This is the Packard Plant. Packard cars were built here until Packard went out of business in 1956. That's right. It's been abandoned for 58 years. It occupies a square-mile of acreage on Detroit's East Side. It has (or had) 3.5 million square feet of floor space. Today, it sits next to a massive cemetery, likewise dead. The place used to produce the symbol of the American dream, the automobile. It's been repurpossed. It serves as a home for junkies, income for scrappers, entertainment for arsonists, and a dump for the poor. In short, it's a train wreck.
When you are new to Detroit, as Amanda and I are, the old Packard Plant is one of the places you feel obligated to visit. And, when you are new to Detroit, the whole place is voyeristic. They've even given the phenomena a name, "blight porn." You know it's wrong, but it's the closest you can get to the apocalypse, all from the safety of your driver's seat. If you haven't been here, stop reading now and look at some Detroit Bligh Porn brought to you by Google Images.
I'm told it's better here than it used to be, but by no measure is it good.
And oddly, it's one of the most beautiful, natural feeling cities in the world. It boasts nightlife, sporting events, cultural centers, and one of the most impressive art museums I've ever visited (and I've been to the Met and the Uffizzi). It is home to giants of income and industry. People here wear bespoke suits, suede, and fur. There are hat shops and shoe repair stores everywhere. Image is important here. It's always been important here. It's a town built on the idea that excess is a birthright. It produced the living wage for unskilled labor. I produce war machines that saved the world. It produced home ownership for all. It produced music that changed the world. It also produced race wars, riots, government corruption, failing schools, collapsing infrastructure, and a host of other problems that remind you more of a third world country than America.
Detroit was a boom town that went bust. At it's height, around the time immediately preceding the closing of the Packard Plant, Detroit was the richest city in the US. Today it is the poorest. The skyscraper queens of wealth loom ominously over their burnt out tragic kingdom. There's no question that this hive of American Industry has suffered its own colony collapse syndrome. Today, the workers, the one who built the city with grit and hard work, have either fled or have walled themselves into their own honeycombed cells waiting to die. It's questionable whether the better option is to save it or burn it to the ground. Fires are common.
There is wealth here though. A drive to the Grosse Points is enough to prove that fact. Cruising up Jefferson through the East Side you see boarded up buildings, HUD housing, liquor stores, and the occasional political headquarters (it's election season). Then, you enter the Grosse Pointes, an collection of upper class neighborhoods that line the Detroit River and the shores of Lake St. Clair. Here there are rows of mansions, many in some stage of remodeling or construction. There is a yacht club with private membership and a number of 6-figure vessels that cruise up and down the river daily. I also saw a Bugatti in one driveway (Motor City?) More than anywhere I've been in Detroit, the juxtaposition of the haves and have-nots is most visible here. Needless to say, people here don't mow their own lawns or shovel their own snow. Exploitation has many forms.
As I awoke to a hail storm at 3:42 AM today, my thoughts were twofold. First, I thought about the countless homeless people in Detroit, squatting in houses and abandoned buildings to stay out of the weather. For many, this is the best and only option left to them. Beds at homeless shelters are given out by lottery. And even if you get a bed, it may not be as safe as the shack down the street. Second, I thought about the cattle at home. A thought that was justified by my father hanging up on me this morning upon finding 45 cows with calves out in the soybean field. A tree had fallen on the fence. People and cattle, that's what I thought about in that muddied moment between sleeping and waking. They were in the same situation, but at least the cattle would have someone to come find them and give them something to eat in the morning.
And that's what it has come to here in Detroit--the hustlers and the shufflers and nothing left in between. Detroit loves to show off those young people like Amanda and I who have moved downtown, citing this as a visible sign of the revitalizaion of the city. Last Thursday, they set up screens and had a viewing party for the USA vs. Germany World Cup match in Campus Martius. They estimate over a thousand people attended (mostly young white people). But, as I stood on my balcony observing the scene, excited to watch myself, I couldn't help but notice the small group of protesters picketing two blocks over. They were protesting the city for shutting off water and sewer services to some 32,000 homes which are either $150 or 6 months delinquent. The party led the evening news. The protest didn't get a mention.
That's Detroit. It's a city that desperately wants to do better, but chooses to do it's own thing. It's a selfish city, full of good, scared people. It will take things from you, and then act like it is your best friend. People here like to have a go at you if they can. They like to think they can actually win. The system is rigged against them, and they know it, but you have to keep on living. I suppose that's why there are so many casinos here.
