ohio

I grew up in Ohio, which is clearly a state that has people clawing to get out of it. First we had the Wright Brothers, and then we had Neil Armstrong. Thank goodness Edison’d lit up the place first, or we’d all have died in darkness.

Usually when I meet people I try to keep the Ohio bit under wraps and leave it that I live "six hours south-east of Chicago, which is practically a suburb in American distances," but sometimes the truth comes out. Generally the listener pauses thoughtfully and goes, "Ohio. That’s in the Midwest, isn’t it?" and then smiles, pleased as punch at having genuine assurance his geographical skills are so finely attuned. Occasionally I hear someone’s got a brother-in-law in Michigan or even a cousin in Oregon. Is that close? Recently a woman gushed, "Ohio! How romantic!," a notion I would have liked to preserve, except that the hysterical laughter got slightly in the way. My favorite, though, was a student who thought for a second, then bravely ventured, "Aloha!"

It all backfires, of course, when I meet another American. Half the time I’m so busy placing myself south-east of Chicago that I don’t recognize an ex-pat until they stop me, "Are you talking Kentucky? What city? I’m from Columbus." At which point I ‘fess up to living significantly north of Kentucky, halfway between Cincinnati and Dayton, but really having been born in Boston. And then we forget about Boston and talk about Graeter’s and Skyline and King’s Island until someone interrupts and asks if Cleveland isn’t in Ohio, too? He remembers something vaguely with Drew Carey that he’d never understood until now.

It’s terribly exciting to meet another American abroad, though, and even better to work with one. One of my co-workers is from Missouri but married an Aussie, and has taught me numerous essential bits of Australiana like that jumping jacks are called star jumps, that estrogen is spelled estroegen and that Freddos are wonderful chocolate frog treats, though the strawberry Freddos don’t sell as well as the caramel, or even the honey. And then we talk about Jolly Ranchers and Halloween and how we both cry when we hear "Proud to Be an American," even though we don’t like country music.

Sometimes it’s the little things that I miss, like Bath and Body Work’s vanilla bean soap, tampons with plastic applicators and paying $1.98 for a hot chocolate with free whipped cream at Panera. Sometimes I wish they’d all just drop the annoying accents and talk normal, and, gosh, couldn’t they just switch to Fahrenheit and pounds while they’re at it? Sometimes my head hurts and even the Tylenol I brought over with me isn’t doing the trick and my mom’s too far away to help. Sometimes it’s 5 pm and I want to call home, but I don’t because it’s 3 am there. And sometimes I remember my family is on the other side of the world, and missing me and loving me, and then I think about them, and miss them and love them, too.