to e-commerce” because they can’t afford the time or the tech.

Ryan Haylett

There’s pride, stubborn pride, but there’s also this heavy exhaustion. Like you’re swimming against a rip current, and no matter how hard you kick, you’re drifting backward.

Ryan Haylett

And don’t forget the snow. Oh, my life, the fucking snow.

Ryan Haylett

Lake-effect storms that bury cars, evolve sidewalks and roads into skating rinks, and turn daily life into an endurance sport. It’s like Mother Nature looked at all the economic misery and said, “Yeah, let’s make sure you can’t even leave the driveway half the year.” It’s brutal. And yet, people stick it out. Why? Because it’s home. Because there’s history here. Because even when the economy’s moved on and the politicians have abandoned them, the people still love their town.

Ryan Haylett

Let's head east a bit, and look at a town that is now forever engrained in American pop culture. Scranton’s the kind of place that wears its history right on its sleeve. Coal was the foundation—the mines, the railroads, the factories tied to it all. For decades, the city thrived on that work. Generations dug, hauled, and built, and in return, Scranton gave them neighborhoods that were alive—kids on every block, schools that were full, downtown buzzing on a Friday night.

Ryan Haylett

But when the coal jobs collapsed and the industries followed, the floor fell out. Scranton’s population shrank, and what’s left is this hollowed-out version of what it used to be. Downtown feels way too big for the number of people actually walking around in it. Whole stretches look like they’ve been waiting for better days that never showed up.

Ryan Haylett

Then one day in the mid 2000's, a television show called "The Office", turned Scranton into a punchline. The show made business look like the last quirky holdout of small-town America. The truth? Scranton’s been in survival mode for decades. Michael Scott worried about keeping a business in a dying industry open; Scranton’s residents have been worrying about keeping their city open. The references are funny because people know the name, but the real story is closer to a drama than a sitcom.

Ryan Haylett

That said, Scranton isn’t lifeless. The people who stuck it out are some of the toughest you’ll meet. They remember when downtown actually had foot traffic, when the homes and infrastructure wasn't in decline, when there was a sense that the future might be brighter. Now they fight to keep what’s left—small businesses, community events, local pride—even when it feels like they’re outnumbered by the challenges.

Ryan Haylett

Scranton, like Erie, is a warning label for the country. The boarded-up houses, the kids moving away, the neighborhoods hanging on by sheer loyalty—that’s not just Scranton, it’s the pattern for small industrial cities across America. The Office gave us a goofy caricature; the reality is a city that’s been swinging against body shots for half a century, and somehow still standing.

Ryan Haylett

Cities like these, they’re economic bellwethers—not because they’re glamorous, but because what happens there creeps out to everywhere else. When you see their Main Streets struggling, when you see entire industries slipping away, it’s a preview for what happens when all those safety nets and economic promises dry up. There’s nothing abstract about it—it’s everyday life. Whole regions stuck in the past because the future got redirected somewhere else.

Ryan Haylett

Erie and Scranton are the parts of Pennsylvania politicians pretend don’t exist—unless they need a sad backdrop for a campaign speech. But swing the camera east or west far enough and you hit the headliners: Pittsburgh and Philly. These two don’t just hog the spotlight, they practically deny the rest of the state exists. And the best part? They hate each other almost as much as they hate being compared to New York.

Ryan Haylett

Pittsburgh and Philly are like two kids forced to share a bedroom when they should’ve been in different houses. Nobody’s confusing them for each other, and honestly, they’d both be insulted if you tried.

Ryan Haylett

Pittsburgh is steel, plain and simple. It’s the union halls, the smokestacks, the neighborhoods built around the mills. Even now, decades after the steel collapse, that DNA is still there. The city reinvented itself with hospitals, universities, and tech, but the cultural core hasn’t shifted. You bleed black and gold. You know the plays of the Steelers better than you know half your family tree. And if you don’t buy in, you’re suspect. Pittsburgh looks west—toward Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago. It’s part of the Rust Belt psyche: work hard, stick together, wear your city like a badge.

