If you doubt the possibility or the relevance of geographic self-segregation in America, consider two easily forgotten realities.

First, the U.S. is enormous, even in a world shrunk by technology. The distance from Seattle to Miami equals, within six miles, the distance from London to Tehran. You already know that the population keeps growing; in 1965 (an apocryphal year in Bill Bishop's The Big Sort), the U.S. population was less than 200 million, and now it's over 300 million. You may have noticed that many of these people are insufferable, either because of their ideas, priorities, or decision making. Even if they just comprise 1% of the population, you'll find three million insufferables. Living with these people is a pain. Governing with them is even worse. Compromising with them eats away at your self esteem.

Admit it: you want to escape these people. But if you cannot escape, or if you have achieved moral perfection and don't want to escape them, the people who can't stand you might escape, instead. Not all of them, but a few at a time, and when they do, they will escape in predictable ways. As the Mormons discovered, the U.S. is unusually well suited for this kind of escape. Compared to, say, Canada, the U.S. is filled top-to-bottom with places you might consider inhabiting. Distance from them isn't just a taste preference; your emotional survival depends on it. The ability to escape is a reflection of the country's success. They are unbearable, and you are too.

Second, the relevance of geography is a premise of American political institutions. Geography may not determine everything, but almost every institution, especially legislatures, exaggerates its importance. When geographic distributions change, politics change.

The sorting processes that Bill Bishop describes aren't exclusively geographic, but geography is the most important backstory, and for good reasons. For one thing, as Bishop notes in several passages, the importance of physical proximity within social networks persists. He mentions Prof. Robert Stross's "20 minute rule" of proximity applied to venture capitalists in Silicon Valley. Consumers still insist on proximity. Assuming that gas will never again be cheap or guiltlessly consumed, proximity will only matter more.

If you like your political reading analytical and agenda free, this book is for you. Don't be misled by the hyperbolic subtitle (Why the Clustering of Like-Minded America is Tearing Us Apart): the tone is measured, conspiracies are absent, and the focus is on the grass roots.

As a researcher who is looking at migration and political polarization in the U.S., I want to start by suggesting some general questions provoked by The Big Sort; in an upcoming post, I will say more about these questions and my sense of where this research could lead. The extensive literature on this topic appears in the book, and if it helps and if I'm able, I will try to link that to some of cafe's insights and questions.

My questions are:

When does sorting become political sorting?

Why, exactly, is sorting a problem?

This last question is the essential one. One premise is that sorting inhibits necessary collective action. But are there benefits from sorting? I think it's a mixed bag. For example, even if you think you love political heterogeneity, consider the possibility (assuming you like activist government), local homogeneity could improve the effectiveness of local government and local public policy.

This kind of possibility raises a important concern for those on the left who might think heterogeneity of political interests complements a progressive agenda. (I can't say that anyone really believes this, but just in case.) The book mentions Madison's argument that heterogeneity improves government. Madison made this claim because he also believed that heterogeneity leads to less government. In a time of The Big Sort, the conceit that diversity-begets-tolerance-begets-liberal preferences seems hard to swallow. I doubt that a greater number of conservatives living within the Portland, Oregon city limits would increase the number of its bike lanes or trolley cars.

I worry most about two serious yet manageable consequences of The Big Sort (the phenomenon, not the book). First, sorting facilitates the illusion that the American experience (within America) is a universal one. In terms of ideology, this is an equal opportunity illusion. For a helpful illustration, check out this widely-viewed discussion on The View, in which co-host Elisabeth Hasselbeck learns, tearfully, that the African American association with the n-word is more nuanced and complex than her own.

Second, sorting means that persuasion, and any remaining belief in the need to persuade, can atrophy even further. For self-labeled progressives, the must-read chapter in The Big Sort is Chapter 7, which describes the recent history of the American megachurch. Megachurches are fascinating in their own right (Matt Taibbi's The Great Derangement is a good companion piece), but more important is the story of Donald McGavran and the lessons he learns from Bishop J. Waskom Pickett as a missionary in India. The story is remarkable and encouraging, even if you are deeply skeptical of churches, both mega and mini.

Read this chapter closely, and then ask yourself: if you thought your life depended on persuading conservatives to worry about, say, global warming, what would you do? I'm not talking about disaffected working class Reagan Democrats mentioned by, say, David Sirota or Thomas Frank, or even evangelicals. I mean the country-club belonging, options trading, gold hoarding, flat tax loving, UN hating, Erin Burnett watching, Hudson Institute conservatives. Chapter 7 will convince you it's possible, but here's a hint: its about more than the message, and you don't send them Al Gore.