2016 was the year of the Great Lakes (and the Midwest), for me and the country

They defined 2016.

2016 has been quite the year. Political drama. Celebrity deaths. General misfortune. Some of this is real. Some of it, though, I think is the gratuitous ascribing of agency to an arbitrary temporal concept. 2016 has not killed anyone. But, in our attempt to make sense of the world, we often assign agency or meaning to things that fundamentally lack it. Poet (and insurance salesman) Wallace Stevens once wrote of this tendency in his poem, "Anecdote of a Bell Jar":

 I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air. 
It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.

The narrator of this poem simply places a jar on a hill somewhere in the arbitrary, unforgiving wilderness; in so doing, he forces uncaring nature to define itself in terms of the jar. It is an arbitrary act, this imposing of meaning, but it is an imposition of meaning nonetheless, however small.

In that spirit, I would like to define 2016 differently from how many seem to be understanding it. For me and for the country, 2016 was the year, not, pace Stevens, of jars, or Tennessee,  but of the Great Lakes. The Great Lakes are a fascinating and beautiful geographical feature of North America; the product of glacial movements eons ago, they are individually and collectively among the largest sources of fresh water in the world. In the United States, they more or less define the region known as the Midwest, from which I, as an Ohioan, hail. The Midwest is a strange place. I think its best description comes from the beginning of essayist John Jeremiah Sullivan's biographical exposition of Guns 'n' Roses frontman Axl Rose (who is from Indiana):

...What's the most nowhere part of America? The Midwest, right? But once you get into the Midwest, you find that each of the different nowherenesses has laid claim to its own somewhereness. There are the lonely plains in Iowa. In Michigan there is a Gordon Lightfoot song. And Ohio has its very blandness and averageness, faintly comical, to cling to. All of them have something. And now I invite you to close your eyes, and when I say "Indiana"…blue screen, no?...

The Midwest is an oft-mocked place (Rust Belt, Flyover country, etc.): It is bland, benighted, boring, and other words that don't even start with "b." While I'll always love it here (I type from southwestern Ohio), some of this mockery is deserved. But this year, my first full year as an independent adult, the Midwest and the Great Lakes punched way above their weight, in both my life and in the life of our country.

When did this begin? You could point to a couple of markers. The inordinate importance of Iowa (not Great Lakes, but still definitely Midwestern) in our presidential election system, though a regular feature for the past 30-40 years, assumed a special significance this year when it gave incredibly narrow victories to Republican Ted Cruz and Democrat Hillary Clinton. The result of the Iowa caucuses this year virtually guaranteed the lengthy presidential primaries on both sides that we eventually got.

John Kasich's desire to eat may also have had something to do with it. 

The Midwest's political influence further lengthened these primaries when Ohio went for John Kasich, its governor and Wisconsin gave a victory to Ted Cruz, delaying Donald Trump's eventual securing of the Republican presidential nomination, and when Michigan gave a surprise victory to Bernie Sanders, delaying Clinton's eventual victory as well. Trump and Clinton would eventually win their parties' respective nominations; for Trump, victories in the Great Lakes states of New York and, finally, thoroughly Midwestern Indiana sealed the (art of ) the deal. But this, too, was a sign of the Great Lakes' influence. Though Hillary rose to political power from Arkansas, she was born in Illinois, and represented Erie-and-Ontario-bordering New York in the Senate, the same state where Trump spent his whole life before, well...we'll see. But this was not the last time the Great Lakes region would influence America's political course this year.

The Great Lakes region flexed its muscles culturally as well. I would say that the Great Lakes' impact began with the shocking death in April of noted musician (and Minnesotan) Prince. Then, in May, an employee at the Cincinnati Zoo shot and killed a male silverback gorilla named Harambe when a child fell into the gorilla's enclosure, causing a momentary flurry of parenting and gorilla experts across the country. In June, in the world of sports, the Cleveland Cavaliers made the Golden State Warriors blow a 3-1 lead, broke Cleveland's 52-year sports championship drought, and challenged strongly-held stereotypes of Cleveland as the "mistake on the lake" by winning the NBA championships. And they did it all without catching the Cuyohoga River on fire.

Because that is a thing that has actually happened multiple times in the past.

For me, the year of the Great Lakes began, in a sense, all the way at the beginning of the year, when I spent the first few days of 2016 at my Midwestern home before returning to Washington. But it really began when I returned to my native Cincinnati soil in mid-July, one week after the one-year anniversary of the beginning of my life in D.C. (a week that includes my first day in the city, my first day of work, and my 22nd birthday). But I was not there to visit. The day after I returned, I made the long drive up I-71 to Cleveland, where my work had drawn me to attend the Republican National Convention, July 18-21. It was by far the craziest political experience I have ever had. And it was also up there for my life overall. That week, when I wasn't at the convention, I was sleeping (though not that much) or running in the vicinity of the residence of a Cleveland-residing college friend of mine.

