JD Vance's Childhood Home in Middletown Sits Empty and Decaying

The wooden front door on McKinley Street in Middletown has taken a beating from decades of punishing Ohio winters. The porch boards are split, warped by years of snow, and an American flag hangs above the entrance while leaves turn color along the street. From the road, it looks like somebody still lives there.

They don’t. A padlock hangs on the door. Through the glass, the rooms are bare. Out back, the porch is rotting and the grass hasn't seen a mower any time recently. This is the house where JD Vance spent part of the boyhood he turned into *Hillbilly Elegy*, his bestselling memoir of growing up broke in a fading Rust Belt steel town.

Now, with Vance in the White House, it sits empty. The home where he learned what it meant to have nothing is now too expensive for poor people.

Middletown's median household income is about $57,000, more than $14,000 below the Ohio median and roughly one in six residents lives below the poverty line.

Next door, Christina, 47, is tossing another plastic pumpkin onto a front yard already overrun with Halloween decorations. Christina ran a ghost-hunting outfit for a decade and now claims to share her century-old home with the ghosts of an old man and a maid. She has never sensed one in the Vance house.

'Very stagnant, bland energy,' she said. 'There's too much pain in there for spirits.'

The last family to rent the Vance house, according to neighbors, were a young couple with a little girl and a newborn baby. They lasted about a year. He lost his job and the rent kept climbing.

'They moved out about a month ago,' said Matt, 35, who had to move back in with his parents two doors down. 'The management company kept pushing up the rent on all the houses they own around here. They just couldn't afford it.'

Matt won't be voting on November 3. Not for the GOP, not for anyone.

'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?'

Shrugs like that are exactly what Republicans can't afford. Ohio, a state Trump has won comfortably three times, is slipping through their fingers. The ones letting it go are the same white, working-class men who handed it to him in the first place. They're broke, they're fed up and plenty of them have simply stopped voting.

Even at a strip club 20 minutes north of town, dancers say the regulars have stopped talking about politics and, more painfully, stopped tipping like they used to.

Sherrod Brown, the grizzled Democrat Ohioans threw out of the Senate two years ago, is now beating Republican Jon Husted in polls. If he wins, he takes back the very seat Vance gave up to become vice president. And in the race for governor, Vance ally Vivek Ramaswamy could go down too.

The stakes here climb for Vance after November. If Republicans lose both a Senate seat and the governorship, Democrats will have a new foothold of power in a state that appeared to be off the map for them.

Middletown, Ohio. The sign at the city limits doesn't mince words: "Hometown of JD Vance." It is a place where the median household income hovers around $57,000, sitting more than $14,000 below the state average. Roughly one in six residents lives below the poverty line. If Vance launches a presidential bid, the weight of rebuilding the party's coalition lands squarely on his shoulders. He has to win back a state no Republican has lost on the road to the White House. And it starts right here.

Central Avenue is the town's tired main drag. By day, it is quiet. Cars drive through constantly, but almost none of them stop. On a Friday afternoon, the empty lots outnumbered the open shops. New businesses move in, only to vanish within months. White working-class Ohioans told the Daily Mail they either won’t vote in the midterms or plan to back Democrats. The political mood is sour.

Vance was last here in August. He dropped into Central Pastry before rallying steelworkers at the old Armco plant, now Cleveland-Cliffs. His grandfather worked there for nearly 40 years. He has been back to Ohio twice since then, rallying in Lima and outside Cincinnati. At the Cincinnati stop last week, a man posing as a supporter tossed down his MAGA hat. He shouted, "You protected pedophiles!" before being led out. Vance joked that the man hadn't washed his hair in three months.

At Central Pastry, the 78-year-old store Vance still visits when he's back in town, the owner adores him. Vera, 81, came from Colombia by way of New York and has run the bakery for three decades. Her husband worked for Armco, the steel company that made Middletown. He grew up on McKinley Street, just like Vance. Vera remembers a little boy coming in with his grandmother. She didn't know his name back then.

"It was his eyes," she said. "Years later I saw him at the Memorial Day parade, standing on his own... and I knew him straight away. Those eyes."

When he comes in now, he insists on being called JD. Last time he bought doughnuts, he left a $40 tip. He reminded the girls who work there that there's no tax on tips anymore. Customers have been tipping big ever since. He signed a $2 bill for one of the bakery's close-knit crew who collects them. She has it framed at home.

Vera is not convinced the town shares her affection. "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 staff think he's slimming down for a run at the presidency. He turned down their doughnuts at his last rally.

