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Adrian Cole is a writer and editor. A naturalized citizen originally from the United Kingdom, he now lives on Chebeague Island. His work can be found at www.adrianvcole.com
I’m not from here. I am from “away,” and I don’t mean Massachusetts.
Being from away I am conscious of the word’s many nuances as they relate to me, personally. I have been “from away” since I left my native United Kingdom at 23. Since then I have lived in multiple U.S. cities and several different countries. I am, in other words, an expert in being from away.
Now I live on a Maine island, where I am even more of an interloper than I was on the mainland. As one rueful old lobsterman put it to me recently: “Used to be they all left Labor Day. Now they’re here through Columbus!”
In a state facing demographic change, housing shortages, and labor gaps, the cultural weight of “from away” has real consequences. During the COVID-19 pandemic, understandable caution hardened into something closer to an “us versus them” worldview.
The phrase “from away” became accusatory. Suddenly the fear of outsiders was visceral and explicit. What had once felt like a mild social sorting mechanism became something sharper, more exclusionary.
But “away” doesn’t just describe origin; it shapes civic life. The notion that you may not fully belong can affect the permission one feels to participate. It affects who is comfortable speaking at town meetings, presenting opinions, complaints, ideas.
On my island I see bumper stickers which read: “Love Chebeague? Then stop trying to change it!” This reactionary position is aimed at Outlanders, Flatlanders, and people who, if they dare to opine on civic matters, may find their right to do so challenged.
When belonging is tied to lineage or birthplace rather than participation, it becomes difficult for anyone outside the dominant narrative to ever fully arrive. (I should say as a side note that while ingroup/outgroup issues exist in my town I have found them to be relatively trivial since it is an unusually accepting community.)
The pandemic revealed how fragile the social contract can be when fear enters the equation. Newcomers who had bought homes, enrolled their children in local schools, and volunteered in their communities suddenly found themselves viewed with suspicion. The message, sometimes subtle and sometimes overt, was that staying was not the same as belonging.
Maine is often described, largely accurately, as the whitest state in the country. While “from away” is not explicitly racial, it has resonance for racial and cultural differences. For many black, immigrant, or otherwise non-white residents, the sense of being perpetually “from away” can be intensified, regardless of how long they have lived here or how deeply they are invested in their communities.
Maine saw over 80,000 new arrivals between 2019 and 2023. Its economic plan calls for 75,000 new workers by the end of the decade — roughly one quarter the size of Cumberland County. We have seen nativist reaction to in-migration before; the 1920s were a particular case in point, during which the Klu Klux Klan was active in promoting “Americanization” programs. And demographic change is often accompanied by xenophobic backlash. But Maine’s population is changing unevenly, with growth in the southern/urban areas, and stagnation in rural and northern areas. It is also aging rapidly, with every county, bar Androscoggin, reporting dwindling public school enrollments.
The fundamental and perpetual question is: What defines a Mainer? Is it where you were born? How many generations your family has been here? Or is it what you do — showing up, contributing, voting, serving, and caring for the place in which you live?
Maine’s civic traditions suggest the latter. Town meeting democracy depends on participation, not ancestry. Volunteer fire departments do not ask for family trees. Schools, libraries, and local boards function because people step forward, regardless of origins.
None of this is an argument for abandoning Maine’s traditions or dismissing the value of local knowledge and deep roots. There is wisdom in long memory. There is legitimacy in wanting to protect communities from speculative development or seasonal churn. The concern many Mainers feel about losing what makes their towns distinctive is real and understandable.
Rather than arguing that Maine should abandon “tradition,” I’m suggesting that belonging is an active civic practice — not a bloodline — and that rethinking “away” may be necessary if communities want stability rather than resentment, and want to weather the change that is coming, regardless.
Ultimately maintaining a vibrant civic life in this state will mean making peace with change. It will also require understanding the notion of “trade-off,” which is what in-migration usually heralds (as in all life). Change is a perpetual negotiation and a feedback loop of sorts: Place affects people; people affect place.
I don’t imagine the concept of away will ever disappear, and there is value in recognizing the feelings of belonging and pride it also suggests. But it would probably be as well to re-imagine its particular resonance, and not allow its divisive nature to be front and center.