We Matter. You Don't!

This was a historic campaign in so many ways. Too bad for you we had all the fun here in ohio.

Every four years, Ohio becomes the center of the political universe.

Oh sure, there was a lot of chatter about Florida in 2000, but how many times did you hear people complain that Florida wouldn't have mattered if Al Gore hadn't pulled out of, you guessed it, Ohio?

All this attention on my home state is flattering, but its fickle nature is a teeny bit insulting. We're a fascinating people all the time, not just in presidential election years. Only in Ohio, for example, can you find a giant Jesus rising out of the ground on Interstate-75 and then drive less than one hour south to visit the birthplace for modern Reform Judaism. That's serious diversity, but that's not what most people think of when they hear "Ohio." Someone says "Ohio" and a lot of folks immediately think "battleground state." Then again, some people hear "Ohio" and think "Iowa." Must be all those vowels.

Here we are, though, on the brink of electing a new president and, once again, we're a national obsession. We can't hiccup without someone taking another poll here. Happens during every presidential race, and we're a little hurt that most of the time you just fly right over us, but we welcome the renewed interest. We've had four years to grow lots of opinions that we're just dying to share with the media.

Last month, Ohio was the hand-wringing center of attention in lengthy stories in The New Yorker, The Washington Post, and this newspaper. The state hosted two days of NPR's Talk of the Nation, and our state capital was the choice for CNN's focus group of independent voters who were asked to weigh in on the second presidential debate. The majority of the group said Obama won, but when asked who they would pick if they had to cast their vote that night, a slight majority said McCain. Can't explain it, and I was born here. We're just full of mystery.

Ohio is also the butt of a joke in a new episode of The Simpsons. On Election Day, Homer tries desperately to cast his vote in Ohio for Obama, but every time he presses the button the machine tells him he just cast another vote for McCain. Homer, acting like your typical Ohio State football fan, begins wrestling with the machine, which swallows him up and spits him out like a wasted wad of tobacco. That scene would be a lot funnier if I could only forget the bumper sticker I saw on a car in Manhattan shortly after the 2004 election: Have you hit an Ohioan lately? That hurt.

Speaking of New Yorkers, there are a lot of them volunteering in Ohio right now, so this is a great time to find a parking space near that Broadway show you've been aching to see. In fact, you can't walk 6 feet without meeting someone from another state who's dropped everything to work on the race here. I've noticed that Boston folks have a habit of canvassing Cleveland neighborhoods in their Red Sox caps. Talk about poking the bear. Most of the time, though, Midwestern manners prevail, if you don't count the nasty exchange outside Obama headquarters in Cleveland's Shaker Square. Only three people saw it, though, and I, for one, will take that memory to my grave.

As always, Ohio is one of the top states for the number of political ads. In one recent week alone, the candidates combined spent at a rate of nearly $24,000 every hour on TV ads. Most of them are pretty negative in a state where the unofficial motto is "God don't like ugly." This may explain why so few people are making way for oncoming traffic lately. It's also why you can't stand in line for five minutes at the local pharmacy before total strangers start complaining about the negative ads, quoting them from beginning to end with descriptions of every last graphic. But nobody grouses that this is no place to be talking about politics, because no such place exists in Ohio.

We are a battleground state, but we are also called the heartland, which probably explains why my neighbors and I are still speaking. Six households nearby put the same candidate's signs in their yards on the same day. They know there's no way anyone in our house is supporting their guy or their judgment, but they also know we won't let that get in the way of the curbside chats and all-hands-on-deck chases when one of the dogs gets loose.

We're neighbors before the election, and we'll be neighbors after it. Life will go on here in Ohio, even if we're the only ones who will notice.

Connie Schultz is a Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.