See Me Squeegee

“What do you say when people in L.A. ask you about Detroit?” he asked.  We were standing in the kitchen of their new house in Detroit’s north suburbs, me, my best friend from high school, Justin, and his wife, Lindsay.  He knew the answer even if neither of us could articulate it well in words.  You could say that he wanted Lindsay to hear the answer, but we both knew that wasn’t really possible either.  As I cocked my head back in thought, searching for words that may never have been invented, I couldn’t help but smile a big, authentic, involuntary smile.

“See?” he asked his wife.  And then we were all smiling, thinking the same thing.  Home.

I wasn’t more than 4 or 5 years old, in the waiting room of a doctor’s office reading what I think was a Dr. Seuss book but it could have been something similar…there was definitely a playful tone to it and it rhymed, but there was a touch of sarcasm to keep the parents engaged too.  My mom was with my brother for an appointment and I had figured out how to read enough by then that I could entertain myself in the corner.  It was an alphabet-style book, one of those A is for _________, B is for ________ kinds of things.  And I don’t know if it was C is for Caribbean or H is for Hawaii or V is for Vacation or whatever it was, but the joke on the page was to the extent of “oh the places you’ll go…but you’ll probably never go to these exotic places.”  I don’t remember too much, but I’ll never forget the punchline:

“Maybe someday you’ll go to Detroit.”

That may not have been the exact moment that I realized that the city I lived in, the only home I really knew, was a national punchline, but that was my first brush with hard-hitting sarcasm and I had no choice but to realize what it meant.  Couple that with my dad’s Detroit Marathon t-shirts that said “Say Nice Things About Detroit” and Channel 4’s “Stand Up and Tell ‘Em You’re From Detroit” ad campaign and it wasn’t too long after I started reading that I was able to tell that Detroit had a bad reputation, one that we as Detroiters felt we needed to defend against.

At the time I didn’t understand why anyone would have anything bad to say about Detroit.  I liked my school.  I liked my friends.  I liked long summer days when it’s light out until 10pm because we were on the western edge of the eastern time zone.  I liked fall when leaves fell from the trees and you could rake them in a pile and jump into them.  I liked winter when you could ice skate on frozen ponds and sled down snowy hills.  I liked spring, when everything felt fresh and new again and 50 degrees felt like midsummer.  I liked watching Billy Sims and the Lions and Isiah Thomas and the Pistons and listening to Ernie Harwell call Tigers games on the radio and going to Tigers games at old Tiger Stadium – parking next to the old Firestone building and walking across the brick section of Michigan Avenue in Corktown and seeing the immaculately cut grass in the outfield and the Olde English D everywhere.

Now I get it.  You could argue that Detroit has terrible weather. It’s a fact that Detroit has a scary crime rate (I chuckle at NYC native Jay-Z’s lyric “I’m from the murder capital, will we murder for capital” – no you’re not, Jigga…it’s us, St. Louis, or DC. Not that I’m proud.).  It’s a fact that the Detroit has declared bankruptcy, that it’s losing population faster than its Lions can lose games, that its public transportation system is worse than – gasp – Los Angeles’s, and that, yeah, that it’s a punchline for anyone who isn’t from there and for a lot of people who are.  When I was 17, my friends and I drove down to Atlanta for the Olympics, and one day we ended up a little lost in a pretty rough neighborhood and a tough-looking, bigger-than-all-of-us guy noticed and came over to confront us with what looked to me at the time like a pretty sinister smile.  “Y’all look lost,” he said.  “Where y’all boys from?”  When we replied “Detroit,” he stepped back and said “whoa!”, clearly at that point kind of kidding, but that’s our reputation.  In a world where image is everything, Detroit has an unshakably bad image.  But home is where the heart is.  There’s no place like home.  I can only “say nice things about Detroit” as the t-shirt taught me.

You know about Detroit’s crime.  You know about Detroit’s bankruptcy.  You know about Detroit’s reputation.  I want to tell you about Detroit, my home.

How can I best describe Detroit?  A couple years ago I dated a girl whose sister had Down Syndrome.  And when she’d talk about her sister her face would light up with a giant smile, that same big, authentic, involuntary smile I get when people ask me about Detroit.  And what I took from the way she talked and smiled and laughed and felt about her sister was this – it was in no way contrived or fake joy; it was in no way pity directed at her sister.  It was a combination of pity for those who could never get past the surface of her sister to fully recognize and appreciate how wonderful she was, and joy that she herself was one of the few people who got to fully enjoy such an incredible person.

