Robert Nisbet |
By SUSAN MCWILLIAMS
The town of Maricopa, in the southwestern corner of
California’s San Joaquin Valley, has one diner and one gas station. Its
landscape is all oil wells and sagebrush, grit and heat and dust, just as it
was a century ago when the sociologist Robert Nisbet, one of the 20th century’s
great conservative minds, grew up there.
It wasn’t a pretty hometown, not the kind of place you’d ever see
pictured on a postcard or memorialized in a Norman Rockwell painting. Nisbet
would later write, in his elegant and restrained tone, that Maricopa’s setting
offered a “hostile challenge to the human spirit.”
Even so, he remembered life there as happy. If the residents were
daunted by their bleak surroundings, they didn’t let on. In that unfriendly
environment they thrived, largely by being friendly with one another. The
Nisbets were part of an active small-community scene in Maricopa. His father
had a regular poker game, his mother had her church friends, and Nisbet had
devoted teachers and a well-stocked local library.
As a child, Nisbet felt the power of what would come to be a central
focus of his work: the “intermediate society” that lies between the individual
and the state and gives dignity and depth to both. Everywhere he went in his
early years, Nisbet saw the influence of intermediate society: in the memories
shared by his grandparents’ neighbors in Macon, Georgia; in the clubs that
defined his high-school years in Santa Cruz; and in the bohemian subculture
among his classmates at Berkeley in the early 1930s—the “Old Berkeley” he
called it.