Jennifer, who works the counter, went to that rally. She'll vote on November 3, she said, but she's "not as enthused" because Trump and Vance aren't on the ballot. Vance in 2028? "No hesitation."

Chris, 57, helps run a ministry for the homeless. He drips red, white and blue. He sports a long white beard, crucifixes are wrapped and stacked on his wrists, and a cross emblazoned with a lion's face sits on his T-shirt.

"Drugs are bad here," Chris said. Half the people on the street, he figures, were sent here from the towns of Hamilton, Dayton and Columbus. Middletown has shelters; the other towns don't want them.

"Everybody says go to Middletown, go to Middletown. We're saturated."

Chris knows the vice president's mother, Bev Aikins. Long in recovery, she has spoken at his ministry's events about her addiction and how it cost her the relationship with her children. She says that relationship has since been repaired. The first time they met, about a year and a half ago, she was telling her story. She let a few f-bombs fly, with children in the room.

Chris, a former youth pastor, called out the vice president’s mother.

"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."

People interpreted that as him calling Beverly Aikins a pig. He insists he wasn't.

The first time Chris met Vance's mother, about a year and half ago, she was telling her story and let a few f-bombs fly with children in the room. Chris, a former youth pastor, stopped her.

"It's an awkward situation, arguing with the vice president's mother, telling her to watch her mouth," he said. "Everybody got on me about it. But I walk to the beat of my own drum."

Chris is less generous about his son. Asked whether life in Middletown has got any better with one of its own in the White House, he suggested Vance had left the town behind.

"If I made that journey, I wouldn't forget where I came from," he said. "And I'll leave it at that."

He'll still vote Republican this time ("This midterm isn't about personality, it's about protection"), but if Vance runs for president in 2028, he said, he "would have to prove himself."

Walk through Vance's hometown and you can tell who has beaten addiction and who is still fighting it. Men cheerfully recommend their favorite dive bar through battered teeth and bloodshot eyes.

On a porch just a few blocks from Vance's old home, Jose, a migrant worker in the US on a five-year permit, knows exactly whose house is down the street. Immigration officers wait outside his job sites, he said, and don't care that his papers are in order.

"The streets are full of drugs," he said. "But nowadays they're not worried about drugs. They're only worried about us."

As the sun goes down, Central Avenue changes. The addicts come out of the shadows and light up. The homeless stream in, pushing shopping carts.

The dealers are easy to spot, residents told us. They wear designer chest bags and drive flashy cars, so the addicts know who's "pushing." Unlike Jose, they don't seem to worry much about the police.

We stopped a man in his mid-30s with a scraggly blond goatee, leaning against a brand-new SUV and told him we were asking people who they're voting for.

Flashing a crooked, yellowed grin, he snickered, "Try the graveyard."

Twenty minutes north, at the end of a side road, the yellow awning of Cheeks Gentlemans Club glows on a Sunday night.

Inside, the music is blaring. Its energy is not matched by the spending of the patrons.

A long wooden stage runs through the room, ringed by faded floral swivel chairs that look like they were bought in 1994. Football flickers on every screen.

At one point the evening news comes on, and a poll flashes up showing Brown four points ahead of Husted. Nobody looks up.

"You know s*** isn't right when the stripping business is taking a hit," said Storm, 28, a well-spoken brunette with a shoulder tattoo.

She started dancing at 18 and grew up 15 minutes from Middletown. Two years ago a good weekend was worth nearly $2,500. Now she's lucky to clear $1,000 and the stage tips have all but dried up.

"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."

"We're basically sexy therapists," Storm said. Men pour out tales of their divorces and their debts to her.

Her customers are construction and factory workers who come in big groups.

The majority of the crowd, she estimates, backed Trump. "A few of my regulars were really excited during the election," she explained. "Now hardly any of them mention it." She noted that not a single one has brought up the event happening in a few days.

"It's funny," she observed. "People have bigger issues, like paying bills. 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 pudgy man with an unkempt beard, a ball cap, work jeans, and worn boots began raining $1 bills over her. Within five minutes, two other dancers swooped in and stole him away. When his singles ran out, they scattered.

"We're basically sexy therapists," Storm said. Men pour out tales of their divorces and their debts to her.

Will any of them vote?

"No. They're dealing with their s*** and just trying to get by," she said. "When they want a little fun, they come here."

"People just want to escape," she added. "But most of us can't. We're stuck here."

Storm didn't vote for Trump-Vance in 2024. Asked about him, she almost forgot he was from around there.

"Oh yeah, he grew up here, right?" she said. "Didn't he make a movie or a book about it?