The heart of it all: Ohio, U.S.A.

Though we first arrived in Canada at the end of August, we’ve been back across the U.S. border a few times. First from B.C. to Alaska, of course, and back, but that was within the allotted 90 days for a British visitor. In theory, the U.S.A. can refuse entry after that until the visitor has left Canada, and the Caribbean, since the U.S. considers those places that a person might just dip into before returning to live in the U.S.! In practice, profiling and/or a flawless track record can work in the visitor’s favour, and there were no problems when T. and I returned to the U.S. for Thanksgiving.

We flew to Phoenix from Toronto. Fortunately, one clears U.S. customs and immigration before leaving a Canadian airport, so we took care of this in Toronto even though it took longer than usual. The officers were nice enough, but must have started to wonder about me. I presented my U.S. passport, but then they asked about my status in Canada. I said that I have citizenship here. “And you live in the U.K.?” “Yes.” "When did you leave home?” "Um, a year and a half ago?" “And what is your status in the U.K.?” “Well…” They also were curious what kind of work T. does that allows her to travel for so long. It was the first time anywhere that we’d been asked these types of questions! 

The bottom line is that, although we have almost never been asked for paperwork demonstrating that we would leave the country in a timely manner, we were this time, and so you should always have it. On Boxing Day (the 26th of December to Americans), we drove a rented car back over the border at Buffalo, New York, for a few days. On that occasion the officer just asked a few questions and off we sailed to our destination: Columbus, Ohio.

If people outside North America think about Ohio at all, it’s probably as one of those states which, for reasons no one can adequately explain, play an outsized role every four years in deciding the next president of the United States. (Not that we can blame Ohio for 2016.) But when I was growing up, Ohio was the place we went on trips. Outside of Tennessee, it’s the only place I ever remember traveling until I was in high school. As their accents will attest, both my parents are originally from Ohio, as are most of my relatives going back at least a couple of generations. 

When we used to drive up to Ohio every summer and Christmas, my mom and dad would sometimes speak of it as “going home.” I never understood why, since the only home I’d ever known was their house in Tennessee. Now, however, I get why they could refer to more than one place as “home.”

Our hosts, once we got into the country, were my cousin Kim, her husband Cris, and their three children and cat. When I say cousin, Kim’s dad, whose house is where the big party is held every year, is my dad’s first cousin. This makes Kim and her siblings—trust me on this—my second cousins. They don’t feel like it because my dad and hers grew up next door to each other and were more like brothers; but the Knowleses have never been all that concerned about removing cousins anyway. There were third cousins at the gathering, and by a couple of days later, when Kim’s mom’s family all came to town, most of the people in the house weren’t even related to me, let alone T.

T. calls this expression of Kim's "the Knowles." "Let me do the Knowles," she said.

Ohio’s state tourism slogan used to be “The heart of it all.” I don’t know if you can see it on this luggage tag I found in Kim’s town of Westerville, but the idea is that Ohio is kind of heart shaped, and also, is sort of in the place a heart would be, were the United States a human body. Both kind of a stretch, but the real point is that if you have been to Ohio, you have experienced Americanness in a way you can’t if you’ve only been to New York City or Los Angeles. For good or bad, it is the heartland.

One of my third cousin’s children (that’s my third cousin once removed; it’s a generational thing) was not even born the last time I saw them. When I pointed this out to her, she grinned, put the crook of her elbow to her mouth, and blew a loud zrbt! That kind of set the tone. Traditionally, there was no alcohol of any kind at a Knowles gathering and the nonalcoholic punch was still there, but I did discover a bottle or two of wine hidden behind the basement door. Too bad T. doesn’t like wine.

Through an elaborate misunderstanding over e-mail, Lezlee, Kim’s mom, had thought I might not have told my mom and dad that I was coming, so that it would be a surprise. For various reasons I didn’t think that would be a good idea; but Lez (and everybody she did tell) had done such a good job of keeping the secret that quite a few people were surprised to see us. Except Mom and Dad, of course!

One good thing about Mom knowing was that she baked me a pie for my birthday. Yes, my birthday was over, but it was Christmastime so there’s a bit of a grace period. Before I could blow out my candles, my cousins checked to make sure I didn’t have strep throat. Strep throat is what Americans call a streptococcal infection in children; they get it all the time, but people overseas have never heard of it. They call it a “sore throat.”

We stayed three nights with Kim and Cris, courtesy of their older son, who let us stay in his room. Their daughter had heard rumours that my little duck mascot has been photographed all over the world, so she wanted to see it. The duck (and his chick friend from Adelaide) like meeting other birds, as my Facebook followers may know. They were pleased to meet this ostrich marionette.

So many relatives passed through Lez and Jeff’s house that even I cannot document them all, but special mention should be made of Lezlee’s mom, Georgi. Georgi is 90 and by Christmas was doing very well, heaven be praised. It was Georgi’s clan that came into town from Indiana on the 28th. 

But first, Kim wanted to show us uptown (really) Westerville. If Ohio is the heart of it all, Westerville must be the heart of Ohio. Main Street is lined with shops selling impossibly cute things such as a cutting board in the shape of the state. Maybe Australia has stuff like this but it just seems so American.

It was high time for a cocktail, so we had one in this lovely reconstructed bar. 

Kim, T., and I got into a discussion about American things, including some of the less savoury things that seem to be surfacing now. The bartender, who was African-American, asked if he might join in our conversation, and of course we were eager to hear what he had to say. He said that he was a graduate of The Ohio State University in international relations and terrorism (!) but had still been told, by a random person on the street, to get his black n——- a** back to Africa. The point he made was that this was not surprising, but a part of life in the U.S. What is happening now is not some new surge in racism but a growing awareness of it, on the part of those who had the option of not being aware of it before.

