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Congressman Max Miller, not to be confused with the more well-known Max Miller who hosts a YouTube cooking show with his husband, “Ketchup with Max and Jose,” recently called for the National Guard to be deployed to Cleveland. The 36-year-old, who did not grow up in Cleveland but rather the affluent suburb of Shaker Heights, was quoted saying: “The Cleveland I grew up in is now unrecognizable.” I am here to shed light into what his experience in Cleveland may have been like.
I am a 37-year-old white woman who has lived in both urban and suburban areas across the country. I grew up down by the bayou in Lafayette, Louisiana before moving to the beautiful suburbs of Wooster, Ohio for college. From there, I moved to downtown Dallas, got a doctorate, and eventually came back to Cleveland, where I have resided for the past seven years. These years have been filled with survival, uncertainty, and fear; this is a warning to readers about what you might face if you dare cross into city limits.
On an average weekend day, I leave the safety of my home to find coffee with my four-year-old daughter and my husband. When I arrive at Phoenix Coffee, there are people sitting outside. I wonder, momentarily, if they will ask me for money or worse, assault and rob me; however, they surprisingly continue drinking iced lattes while conversing about literature and poetry. As I narrowly make it inside, I face another horrifying realization. They hand me a coffee with no straw. I ask politely, may I please have a straw? The barista hands me a compostable straw. I grow worried about its integrity in my cup and on my lips, but it somehow maintains its shape as I slurp down my caffeine. If this is not tyranny, I do not know what is.
If this doesn’t scare you enough, there are some coffee shops that provide no straws at all. Rising Star, for example, only offers sippy-cup style lids. Should you feel truly threatened, retreat to Starbucks. Straws are abundant there. Remember these lily pads of safety in times of crisis.
After narrowly avoiding caffeine disaster, I walk down to pick up my farm share. A strange man leaving the establishment says, “Good tomatoes today.” I clutch my red bin closer, ensuring he cannot wrench it from my arms. Inside, the tomatoes are indeed good looking. But lurking beneath them is something far more sinister: fennel. The same fennel that once withered in my fridge, unused, taunting me. I feel panic rise. Mercifully, the farm stand volunteer points me to an “exchange bin.” I swap the fennel for more tomatoes and run, trembling, into the daylight.
Seeking refuge, I head into Dave’s Market. A police officer at the door soothes my nerves, and I’m relieved to see no fennel in the produce section. But then disaster strikes again: they no longer carry Winking Lizard BBQ sauce. I feel threatened. Should I demand to see a manager, or flee immediately? I choose to flee.
I sprint down Lorain Avenue, where a city bus roars past. Public transportation makes me uneasy. My blood sugar plummets. I enter Juneberry for brunch, but there are no tables available – an hour-long wait. I stagger on to Le Petit Triangle, where they inform me they are fully booked and only taking reservations. Was this what Max Miller (not to be confused with the more well-known New York Jets offensive tackle Max Mitchell) meant when he said the city was unrecognizable? A place where a 37-year-old white woman cannot procure a $16 omelet on demand?
I retreat home with my farm share, hungry and shaken. Outside, a terrifying noise erupts: children playing on the sidewalk, including my own. I wonder if I should board up the windows, but it would cover the stained glass. I crouch in the dark on my hardwood floors until the laughter subsides.
Night falls. I venture out for a calming walk but am unnerved by sounds of people eating on patios and leaving art galleries. I duck into Bookhouse Brewing for safety and a smoked beer. There are no televisions here, only books and board games. Patrons are laughing, talking. I am defenseless, unable to track the Guardians’ score in real time. At least the beer is good.
Later, I stumble into Dean Rufus House of Fun. I consider it as a possible family-friendly outing, but upon entry I am assaulted by shelves of menacing penises in rubber, glass, and latex. For a moment, I fear this is the arsenal Max Miller warned us about – weaponized rubber dicks stockpiled in the city’s core. I reel outside, dizzy. A woman asks if I’m okay. I recoil, fearing assault, though she only offers kindness. The city is alive with music and laughter, but I rush home, still trembling.
That night, my husband recounts his own ordeal: securing ice cream from Mason’s before their 9pm closing, navigating the uncertainty of daily flavor changes. We eat in silence until a noise jolts us. From the backyard window, I see our cat Hector sharing his food bowl with a raccoon. The raccoon shoves the bowl around, snorting. Again, I feel fragile, weak.
The next morning, I remember Max Miller, not to be confused with the more well-known late Grammy-nominated rapper Mac Miller, once worked at Lululemon. Inspired, I set out for leggings, but the store is gone, replaced by a boutique. In Cleveland, it seems, there are many small businesses and few Olive Gardens. People smile and wave on the sidewalks, but I never know when they might pull out a weapon. It is always on my mind.
I try to find food: Larder: closed Sundays. Momocho: closed Sundays. Amba: closed Sundays. A famine in the land. I decide to escape into nature but fear moving my car; suburban visitors have clogged the street with their parked vehicles. I hop on my bike and use one of the many bike lanes toward the Towpath, finally finding quiet.
Here, I reflect. I have survived compostable straws, fennel, brunch denials, artisanal penises, and raccoon incursions. Still, Max Miller, not to be confused with the more well-known Democratic strategist Matt Miller, insists the National Guard must stabilize the city. He will bring us chain restaurants with laminated menus, endless breadsticks, plastic straws in every size, and the soothing silence of cul-de-sacs. This great Max Miller, not to be confused with the more well-known horse trainer Max Miller of Shelbyville, Kentucky, will march the National Guard in the suburban amenities our Founders intended. Until then, I will remain on high alert, clutching my farm share tomatoes, hoping no one forces fennel upon me again.
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Andy J. Huston
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