In this volatile and unpredictable election cycle, pundits have obsessed over slices of the Republican electorate they believe could decide the outcome in November—the vaunted college-educated suburban women, for example, and less-educated blue-collar men. But there’s a group of voters, scattered across the vast American interior, that has gotten almost no attention at all and might be just as
decisive in November. They live in states so reliably red that no one from either party generally pays them much attention. Nebraska went for Trump in 2016 by 25 percentage points and will almost certainly do so again this November; indeed, the last time the state voted for a Democrat, it was for Lyndon B. Johnson in 1964.
But their distaste might be a telling indicator of why Trump is floundering in polls across the country. It isn’t necessarily about a policy or a broken promise, it’s about Trump as a person. Trump’s bare-knuckled personality—which was on full display at the Tuesday debate—has been his calling card. He has said things that no one else dares, and his base loves him for it. But for this group of former supporters, Trump’s personality has become his biggest liability.
I spent a monthin my home state trying to learn what Nebraskans believe is at the roots of defections like Dlouhy’s. Why are conservatives like her quietly questioning whether they can cast a presidential vote in good conscience? In so many ways, their views haven’t changed—they are still passionately pro-life, and they remain suspicious that Democrats will reach too far into their lives and pocketbooks. But they believe equally that their highest elected official must display a sense of decorum worthy of the White House.
Very simply, Trump offends a deeply ingrained culture of politeness and compromise that,
until recently, earned Cornhuskers the very vanilla tourism slogan “Nebraska Nice.” They are generally not on the news screaming at protesters, waving confederate flags or brandishing firearms wildly. At its core, Nebraska Nice isn’t so much a syrupy sweetness but rather a shared aversion to petty and therefore unproductive conflict.
“These folks are not political ideologues. They march in the March for Life, they vote Republican, but they are not enamored by the kind of identity politics that Trump brings,” said Max Mueller, a classics and religious studies professor at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln who has
written about his personal struggle to live out his Christianity in a moment of heightened political division. “They just want things to get back to normal—in some ways like I do. We all want to get to a place where we don’t have to think about what the president does every day"