and 1912, that reads: “I adore Chicago. It is the pulse of America.”
A little to the north, in Boystown, about one hundred yards from the lake, the atmosphere is always picturesque and the night life wild. This is where the gay community has been gathering for more than thirty years. It’s impossible to miss it: the rainbow-colored columns show the way for any lost sheep. At the Sidetrack Bar, young men sometimes lose their virginity and find their identity in one night. In conservative America, steeped in religion, where family is more important than anything, this brazen oasis is considered something of a miracle, and holding our drinks, we weave our way through it. At Replay, Chris, an athletic thirty-something, confirms this: “The victory of that asshole Trump hasn’t changed a thing: we’re having a good time here, just like before. People haven’t changed the way they see us. And if they started to look at us sideways, we’d tell them to go fuck themselves!” And he raises his middle finger, laughing, while Gloria Gaynor belts out “I Will Survive.” It’s true: who would have believed that Trump would one day win that damn election?
We stayed in the area for a few days, intoxicated by its vitality, soaking in its creativity, yet knowing perfectly well that the next part of our journey would probably be very different. In short, we were gathering the strength we would need to head into battle.
One morning, after picking up a rental car, we headed out to Cincinnati, our next stop, but first we had to cross Indiana. To me, Indiana is first and foremost the state where James Dean was born. I love that wild, inconsolable, and amazing young man so much that I wrote a book about him. To do that, at the time, I surveyed the places he had lived—Santa Monica with its palm trees, Hollywood with its illusions, the sidewalks of New York, and even Cholame, California, where he died while driving to Salinas—but I had never been to Indiana. So I had to imagine the terrible winters and unbearable summers in Marion, the town where he was born, had to imagine him as a child playing in the snow or running until he was out of breath in the fields scorched by the sun. I had imagined that it was a difficult, harsh place. Today, I see it for myself. Corn growing as far as the eye can see, haystacks by the dozens, hills full of greenery, a few wind turbines to break the monotony. Sometimes you don’t see a single house for miles, and when you finally do, it is almost always flying an American flag. You have to like silence, solitude, God, and country to live here. Some faces are craggy, prematurely old. The people from here are nicknamed Hoosiers, which means hillbillies or rednecks. (But they’re the ones who gave America its new vice president. Mike Pence was the governor of this state: “a Christian, a conservative, and a Republican, in that order,” is how he describes himself. And the way things are going, he probably won’t stay content with the vice presidency.)
As I was saying, I hadn’t visited Fairmount, where Jimmy grew up, and where he’s buried. This time, the temptation was too great: we would make a detour. The town honors its idol in its own way, with a sign, a statue, and a “historical museum,” a somewhat pompous name for the small building with red walls we visited. Two delightful old ladies with white hair eagerly greet us there—we’re the first visitors of the day. The older one murmurs: “You’ve come because you love Jimmy, correct?” Correct. She immediately gives us a guided tour. A few personal effects of the town’s famous child are displayed in glass cases: baby clothing, hand-written notes, drawings, letters, props from his movies. This somewhat laughable exhibit ends up being sublime and deeply moving.
Next, at the intersection of Adams and Vine, we look for the old school of the little genius, but we find nothing but a pile of rubble. The school no longer exists; it has just been demolished. Fans sometimes come to steal a brick, as a kind of lucky charm. S., who notices my disappointment, tries to make a joke: “It’s like the song by Isabelle Adjani: ‘you’re in a state near Ohio, you’re feelin’ low.’”
We finally head to the cemetery. It is vast, but nothing points to the grave, which is minuscule: a simple stone set on the grass next to a gravel walkway, alongside so many others, unimpressive, with two dates, the year of his birth and of his death. A few small pebbles placed on the top of the stone as an offering to the deceased, a faded bouquet of flowers, some potted plants. That’s all. We leave. My heart is aching.
As we approach Ohio, my thoughts slowly drift back to politics. I think about the fact that this is one of the famous swing states that gave Trump victory. In 2008 and 2012, Obama won it easily. But in 2016, the majority of the state went to the billionaire: the Republican candidate beat Hillary Clinton by nine points. He was dominant throughout the entire state, except in the three main cities: Cleveland, Columbus, and Cincinnati. The reasons for this about-face have been explained at length: this is the Rust Belt, the industrial region that was bled dry by the economic crisis and where people are finding it difficult to change jobs. The outcasts from the steel industry and coal mines naturally turned to the person who claimed he could save them. The farmers are also having trouble making ends meet and are repelled by the elites who don’t care about their fate: Hillary was a turn-off to them.
And, contrary to what we might think, enthusiasm for Trump has not waned. In Bridgetown, on the I-74, where we stopped for coffee, Michael, a forty-five-year-old longstanding Democrat, attracted by our French accents to the point of starting up a conversation, confirmed this: Trump is still appealing here. He tells us that in Youngstown, in the north of the state, a city that symbolizes the blue-collar working-class community almost to the point of caricature, twenty thousand people have just given a triumphant welcome to the president. Ordinary people, who call themselves patriots, who do not understand the stubbornness that rules their hero, who continue to find him different, “refreshing,” who still believe in the myth of “the true America that is suffering from the arrogance of Washington.” “These people exist, and they haven’t changed their minds,” Michael laments. “And yet, they will be the principal victims of Trumpism. Look at what is happening to Obamacare. If the Republicans manage to do away with it, these people will be very vulnerable.” I point out to him that that latest attempt to repeal it failed again a few days before. “They’ll try again. Trump is the kind of person who never gives in. And he isn’t interested in reality.”
It’s a return to reality, in fact, as we enter Cincinnati. We immediately realize we are in a close-knit community, where the black population is very large—nearly one resident out of two, according to official statistics. If it was pioneer country in the past, with time it has become more unassuming while remaining a home for immigrants and a center of industry. It prides itself on its impressive suspension bridge (not advisable for people who get vertigo, like me), and Fountain Square lies at the heart of the city.
Not very far away, on the corner of Fifth and Walnut Street, there are a handful of people waving signs that say “Black Lives Matter.” A young woman who notices my curiosity comes over and asks me whether I “support them.” I ask her to explain. So Melissa tells me about Samuel DuBose, a forty-three-year-old black man, killed two years ago by Ray Tensing, a twenty-five-year-old white police officer, when he stopped DuBose’s car. Tensing pulled out his gun and fired at close range because DuBose looked like he was about to drive off. DuBose was unarmed, and the cop normally wore a T-shirt with the Confederate flag on it under his uniform. The officer immediately pleaded self-defense, except that the video footage taken from the bodycam he was wearing radically contradicted his version of events. The first trial that took place resulted in a hung jury. A second trial ended in May 2017 with the same result, so the prosecutor has just decided to drop the case against the officer. “And so,” Melissa tells me, “you can kill black people with impunity in this city, in this country, risking nothing! We’re here to say that this is unacceptable.” Fewer than a dozen people are demonstrating. Melissa is preaching in a desert. Racism still has many happy days ahead. It remains the tragic failure of the Obama era.
Otherwise, life seems rather peaceful in this place. Happy, too, sometimes. The Below Zero Lounge sells blue and green cocktails, and when evening comes, drag shows feature performers with names like Mystique Summers or Divine Cher. S. and I sing karaoke, trying to perform “Finally” by CeCe Peniston, which turns out to be impossible. We are applauded
