The wooden front door of JD Vance’s childhood home on McKinley Street in Middletown has endured decades of harsh Ohio winters. The porch boards are cracked and warped beneath years of snow.
An American flag hangs above the entrance, while autumn leaves turn along the street. From the road, the house looks as though someone still lives there.
But no one does. A padlock secures the door, and the rooms visible through the glass are empty. Around back, the porch is decaying and the lawn has gone uncut.
This is the house where the vice president spent part of the childhood he later chronicled in Hillbilly Elegy, his bestselling memoir about growing up poor in a declining Rust Belt steel town.
Now that Vance is in the White House, the property sits vacant. The home where he learned what it meant to have little has become too costly for the people struggling to get by.
Middletown’s median household income is approximately $57,000—more than $14,000 below Ohio’s median—and about one in six residents lives below the poverty line.
Next door, Christina, 47, adds another plastic pumpkin to a front yard already overflowing with Halloween decorations.
Christina ran a ghost-hunting business for 10 years and now says her century-old home is shared by the spirits of an elderly man and a maid. She has never felt a presence in the Vance house. “Very stagnant, bland energy,” she said. “There’s too much pain in there for spirits.”
JD Vance has risen from humble beginnings in Middletown, Ohio, to the White House
This is the home where the vice president spent part of the childhood he described in Hillbilly Elegy, his bestselling memoir about growing up poor in a declining Rust Belt steel town
Christina, 47, lives next door to Vance’s former home. The former ghost hunter has never sensed spirits there: “Very stagnant, bland energy”
Neighbors say the last family to rent the Vance house was a young couple with a little girl and a newborn son.
They stayed for roughly a year. The husband lost his job as the rent continued to rise.
“They moved out about a month ago,” said Matt, 35, who has had to move back in with his parents two doors away. “The management company kept increasing the rent on all the houses they own around here. They just couldn’t afford it.”
Matt will not vote on November 3—not for the Republicans or anyone else.
“I try to stay away from the news. I don’t really understand it,” he said. “Honestly, I’m just not interested. It’s not like anything’s going to change, is it?”
That kind of apathy is precisely what Republicans cannot afford. Ohio, a state Donald Trump has won comfortably three times, is beginning to slip from their grasp. The voters letting it go are the same white, working-class men who helped deliver it to him. Many are struggling, frustrated and no longer showing up at the polls.
Even at a strip club 20 minutes north of Middletown, dancers say regulars have stopped discussing politics—and, more painfully, have stopped tipping as they once did.
Sherrod Brown, the veteran Democrat Ohio voters removed from the Senate two years ago, is now leading Republican Jon Husted in polls. A victory would return Brown to the seat Vance vacated when he became vice president. In the governor’s race, Vance ally Vivek Ramaswamy could also suffer defeat.
The November results will carry major consequences for Vance.
If Republicans lose both a Senate seat and the governor’s office, Democrats will gain a new base of power in a state that once seemed out of reach. Should Vance pursue the presidency, he would face pressure to rebuild the party’s coalition in a state no Republican has lost while winning the White House.
That effort would begin in towns much like his own.
A sign on the city limits identifies the community as “Middletown, Ohio: Hometown of JD Vance.”
A city-limit sign identifies Middletown as “Hometown of JD Vance”
Middletown’s median household income is about $57,000, more than $14,000 below Ohio’s median, while roughly one in six residents lives below the poverty line
White working-class Ohioans told Our News Outlet they either will not vote in the midterms or intend to support Democrats
An Ohio couple pictured at a local Halloween festival
Vance was last in Middletown in August, when he stopped at Central Pastry before addressing steelworkers at the former Armco plant—now Cleveland-Cliffs—where his grandfather worked for nearly 40 years.
He has returned to Ohio twice since then, campaigning in Lima and outside Cincinnati. At last week’s Cincinnati event, a man posing as a supporter threw down his MAGA hat and yelled, “You protected pedophiles!” before being escorted out. Vance joked that the man had not washed his hair in three months.
During the day, Central Avenue, Middletown’s weary main street, is quiet. Cars pass constantly, but few pull over.
On a Friday afternoon, vacant lots outnumbered open businesses. New enterprises arrive, only to disappear months later.
At Central Pastry, the 78-year-old shop Vance still visits when he returns, the owner remains devoted to him.
Vera, 81, came to the United States from Colombia by way of New York and has operated Central Pastry for 30 years. Her husband, an Armco employee, grew up on McKinley Street just as Vance did. She remembers a young boy visiting with his grandmother, though she did not know his name at the time.
“It was his eyes,” she said. “Years later, I saw him at the Memorial Day parade, standing on his own…and I recognized him immediately. Those eyes.”
When Vance visits now, he insists that staff call him JD.
Vera, 81, is a strong supporter of the vice president. She owns Central Pastry, the 78-year-old shop Vance visits when he returns to town
Vera remembers a young boy visiting with his grandmother: “Those eyes”
The last time he bought doughnuts, he left a $40 tip and told the bakery’s employees that tips were no longer subject to tax. Customers have been leaving larger tips ever since. He also signed a $2 bill for a member of the close-knit staff who collects them; she keeps it framed at home.
Vera is not certain that the town shares her admiration. “A lot of people say he put things in that book that weren’t true,” she said. “But he really came from nothing, and he made himself.”
Her employees believe Vance is losing weight in preparation for a presidential campaign. At his most recent rally, he declined their doughnuts.
