The Little Orange

The City of Cleveland: always, by its own measure, “not quite.” Always a hint of shame, a qualifier, hesitancy. As an outsider-native — I returned four years ago, having moved away before kindergarten — Cleveland’s poor self-esteem is a foreign tongue. How exactly do I color my driving directions with cartographical self-consciousness? And exactly which syllable gets the low note in “Cleveland sucks”?

By my measure, Cleveland is the Little Orange: comparisons with other, bigger cities — east, west, or New York — are nonsensical. We’re a city of under 500,000 in a region of roughly 4 million (counted as Cleveland+), yet we despair at our limited national and international profile. We scramble for examples of our worth and surrender to labels of “poorest” and “small.” Our media outlets saturate their copy with enough pro-Cleveland talk to move them from Current Events to Self-Help, and our sports teams are an embarrassment even when they best every team but one.

How did Cleveland’s self-esteem get so low? Do Clevelanders meditate daily on the promise of the early 1900’s and the glory post-World War II? Do we flog ourselves regularly over flaming rivers, defaulting mayors, and football infidelity? Or is our speech pattern a cultural heirloom, a Northcoast drawl we acquired just as teenagers learn their hyperbole and hedging? Above all, do we believe what we say, or are we, like, joking?

I can’t take it anymore, Cleveland. I may not be able to talk you out of your despair, but at least I can talk back. Yes, yes, apples are delicious; maybe someday you’ll realize that clementines are tasty too.