Ryan Haylett

But try driving through Pittsburgh and you’ll wonder if the whole place was designed as a punishment. Three rivers, 446 bridges, and a road system that feels like it was scribbled down by a drunk cartographer. Streets change names mid-block, GPS apps just quit out of frustration, and if you miss your turn, congratulations—you’re now in West Virginia. It’s a nightmare grid, but it’s also exactly what Pittsburgh is: stubborn, chaotic, and somehow still holding together.

Ryan Haylett

Let's fly down the 76 to Philadelphia. Total opposite in personality but equally messy. Philly’s got East Coast swagger baked in. It’s scrappy, gritty, loud, and yes—obsessed with cheesesteaks. Personally, I recommend their sandy pizza.

Ryan Haylett

But that barely scratches the surface. Philly is rowhouses shoulder-to-shoulder, immigrant neighborhoods that feel like ten countries on one block, and a food and arts scene that outsiders never really get right. It’s also sports fanaticism turned into religion. Eagles fans don’t support; they interrogate your soul. The city looks east, tied into the New York–D.C. corridor, plugged into finance, politics, and culture.

Ryan Haylett

Like Pittsburgh, it's a nightmare to travel in, but here’s where Philly becomes Philly: parking. Forget the “planned city of the future” William Penn sketched out. Today, it’s every driver for themselves.

Ryan Haylett

Cars parked in the median like it’s a third lane? Normal. Double-parked delivery vans holding up half the block? Standard. And abandoned cars—rusting out on residential streets like urban tombstones—just sit for months, sometimes years, because everyone’s too numb to even complain.

Ryan Haylett

It’s less a grid than a graveyard with traffic lights. Philly’s layout isn’t just inefficient; it’s a visual reminder of how the city thrives on stubbornness. You can’t make sense of it, but you learn to live with it.

Ryan Haylett

The stark cultural divide of these cities is historic. Pittsburgh attracted Germans, Poles, Slovaks—workers who poured into the furnaces and mills. Philly drew Italians, Irish, Jews, and waves of immigrants from the Caribbean and Latin America. The industries diverged—Pittsburgh went heavy industry, Philly spread into shipping, medicine, finance, and the arts. Those legacies carved out two completely different urban cultures that share a state line but not much else.

Ryan Haylett

And you feel it most in sports, because in Pennsylvania, sports are politics with jerseys. The Steelers and the Eagles aren’t just football teams—they’re identity. Pick the wrong side and you might as well move. It’s not just a rivalry; it’s like two competing nations pretending to be roommates. And that’s the beauty and the dysfunction of Pennsylvania. These two cities show exactly why the idea of a single, unified “American culture” has always been a fairy tale. Put Philly and Pittsburgh in the same state and watch the seams split right in front of you.

Ryan Haylett

Zoom out, and Pennsylvania isn’t just a state—it’s America in miniature. You’ve got rural red counties right next to working-class blue towns, financial hubs rubbing elbows with places where the only new construction is another fucking Dollar General. One block over, there’s a union hall; ten minutes down the road, a guy’s got a “Don’t Tread on Me” flag waving right next to a Pride flag. It’s contradictions stacked on contradictions. Tradition and “progress” squaring off every year like it’s a heavyweight fight that never ends.

Ryan Haylett

And that’s why people here don’t really walk around saying, “I’m an American” or even, “I’m a Pennsylvanian.” Nah. It’s “We're from Erie, PA”.

Ryan Haylett

Your identity starts at the street corner, not the statehouse. You’re repping your zip code, your football team, your neighborhood bar. That’s what feels real, not the abstract slogans politicians cook up every four years.

Ryan Haylett

And honestly, that’s not just Pennsylvania—that’s America. Everywhere you go, people define themselves by the local, by the stuff right in front of them. That’s why every attempt to tell one big national story feels phony. There isn’t one. The patchwork’s too messy, the histories too jagged.

Ryan Haylett

So the next time someone tries to sell you the idea of one “American identity,” remember—Pennsylvania alone has dozens of them, and they’re all fighting for the steering wheel. Maybe that’s not a bug; maybe that’s the whole system. This country’s built out of differences, grudges, and contradictions. As messy as Scranton’s main drag, as loud and chaotic as an Eagles victory. The real question isn’t “How do we unify it all?” It’s “When are we gonna admit it’s always been fractured?”