At the end of the RNC.

The whole convention was the political equivalent of the Mos Eisley Cantina scene from A New Hope. Reporters and media personalities rubbed elbows with state and local party officials and hacks. Cameras were everywhere; protesters were confined to a relatively small portion of the city. The actual delegates, those who voted to give the Republican Party presidential nomination to Donald Trump, were themselves a motley crew; the Texas delegation, for example, had a uniform: blue jeans, a Texas flag shirt, and a ten-gallon hat. (More photos to come.)

On the last night of the convention, I watched as RNC Chair and Great Lakes-bordering Wisconsn native Reince Priebus orchestrated the bestowing upon Donald Trump of the Republican presidential nomination. The convention ended with the gavel-hammering of Speaker of the House Paul Ryan (also a Wisconsin native). For reasons I'll never fully understand, Trump chose "You Can't Always Get What You Want" as the final song of the RNC; it played as I left Quicken Loans arena.

The next day, after a beautiful run in North Chagrin Nature Center, I decided to cross some items off of my Cleveland bucket list while I was in town. Before I did that, however, I had to recover the wallet I had somehow lost (and, miraculously, returned home without). I drove into the city with gas purchased from the massive amounts of change found in my car, then, in a wonderful display of Midwestern hospitality, found my wallet exactly where I had left it. From there, I headed to Cleveland's famous Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

As a rock fan, I had wanted to visit the place for a long time. It didn't disappoint. Again, the pictures I have provided do not do it justice; see here for the rest. It would be hard to describe the collection of rock history and memorabilia with anything close to brevity. So I'll just recommend that you visit yourself (especially now that Electric Light Orchestra, my favorite band, has been inducted into its Hall of Fame, no doubt due to my advocacy). And I'll describe it this way: If Donald Trump actually does usher in the apocalypse, the Mad Max-style civilization that crops up in his wake could create a weird sort of religion from all the 'relics' of rock 'n' roll history contained in Cleveland's Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. (More photos to come.)

While I was in Cleveland, I wanted to cross one more item off of my life's bucket list. So I drove into Ohio City to explore the summer-vacant campus of Cleveland St. Ignatius High School. St. Ignatius is the brother school of Cincinnati St.Xavier, my alma mater: they are both all-male, Jesuit, have around 1600 students, and are always consistently competitive in sports, both in the state and with each other. In 2009. St. Ignatius bested St. Xavier in the state cross country meet, earning first place to my team's second. Naturally, I had to visit for my revenge.

My revenge.

Yet as I wandered around its campus--the word is appropriate; St. I's resembles a college campus far more than does X, with multiple buildings organized around a central quad, rather than X's single building--I felt not seething bitterness but curiosity and wistfulness. Visiting its classrooms, cafeteria, track, and other parts of its campus pointed me toward some similarities between X and I's. Most notably, I found that I's also uses the "JUG" (Justice Under God) as a disciplinary tool akin to a detention. This and other things I saw gave me a sort of empathy, heightened understanding, and appreciation for the life that my brothers at St.I's lived. I often wonder how my own life would have gone in different circumstances. While I am content with my life's course up to this point, my visit to I's suggested that I could have had a decent one having gone to high school there as well. And my visit to Cleveland as a whole forced me to abandon--or, at least, to qualify--many of the anti-Cleveland stereotypes I had accrued from my Cincinnati upbringing. (I still maintain that Cincinnati has better views because of its hills.)

Cincinnati doesn't have a Great Lake, though. 

Had I so desired, I could have continued my exploration of the Great Lakes' intersection with the political world the week after the RNC. That week, Hillary Clinton would accept her party's presidential nomination in Philadelphia, in a state (Pennsylvania) that also borders Great Lakes. Instead, on the same day I visited the Rock Hall and St. Ignatius, I took one of those long evening highway drives through the Midwest, the sort of journey impossible in my current D.C. existence (I don't have a car). Before my drive up for the RNC, I had not taken any such journey since the last time I drove from Hillsdale College (my other alma mater, in southeastern Michigan; it too will have a place in this story) to Cincinnati. It was a stress-free, blissful, relaxed, thoughtful, music-laden drive through mostly rural Ohio along I-71. I stopped once along the way at one of those massive trucker rest-stops of which my experience traveling for track meets in college made me so fond. I enjoyed this trip in ways I still am having difficulty explaining, so I'll simply submit its casual sublimity to the mysteries of this world.