Jennifer, who works behind the counter, attended that rally. She said she will vote on November 3, but is “not as enthused” because Trump and Vance are not on the ballot. Would she support Vance in 2028? “No hesitation.”
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Chris, 57, helps operate a ministry for homeless people and wears his politics openly. A long white beard frames his face, crucifixes cover his wrists and his T-shirt bears a cross with a lion’s head.
“Drugs are bad here,” Chris said. In his view, half the people living on the streets were sent from Hamilton, Dayton and Columbus because Middletown has shelters and those communities do not want them.
“Everybody says, ‘Go to Middletown, go to Middletown.’ We’re saturated.”
Chris knows Vance’s mother, Bev Aikins, who has been in long-term recovery. She has spoken at events hosted by his ministry about her addiction, the way it separated her from her children and how they later repaired their relationship.
When they first met about a year and a half ago, Aikins was telling her story and used several expletives in front of children. Chris, a former youth pastor, interrupted her.
“I said, ‘Hey, we can’t have that,’” he recalled. “And I made the comment, you can put lipstick on a pig and it’s still a pig.”
Some people interpreted the remark as Chris calling the vice president’s mother a pig. He says that was not what he meant.
When Chris first met Vance’s mother about a year and a half ago, she was telling her story and used several expletives in front of children. Chris, a former youth pastor, intervened
In Vance’s hometown, it is easy to see who has overcome addiction and who remains caught in it. Men with damaged teeth and bloodshot eyes cheerfully recommend their favorite bars
“It’s an awkward situation, arguing with the vice president’s mother and telling her to watch her mouth,” he said. “Everybody got on me about it. But I march to the beat of my own drum.”
Chris is less forgiving toward her son. Asked whether Middletown had improved with one of its own in the White House, he suggested that Vance had moved on from the town.
“If I made that journey, I wouldn’t forget where I came from,” he said. “And I’ll leave it at that.”
Chris still plans to vote Republican this time—“This midterm isn’t about personality, it’s about protection”—but said Vance would have to prove himself if he ran for president in 2028.
A walk through Vance’s hometown reveals who has conquered addiction and who is still battling it. Men with battered teeth and bloodshot eyes happily point visitors toward their preferred dive bars.
On a porch a few blocks from Vance’s former home, Jose, a migrant worker in the United States on a five-year permit, knows exactly where the house is. Immigration officers, he said, wait outside his job sites despite his legal paperwork.
“The streets are full of drugs,” he said. “But nowadays they’re not worried about drugs. They’re only worried about us.”
Vance with his mother, Beverly Aikins, at the White House. Her addiction separated them during his childhood, but they have since reconciled
Jose, a migrant worker in the United States on a five-year permit, sits on a porch a few blocks from Vance’s former home
As evening falls, Central Avenue takes on a different character. People struggling with addiction emerge from the shadows, while homeless residents push shopping carts into the streets.
Residents say the dealers are easy to identify. They carry designer chest bags and drive flashy cars, signaling to addicts who is “pushing.” Unlike Jose, they appear largely unconcerned about police attention.
We approached a man in his mid-30s with a scruffy blond goatee who was leaning against a brand-new SUV and asked whom he planned to support.
He flashed a crooked, yellowed smile and snickered, “Try the graveyard.”
Twenty minutes north, at the end of a side road, the yellow awning of Cheeks Gentlemans Club shines on a Sunday night.
Inside, the music pounds, but the crowd’s spending does not match the volume.
A long wooden stage cuts through the room, surrounded by faded floral swivel chairs that appear to date from 1994. Football plays on every television.
When the evening news briefly appears, a poll shows Brown leading Husted by four points. No one turns to look.
“You know s*** isn’t right when the stripping business is taking a hit,” said Storm, 28, a poised brunette with a tattoo on her shoulder.
She began dancing at 18 and grew up 15 minutes from Middletown. Two years ago, she could earn nearly $2,500 on a good weekend. Now she is fortunate to make $1,000, and tips thrown onto the stage have nearly disappeared.
“Guys used to throw cash on the open stage,” she said. “Now they waddle up holding one dollar and expect a f***ing lap dance.”
Twenty minutes north of Middletown, the yellow awning of Cheeks Gentlemans Club glows at the end of a side road
“We’re basically sexy therapists,” Storm said. Men share stories of divorce and debt with her
Her customers are construction and factory workers who often arrive in large groups. Most, she believes, voted for Trump.
“A few of my regulars were really excited during the election. Now hardly any of them mention it,” she said. “Not one has brought up the one happening in a few days.”
“People have bigger issues, like paying bills. It’s funny, because the only way to fix that is to vote. But that’s not how it plays out around here.”
Later, Storm took the stage. A heavyset man with an unkempt beard, baseball cap, work jeans and worn boots began throwing $1 bills over her. Within five minutes, two other dancers had drawn him away. When his singles were gone, they dispersed.
“We’re basically sexy therapists,” Storm said. Men tell her about their divorces and debts.
Will any of them vote?
“No. They’re dealing with their s*** and just trying to get by. When they want a little fun, they come here,” she said.
“People just want to escape. But most of us can’t. We’re stuck here.”
Storm did not vote for Trump and Vance in 2024. When asked about Vance, she had nearly forgotten that he was from Middletown.
“Oh yeah, he grew up here, right?” she said. “Didn’t he make a movie or a book about it?”
