I'm watching the eclipse in Bowling Green, Kentucky, a rare town which is both pro-Trump and pro-refugees

On my way home from yoga this week, I stopped at one of the international markets in my town. The Bangladeshi owner, Ali, wasn’t there, but his son, Ramim, greeted me with enthusiasm.

I asked if he was excited about the eclipse. “So excited!” he said with a giant grin. But when I inquired about what he’s planning to do, he asked for suggestions. I told him what’s planned to happen in town and added, “Just be sure to go outside and enjoy it!”

His enthusiasm is typical of the energy that’s been surrounding the approaching eclipse for the past year. I live in Bowling Green, Kentucky, a college town of 65,000 that sits squarely in the path of totality. Experts are saying we could see up to 400,000 people in town for the eclipse. And campers with out-of-state plates started arriving days ago.

Area schools are closing, and residents are being warned we should have enough food and water for three days and should not expect to be able to get out of our driveways because tourists will be blocking every street. It’s clear everyone in the region has gone eclipse crazy.

Nearly every business in town has planned some kind of special event for the eclipse. White Squirrel Brewery is brewing a Black Hole Sun beer, Be Happy Yoga is leading outdoor sun and moon salutations, the Capitol Arts Center is hosting a month-long space movie series, the Hot Rods single-A baseball team is playing a game during he eclipse, the FFOYA community house is featuring an eclipse art show including everything from cat eclipse art to eclipse feminine products, 4Yoga and The Pots Place are inviting patrons to a rooftop wine-and-cheese event, the A-Frame club is having a Dark Side of the Moon listening party, the university is holding a viewing at the football stadium, and the public library is hosting what might be the largest event: a picnic at Aviation Park.

And that’s why, for months, I’ve had a rosy picture in my head of what will happen on 21 August.

I’ve imagined thousands of people sitting around the small lake at Aviation Park with their picnics, people of all ethnicities and nationalities putting down their phones to look at the awesome spectacle in the sky and interacting with each other in a way that maybe they haven’t before. I’m hoping all of the mundane concerns of daily life like getting to work on time and cooking dinner for the kids will be pushed aside today for 90 minutes as we watch the sun slowly disappear and wait for a once-in-a-lifetime view of the cosmos.

But then Charlottesville and Barcelona happened.

And now, on the morning of the eclipse, I feel afraid. What if something like that happens here? What if someone shows up with an offensive flag or T-shirt? Or worse yet, a gun?

Most of the time I don’t worry about these things because Bowling Green isn’t like other small towns in America. It’s an anomaly. It’s a place where Trump supporters and international refugees live and work side-by-side every day.

Back in the 1990s, almost 20 years before I moved to Kentucky, a group of Bowling Green residents welcomed refugees from the war in Sarajevo to their small town. Two things happened as a result. Bosnians become an integral part of the Bowling Green community, and Bowling Green became a relocation center for refugees from around the world. Since then, Bowling Green has welcomed refugees from not only Bosnia, but also Burma, Thailand, Malaysia, Bhutan, Iraq, Congo, Somalia and Syria as well as immigrants from all over the world.

This diversity is one of the reasons Bowling Green is thriving. Our small city continues to grow, and some of that growth is undoubtedly because of the many immigrants flourishing here. And they flourish because they are welcome.

An international centre provides new refugees with much-needed assistance, a large mosque was built with community support, one public high school is dedicated to international students, and the local university — Western Kentucky University — prides itself on its international appeal. For that reason, it’s not uncommon to see female students on campus wearing hijabs and, on rare occasions, even burkas.

But what’s really surprising is that all of this is happening inside a state so red it was the first to be called for Trump on election night. Our county is no exception, with 56 per cent voting for Trump. Despite this, most people in our community support our refugee and immigrant population.

And that’s why I refuse to give into my fears. I refuse to believe it will all go wrong. Instead I’m choosing to hope that today will be the day of connection I’ve pictured for so long. And, at least in Bowling Green, Kentucky, I know I’m not alone.