This man was far too polite to say, but what he was pointing out to us is sometimes called “white privilege.” The term privilege is often misunderstood, so I think of it as an option. Growing up white in a white-majority society, I’ve had the option not to be aware of race very much, certainly not of my own race or the difference that’s made in my life. Often, I’ve had to choose to be aware of it or actively work on the issue. What is happening in the U.S. these days is making some people more aware of things than we have been before. It has been possible, for a white person, to work a whole lifetime and not recognize, until recently, how different the criminal justice system—for example—is or appears to people of colour. 

Many of us, especially Americans, are so defensive now that it’s hard to have these conversations, but we must resist defensiveness. To say that different people experience the criminal justice system differently is not to say all white cops are racist or that police aren’t doing a difficult job! The issue is always, as T. would say, “police with consent.” Do we feel that law enforcement is there to serve and protect us, or to protect other people and their property from us? Different people will give different answers, answers rooted deeply in the history of the country. I devoted an entire post to reviewing a book that describes U.S. policing’s origin in slave patrols, so I won’t belabour the point here. But I appreciate our bartender’s willingness to engage with us on the subject, and remind us that he doesn’t get to take days off from America’s deeply rooted problem.

And so we came to the afternoon that everyone had been waiting for—one might even say “the heart of it all.” This is when most of the female relatives present—but not all—race to finish the annual Christmas jigsaw puzzle, while most of the male relatives—but not all—participate in an American football game.

I should explain that Kim’s older sister, Kathi, and her family had arrived from New Hampshire on the 27th. So it was a full house. This also meant that the cousins exchanged gifts the next morning while we were there, so we got to enjoy a Christmas with kids opening presents—something we don’t often get to do anymore.

Speaking of a full house, the last time we were with this particular gang, T. ended up playing euchre with them, a card game she doesn’t really know. (Kathi and Kim’s brother Mark was teaching Kathi’s daughter to play while we were there, and the word tr*mp comes up distressingly often.)

Luckily, we got out of either euchre or the puzzle, because the guys asked us if we wanted to join in the football game! I am told that the guys always ask; it is not their fault that usually all the gals say no. Well, I couldn't allow that to stand, and Jeff's participation ensured that I would not be the oldest person on the field, so in I went. I had the opportunity to throw but only did so in warmup; T. toyed with the idea but ended up photographing from the sidelines (she was also called on once to rule on where someone had had both feet). 

Photo courtesy of T.

I was told later that I was the only participant who laughed the entire time. I started off on a team with Mark, opposite a team featuring Kathi’s older son, Aaron. It was generally agreed that Aaron, a CrossFit coach, is like facing two players; nevertheless Mark’s instructions to me were sometimes to “count to three and rush Aaron.” Other times, my teammates told me, “Take all the little kids,” which is not as easy as it sounds when there are three of them and they are all running in different directions. 

Photo courtesy of T.

On another disastrous occasion, I was asked if I wanted Cris or Jeff; should've said Jeff! And everyone complained that the ball was overinflated but that doesn't excuse it slipping through my hands. It was very muddy. I tagged Kim and Cris's younger son with two hands and he was so little I had a hand on either side. Then they put him on me, which felt vaguely insulting until I realized how fast he can run. 

Photo courtesy of T.

After dropping every pass thrown to me, we were lined up on 4th down (we had by this point swapped Mark for Aaron, who was quarterbacking). Aaron kept repeating, "We're very close to the end zone," with a look at me that I later realized was meaningful. On "hike" he tossed the ball a short distance, and I ran in for a touchdown, which is hilarious. 

Photo courtesy of T.

It was especially funny when we were saying goodbye later that night. Aaron said, "I probably won't see you for awhile" (compared with Andrew, possibly), and I said thank you for the pass. He looked at me quite seriously: "You helped our team today." I think he must be great at coaching, because with all our team hand-slapping each other, you would think we had been really good!

Photo courtesy of T.

The climax of our trip to “the heart of it all,” and from the comments I’ve received possibly the highlight of our entire year and a half traveling, was Skyline Chili. Georgi was treating everyone to this Cincinnati specialty that evening, even those of us not even tangentially related to her, and it was a first for both T. and me.  Skyline Chili is the Marmite of the Midwest. You either like the mysterious, cinnamon-flavored recipe (served on spaghetti), or…you really don’t. We both did. In addition to serving “coneys” (hot dogs) and various less traditional things, Skyline Chili is distinguished from other fast food restaurants by table service. Our waitress did a fantastic job, and so we were introduced to chili three, four, or even five ways. (Insert mandatory joke here.)

We could not leave Ohio without driving past Cleveland, and we couldn’t do that without stopping to see cousin Sandy. If you’re still reading, Sandy is related to me on yet another side of the family: my paternal grandmother's. We don’t have nearly as many relatives on that as on the Knowles side, so it was a special treat to catch up with her.

Second cousin, once removed

I’m really grateful to all these cousins for coming out to see us, putting us up, and putting up with us—not necessarily in that order. And to Georgi for the Cincinnati chili. At some point later on the last night, we were sitting around in the front room and Georgi reminisced about the days when there was no alcohol in her house. Then, one day (she recalled), they were out for a big family dinner and she looked down the table, and saw that each of her grandchildren had a drink. “Well,” she said, “I guess now I can finally have one!”

I gotta admit, that punch tastes a heck of a lot better with a big slug of rye whiskey in it. Thanks to whoever brought that!

A good time was had by all.