I feel pretty similarly about Detroit.  For those of us who grew up there, who call it home, Detroit is a great place that we both regret that no one will really understand and that we secretly love that it’s *ours*.  It has its problems, far too many to name in one blog post, and it will never have the outside allure that Paris and San Francisco and Miami have.  But it’s home, and it’s the only place I’ll ever call that.  Welcome to my Detroit.

October, 2006.  Venice, California.  My brother and I are at a bar watching the Detroit Tigers in the World Series. I’ve lived in Los Angeles for two months; he’s visiting.  To our left is a Venice Beach drug dealer; he’s wearing a navy blue hat with an Olde English D.  To our right is a real-life Axel Foley from Beverly Hills Cop.  He’s a Detroit homicide detective on vacation in California; he’s wearing a navy blue hat with an Olde English D.  All four of us are.  I ask the cop what part of Detroit he’s from and he tells me Brightmoor, a notably rough section of the city that may well have the highest murder rate.  Now I know what’s coming next and I’m a little embarrassed.  I’m from the suburbs, a New England looking middle class town called Plymouth, about 15 miles from the city limits of Detroit.  “West suburbs,” I reply.  “Plymouth, out by Ann Arbor.”  It’s only in my head but he looks at me a little funny; earlier in the conversation I had definitely said I was from “Detroit.”  “But out of town I always say Detroit,” I follow up.  A little drunk and a little embarrassed I meekly ask “is that okay?”.  Shaking my hand with a big smile on his face he says “Preferred.”  

They say that it’s not where you are that counts, but who you’re with. And that’s the main reason I love Detroit.  As I type this – on an 80-degree January day in Los Angeles – I’m wearing my “Detroit vs. Everybody” sweatshirt.  There’s pride in being the underdog – we’re all in it together.  When I see another Detroit Tigers hat here in Los Angeles, it’s just instinct to smile and say hello and know that it’s coming right back to you; when I’m home in Michigan everyone says hello or good morning and if there’s any reason to be collectively happy – a nicer day than the day before, a win for a local team, a great live band – you’ll comment to a stranger about it as you pass on the street or hold open the door.  It took leaving Detroit to realize that that’s not always the case, that it’s normal for neighbors to avoid eye contact, to not share in the joy of a gorgeous fall day or a major triumph for a local entity.

This summer I was back home and my dad and I rode racing bikes from Plymouth down Hines Drive – a 25+ mile park system that runs through Wayne County – into Detroit, a couple suburbanites in lycra doing yuppie things.  At Outer Drive, entering “actual Detroit” some construction workers were paving the shoulder and working caution and Stop signs to control  traffic in a single lane.  As we rode through, a native Detroiter shifted his Caution sign to his other hand to hold up a high five – “you’re doing great…go get ’em!” he yelled as we slapped hands.  Total strangers from different worlds united by a beautiful day and civic pride, compelled to share that enthusiasm together.  That’s Detroit.

A couple weeks ago I was home for the Christmas in an incredibly cold couple of weeks that culminated in the Polar Vortex.  Through family some free tickets came through for the Old Timers game of the NHL Winter Classic – an outdoor hockey game in 10-degree weather in downtown Detroit.  Downtown was packed; people dressed as warmly as they could and threw caution to the wind, for there was a big event with local legends and as the song goes there ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no vortex cold enough to keep Detroiters from a big gathering of fellow Detroiters.  As we eventually dodged the crowd a little early to get to a midtown microbrewery before the rush, my family took a moment to soak it all in.  Tens of thousands of people spending all day outside on one of the coldest days of the year, just to be together for a game that didn’t even count.  That’s Detroit.

I currently live in Los Angeles.  So does just about every celebrity in the world, with the remaining fraction living in New York or London.  You know who doesn’t?  Eminem.  Kid Rock.  Bob Seger.  The Detroit crowd stays home.  Even our prodigal daughter, Madonna, has been adamant that she wants to send *her* daughter to the University of Michigan.  And while we’re talking music consider the example of “Searching for Sugarman’s” Sixto Rodriguez.  He was Bob Dylan at the time when Bob Dylan became Elvis Presley, but when he didn’t get the breaks he rolled up his sleeves and worked construction and demolition.  And he was happy.  40 years later he’s a world-famous touring musician for songs that Sixto wrote in the Sixties.  And he hasn’t changed a bit.  That’s Detroit.