Next came a few relaxed days in my hometown, running and reconnecting with friends old and new, a welcome rest (as was my drive) from the acute dose of politics I had received the week before. But this was a mere prelude to my real vacation: a family trip to South Haven, Michigan, a lovely small town on the West side of the state, right on beautiful Lake Michigan. I didn't do much while I was there other than spend time with my family, run, and relax at the beach--and that's exactly what I wanted. (More pictures to come.)

Sunset on Lake Michigan

There was one exception to this leisure: when I made a small journey to visit my friend (and contributor to this blog) Jared Van Dyke to fulfill a promise. Together, we restaged the interrogation scene from The Dark Knight, a story I have already told on this blog.

The influence of the Great Lakes on my life, and on that of the nation as a whole, manifested more sporadically over the next few months. In the Olympics, young underdog Ohioan Clayton Murphy snagged a bronze in the 800 meters. In late summer/early fall, the Internet resurrected Harambe, turning him into one of the biggest memes of all time (though he was probably the anti-Christ). In September, I returned to Hillsdale, my Michigan alma mater, to engage in yet more reflections on my post-collegiate life. In the wider world, several Great Lakes and Midwestern states, most notably Ohio, Iowa, and Pennsylvania (or so it seemed) became this election cycle's most vicious battlegrounds. In October, Minnesotan Bob Dylan received the Nobel Prize in Literature. On November 2nd, just before the election, the Chicago Cubs (Lake Michigan) forced the Cleveland Indians (Lake Erie) to blow a 3-1 lead in the World Series, ending a 108-year championship drought for the former team. And it was only a year after Back to the Future Part II predicted it would happen. The improbability of this outcome suggested that there was no way the longshot candidacy of Donald Trump could succeed; the universe would surely only allow one of these events.

Or not. I deal in politics for a living, and so, on Election Day, after I left work, I went off the grid. It was not until 8:30 am the next morning that I learned the impossible had happened: Donald Trump had won. And, more relevant for this post, he won it from the Great Lakes. Not only did he win the Midwestern states likely to vote for him (mainly Iowa and Ohio); he also secured victories in Wisconsin, Pennsylvania, and Michigan (and nearly Minnesota). In an article I wrote but never published before the election, I predicted that, at some point in our political future, "Ohio, Iowa, Pennsylvania, Michigan, and Wisconsin may become swing or even red states." I had no idea, however, that it would happen so soon. No one else did either though, so I feel a bit less embarrassed.

In this instance, it is useful to recall John Jeremiah Sullivan's description of Michigan: it "has a Gordon Lightfoot song." That song, of course, is "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," an account of the 1975 sinking of a cargo vessel in Lake Superior. Having spent a lot of time in Michigan in my life so far, I can say that Sullivan's remark holds true. Michiganders have adopted the song as a sort of state anthem. It has also been parodied by the political satirical musical group known as the Capitol Steps, who wrote a little ditty after Minnesota native Walter Fritz Mondale's loss to Ronald Reagan in the 1984 presidential election called "The Wreck of the Walter Fritz Mondale." You can listen to it here. In this spirit, I wrote, sang, and recorded my own musical account of the 2016 election, using the tune of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." I call it "The Wreck of the Hillary Clinton." You can listen to it here, or click below for the embed.


"The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" may be the anthem of the entire state of Michigan, but it is the state's Upper Peninsula that has truly adopted it. Three years ago, I was lucky enough to be a cross-country runner in the Great Lakes Inter-Athletic Conference when it was Upper Peninsula-residing Michigan Technological University's turn to host the conference meet. When I learned what that meant, I was a bit mad and a bit mystified: Mad, because it would take up my entire fall break, which I usually spent relaxing at home; mystified, because, apart from the few friends I had at Hillsdale who hailed from da UP, and what they and others had told me about it, I knew nothing about the Superior State.

Yet our team Houghton trip became my favorite college running memory. I’ll never forget running at dawn in the shadow of the Mackinac Bridge at the beginning of the second leg of our journey; counting the number of pasty shops we saw between Mackinac City and Houghton (13); and not just surviving but thriving on the toughest, most beautiful cross-country course I’ve ever raced. The only bad thing about the trip was that it had to end.

