Jim of Cincinnati
#55: A 100-word account of a brown woman in Cincinnati, Ohio in the early 1990s
Jim of Cincinnati
1991. Cincinnati.
We moved next door to Jim—an old, white, devout Catholic. Often working in his yard, he’d smile, wave at us—his young, Indian, immigrant neighbors. In good weather, he wheeled out his wife, Janet. She was completely paralyzed.
Whenever we asked, Jim answered, “I’m doing great!” Sometimes adding, “Poor Janet’s having a hard day though…”
In 1994, I suffered a brain aneurysm. As I recuperated, Jim stopped by to help my husband. For days, he left freshly cooked casseroles at our doorstep.
Decades later, a highly-educated Californian asked me, “How awful were those flyover country people?”
I remembered Jim.
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--reena | Jan 2025
We live in blessed times that some of smartest people indulge in lifelong blindness without being rendered extinct.The above is a true story.
Soon after graduate school, my husband and I moved to Cincinnati, Ohio. I’m told that Cincinnati now, some 30+ years later, has grown dramatically. Back then—pre-Internet—we didn’t care for what it offered us. It was a small, very conservative, very German town. There was one miserable Indian restaurant for miles around. Hubby and I answered many strange questions about India. We often longed for a bigger, more culturally vibrant, and yes, a more diverse, milieu.
Still, and maybe that’s just us, we didn’t conflate the town’s limited offerings or the curious questions with the character of its people. Many of our lifelong friends were made there; some still live there. At work, as a young engineer, I supervised seasoned factory technicians, often 10-20+ years older than me. Born and raised Cincinnatians. Much of my early career success was due to their expertise, AND their open hearted guidance. Some had never met an Indian woman before.
Jim was our next door neighbor. He wasn’t the only neighbor who deposited food at our door during that difficult time. But he was the only one who had a hundred reasons for why he couldn’t do more than just wish us well. Even my parents, who arrived in a desperate hurry at my illness, remarked on the kindness of the community; including the local grocer who befriended my Dad. A few years later we moved, eventually ending up in the SF Bay Area. My mother often asked me why we left that “lovely town”.
We’ve lived in California for the past 25+ years. Here among the well-traveled, highly educated set, we’re never bored. It’s also here that I observe the prejudice I describe above. I have to remind myself that the correlation between IQ and rationality is startlingly low—0.31 on a good day! Questioning socially approved shibboleths, aka resisting tribal opinion, is undoubtedly lower. We live in blessed times that some of smartest people indulge in lifelong blindness without being rendered extinct. Pardon the unkind observation.
Jim is long gone but my husband and I still recall his attitude to people and life, fondly. We sometimes talk about our nomadic childhoods, the places and cultures we’ve encountered and what makes for a good life. Different ingredients for different folks. But I’ve also learned that Jim’s genuine kindness, his steadfast and positive courage, and his decency as a human being, modeled a deeper wisdom for making a meaningful life—anywhere. It has precious little to do with where you live, your smarts, even less so.
A radically life-affirming reminder to oneself, amidst the din of modern life.
Funnily, soon after conceiving the piece above, I came upon this story. Good for the soul, especially in our crazy times.
It was also featured on the Bill Maher’s show—in case video’s easier.
I laughed out loud!
I live in deep flyover country and have also lived “on the coasts,” as people here call California and the northeast. I agree that you can have a meaningful life anywhere, because “you” are there. Thanks Reena.
So beautiful...