The keeper of Cleveland stories

Every day, John Skrtic (BA ‘02, MPA ‘06) lives an introvert’s nightmare.

He talks to at least two people. And this isn’t light banter. No “great weather we’re having.” Or “how about those Browns?” But seriously how ABOUT those Browns, eh? But we digress. John is expecting conversation. He walks up to them, asks them to spill their life story or parts of it at least and then snaps a picture. His family — many reserved themselves — have come to accept that this is just who he is.

“They’re like, ‘Are you gonna go talk to that person?’” he jokes.

“I’m like, I have to. I’m compelled to.”

At this point, they’re surely used to it. He’s been doing this over 20 years as a side project. And at two pictures a day — he hardly ever misses a day — seven days a week, 12 months a year, year after year. Well, you do the math. John has spoken with an estimated 20,000 people…Clevelanders, to be specific.

His work lives on Instagram, on Facebook, on X. Perhaps you’ve seen Skrtic’s photos in one of Cleveland Magazine’s email digests. Think of the viral Humans of New York social account but for Cleveland. John’s been at it a lot longer, though. And he’s telling the stories of the people who call the shores of Lake Erie home. The 216. He’ll talk to a stand owner at the West Side Market. A cyclist from Rust Belt Riders. Or the guys from the Right Field Famous at Progressive Field. And that’s only a few from October. John casts the net wide and finds no matter the person, Clevelanders share the same heart.

“If you’re from here, you kind of get it,” he said.

“You grew up, and you’re a part of something kind of special: grittier, darker, and fun. You got a little of everything.”

Documenting history makes sense for John. He grew up a mainstay at the Cleveland Public Library. As a kid, he took his little sisters to the main Superior branch downtown and to the Sterling branch on East 30th Street “all the time.”

“Why don’t you get a job here? You’re always here,” staff told him at the Central branch, another one he frequented.

By 15, he was shelving books, helping him pay tuition at Saint Ignatius High School.

Then, staff told him he could make a career out of it. So, he enrolled at Cleveland State, the campus where he and his friends would play hide and seek, the place that was only a short bus ride away from home, the place where he says he always felt comfortable. At the library, he worked as an assistant until he earned his bachelor’s.

A master’s in library science from Kent State followed, along with a promotion to professional librarian. But John wanted to oversee the library’s branches, so he returned to CSU’s then-Levin College of Urban Affairs for a master’s in public administration.

“I love CSU. I’m so proud of it,” he said.

“I’m always wearing my CSU gear, and I’m an advocate.”

He spent 15 years overseeing Cleveland Public Library branches and started chronicling the lives of everyday Clevelanders.

Now, he’s chief of special projects and collections at CPL and pounding the pavement in his spare time to explore the city and its residents.

There’s something powerful about what he does.

“It’s a sense of place, like I’m part of something bigger,” John said.

Each person, each story weaves a picture of people connected by location, for sure, but also by culture. Rust Belt culture. Get-what-you-earn culture. Cleveland-‘til-we-die culture.

That means something. Cleveland’s a special place.

John is eager to remind us about the people and places that make the city so great.

Like the now-closed Sachsenheim Hall, the 116-year-old German social hall in the Stockyard neighborhood on the West side of Cleveland. John visited ahead of its last day to — as always — document the moment.

He talked with a band of longtime musicians, who saw so much through the years. Weddings. Parties. Fundraisers.

“It didn’t matter it was an old German hall. It kind of changed the way Cleveland changed, John said.

“Neighborhoods and demographics and ethnicities all had this really crazy love of this hall.”

It was quintessentially Cleveland.

“We’re all connected by these shared places,” he said.