Because I loved Houghton and the UP so much, I spent the past three years plotting to return, though I had no idea how. But when I learned that a good friend was a track coach at Michigan Tech, I, after some hesitation, decided to take full advantage of my flexible young-adult status and booked the flights. My timing ended up fortuitous, for three reasons: 1) It was just after the election, which I had spent the entirety of my job in D.C. up to that point closely following, and from which I desperately needed a break; 2) my first day in the UP happened to be the 41st anniversary of the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, an incredible coincidence I didn’t even plan; 3) the weekend after I left was Houghton’s first snowfall of the season (not that I dislike winter; I just wasn’t ready for it). I knew I was in for a treat when I left the busy airports of D.C. and Detroit, with thousands of people, hundreds of gates, and televisions blasting CNN everywhere, for Marquette's two-gated, sparsely-populated airport with a single television that was playing Blue Bloods (and the remote sitting on a table by the TV for anyone to change the channel).

But those weren’t the only reasons my trip to Houghton was great. I enjoyed every moment of it. It was even more beautiful than I remembered, as was the surrounding area (Mt. Ripley, McClain State Park, Dollar Bay, etc.). I didn’t see nearly as much of Michigan Tech itself the last time I was there as I did this time around; I’m glad I did. And it was a borderline religious experience for me to run not once but twice more on the hallowed ground of the cross-country (ski) course, where the scenic beauty competed with my overwhelming nostalgia and the exhaustion from climbing its hills for emotional predominance. Finally, I closed out the weekend by watching Escanaba in da Moonlight, a tale of life in the Upper Peninsula directed by, written by, and starring Michigan native Jeff Daniels, while also listening only to Lightfoot's anthem for every drive I took in the UP (I went through it at least 50 times). And in my final moments in the UP, just before I returned to the hilariously and refreshingly modest airport that would return me to civilization, my ride and I saw a bald eagle in person, a first for both of us. It was a fitting end to my post-election trip to a remote redoubt of real America. As with my first trip to the UP, the only bad thing about my second was that it had to end. Again, the pictures I include do not convey the majesty of the experience. More to come.

Clockwise, from left: The Michigan Tech cross-country course, the view from Mt. Ripley, the view of Houghton from Hancock, sunset at Lake Superior.

I closed the year where it had began: in my southwestern Ohio roots. First, I came back for Thanksgiving to compete in Cincinnati's Thanksgiving Day race. After a few months of doubt about running's place in my future, it was the promise of this race that gave me purpose once more. I had been training for it since June, and was feeling fit, fresh, and ready to race when, mere days before the race, I fractured my left pinky toe in a freak absurd accident. At first, I could not believe that it had actually happened, and was keeping me from walking, much less running. Confident that I could recover in time for the race on Thanksgiving Day, however, I did everything I could to accelerate the healing while also aggressively cross-training. I ended up placing 2nd, which was about as good as I could have hoped for. And then, over the next few days, I enjoyed the pleasure of reconnecting with family and friends. And, of course, eating a bunch of food.

In the wider world, the Midwest flexed its cultural muscles once more the day after Thanksgiving, when Michigan and Ohio State played the most contested football game of the year, facing each other ranked #3 and #2, respectively (part of a wider pattern of the Big Ten, the football conference of the Great Lakes, putting to rest doubts about it versus the SEC, at least for now). Ohio State secured a victory so narrow that this thrilling, highly-rated game (one of the best football games, NFL or NCAA, of the year) ensured this rivalry is back to its historically contested standards.

For which you can thank this crazy man. 

I closed this first holiday journey back to real America by witnessing another bald eagle, this time, in Loveland, at the end of a run with a friend. Before my Upper Peninsula sighting, I had never seen one in person; this made two in the same two-week span. The second sighting was my first-ever sighting in Loveland. Both the friend I was with and I are Pokémon fans, so we instantly analogized it to Ash's Ho-oh sighting at the end of the very first episode.

One journey through the holiday time accelerator (and multiple Christmas parties) later, I found myself back in my hometown, to ring in the holidays with family and to reconnect with friends (mostly runners, it seems) once more. It is here that I composed this recounting of my year. I am near the end of my holiday recuperation in my native soil. While here for this rest, my life has been as stress-free as it has been filled with family, friends, places, and memories dear to me. I know my time here is near an end (for now, anyway), as I no longer live or work here. But my heart will always be here.

My backyard at sunset, an even more beautiful place than I ever remember.

As for the Midwest and 2016 generally, I think the former proved during the latter that it matters a lot more than we often think. 2016 may have been a year of celebrity deaths, though, I'm warning you, as I did at the very beginning of the year, that these deaths will only come at an accelerating rate going forward, so expect 2017 to be even worse in this regard. As Wallace Stevens wrote, we'll all try to impose meaning on this seemingly chaotic year in our own ways. You could say that I am cherry-picking to write this post. Maybe so. But in sports, entertainment, and politics, and in my own life, I submit that 2016 was the year of the Great Lakes.

Long may those glacial creations reign.