It’s not surprising that the owner of the Detroit Tigers and Detroit Red Wings, Mike Illitch, continues to buy up real estate in Detroit to rebuild downtown.  He’s responsible for much of the riverfront development near Joe Louis Arena and he basically created the “Foxtown” area a few miles north on Woodward, buying the Fox Theatre and then building Comerica Park for the Tigers across the street, leaving space for the Ford family to build Ford Field next door.  But do you know which NBA owner is buying up Detroit real estate like an ADHD Trump?  Not from the Detroit Pistons – it’s Cleveland Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert.  Why? Because he’s from Metro Detroit, and Detroit needs an infusion of capital and entrepreneurial spirit. Some people dream of becoming billionaires to offshore their money and vacations to the Caymans; some people dream of becoming millionaires to invest in Detroit.

Detroit does common good.  While local American governments were turning firehoses and Dobermans on African-Americans during the Civil Rights Movement, Berry Gordy used Detroit as a launching pad for Motown Records, sending the sounds of Smokey Robinson and Aretha Franklin and Stevie Wonder through the airwaves as an example of what could be.  When FDR signed the Lend-Lease Act in 1939, tying the fate of a nation in Great Depression to the fate of the western world in World War II, the Detroit automakers converted operations into the Arsenal of Democracy, producing the artillery to win the war and manufacture the nation out of depression.

My city is no stranger to bankruptcy; in the 1980s one of the Big 3 automakers – Chrysler – flirted with it as the country exited the oil and inflation crises of the 1970s.  Chrysler responded by introducing the mass market to the minivan and the SUV (also the K-car, but let’s not talk about that).  More recently one of our decorated athletes – basketball star Derrick Coleman – went bankrupt, and not in the humiliating way that many hoop stars lose it all.  Derrick took the money he earned as a star with the Nets and 76ers and other teams and made a goal – invest in just one block near his old house and try to revitalize the neighborhood with a restaurant, a convenience store, an arcade, a video store.  It didn’t work, and DC lost about everything, but he tried. You may say he’s a dreamer, but he’s not the only one.  When Detroiters get money, we try to reinvest near home – Gilbert has his buildings, Illitch has his, Jalen Rose has his Leadership Academy, Kid Rock bought the “Made in Detroit” brand to keep it going.  And I have my “stimulus plan” – my friends laugh but when I go home I like to spend a little extra money.  Nothing extravagant, but if I should get a haircut I’ll wait a few weeks to time it until I can get it in Michigan; if I need to buy socks or underwear I’ll time it to buy in Detroit.  And when I’m with friends at a bar or restaurant I love picking up an extra round or a tab with money not earned in Michigan – my little stimulus plan to add a little something to the local economy.  Again, you may say I’m a dreamer but I know I’m not the only one.  That’s Detroit.

On Eminem’s most recent album he dropped the lyric “Maybe that’s why I can’t leave Detroit; it’s the motivation that keeps me going.  This is the inspiration I need; I could never turn my back on a city that made me.”

Kid Rock’s best quote, from when he was asked why he broke up with a supermodel girlfriend, was “Some people like to drink champagne in Paris; some people like to drink Budweiser in Detroit.”

But maybe it’s an obscure Kanye “Mid” West (he’s from Chicago) lyric that summarizes my feelings about Detroit most.  He’s talking about the black community – “black excellence, baby” is his refrain – and even if you’ve heard it this line is pretty forgettable other than the sincere, genuine emphasis with which he says it and emphasizes the collective noun:  “I love *us*.”

I’ve tried my best to defend the weather and I truly believe it’s a good thing even if took moving to perma-summer to appreciate it.  And other parts of Detroit are even harder to glorify to outsiders – the crime and corruption within the city, the bankruptcy, the population and migration trends.  But Detroit is more than socioeconomic statistics and global manufacturing trends and sociological research.  Detroit is people, and it’s some of the friendliest, most sincere, most hardworking people in the world.  I love us.  I love Detroit.  There’s no place like home.