I met a man named Michael this morning. He was obviously a hustler, most likely a drug dealer, though I can only say for sure he is a drug user. I should have taken a picture. He was short, in his mid-30's and wore a teal Hawaiian shirt, long black shorts, sneakers, and a snakeskin fedora. I was walking Freddy, he was sitting on a bench in the park with two homeless men, both who apparently had managed to stay out of the storm last night (They were dry.). Both wore plastic bags on their feet. To the side sat a large man in black slacks, a black t-shirt, and black patent leather loafers. All of them were black. All of them were smoking (some cigarettes; some joints). The two homeless men had brown paper sacks with liquor in them. It was 8:00 AM. The conversation went something like this.
"Hey man, got a cigarette?"
"Nah man, I don't smoke?"
"But you smoke pot?"
"No, I don't smoke pot either."
"How 'bout a dollar then."
"I don't carry my wallet when I'm walking my dog." (This is true, I stopped after being constantly asked for money on the street.) Michael stood up.
"Look at that little pit bull... What's his name?" (Freddy is a Dachshund mix.)
"Freddy."
"Can I blow pot smoke in his face?"
"No, but you can pet him." Michael does, play fighting with Freddy a bit and then petting him. These people always attempt to get the dog to bite them if they can. It's a common scam. They can sue you if it happens. When he realizes it's not going to work he ignores the dog.
"You're not from here. I can tell. Where you from. No! Don't tell me. I'm good at guessing accents. Bet you a couple bucks I can guess."
"I don't have an money."
"Whatever, say something. I'll guess."
"What do you want me say?"
He pauses, thinks, "Oklahoma?"
"Indiana."
"I knew you wasn't from here. Why you in Detroit? You get a job here?" This is baiting. If I say yes, he'll go back to the money talk.
"My wife did." This leads to a short conversation about my wife and BASF and our moving around the country. I'll spare you. By this time Freddy is ready to go. I decide to end the conversation.
"Hey man, I gotta finish walking the dog. You have a nice day."
"You too," he steps forward and extends his hand, "I'm Michael, nice to meet you. Say hi if you see me down here again."
"Adam. I will. Come on Freddy." I shake his hand.
"Later Freddy." He says as we walk away. Then, he utters something about cocaine. I ignore him, and cross the street on the return walk home.
The thing is, I'm sure he would have sold me drugs if I wanted them. I think he would have taken the handout had I had a couple bucks. I'm also pretty certain he didn't need the help, though the men with him certainly did. He is a product of a place that is forgotten. He didn't want to hurt me. He obviously wanted to exploit the situation. I don't blame him. I was a captive audience. I listened to him, for only a moment. I also had a dog and couldn't just walk the other way.
I've often tried to express to people, that though statistically Detroit is dangerous, I've never felt in scared here. It's more sad than scary. Detroit is an old dog, tired and in pain. It can bite. Its bite can hurt. But, it's lost most of it's teeth. People need to feel like they matter. The people here know that they don't. Corporations are people now, legally. How can a homeless man compete with a corporation? How can anyone for that matter?
We're headed back to New Jersey in a month, and I've been trying to pull some semblance of meaning from our time in Detroit. It's at once incredibly beautiful and incredibly tragic. It's a place that sang the siren's song of consumerism and excess to America, and was also the first ship to hit the rocks. Meaning is easy to find on a farm. You can see it when you see a newborn calf, or a sunset, or a field of growing corn. Things live and die in their own time in rural America. And death, however tragic, is also somehow beautiful there. It is understood.
Detroit has died too young, and no one had the money left to bury her. So now, she rots, festers, and spews her foulness on anyone left. I'm not sure what will grow up here from the ashes. Things are certainly getting better. There are a lot of people here who say the right things, but if the past is any indication, those same people will become thieves or worse.
And what about those who can make a difference? What about the young professionals flocking back to the city? Can this new generation change the cycle of corruption and forgotten people? Will they have the empathy to make a difference? Will they care to have purpose? Or, will they take care of themselves as so many before?
I'm not hopeful. If you've known me long, I've always contended that my generation will bring us back to a society without a middle class. We expect self-sufficiency. We aren't willing to sacrifice for others if it doesn't benefit us. We've left community organizations in record numbers. I'm just as bad.
Recently, our church had a sign up to help with cleaning up the city and working with high school kids. I'm particularly qualified to do this. But, I'm leaving in a month. My rationale is adequate. I don't want to get involved if I'm not going to be around to follow up. Yet, I'm left feeling that I could have done more. I made an excuse. I took the easy way. I hustled myself. I once had an English teacher tell me that Form follows Meaning/Function. I wonder what meaning or function I have in the world when all that forms from me is words on a page, a clean apartment, and the occasional casserole. As of last Sunday, the church had filled 6 of 150 slots for workers. Our church has around 2000 members when you count all the campuses, most of which live in the suburbs. Detroit is a sad place.
But hope prevails, in small ways. When people have honest conversations on the street. When people feed the homeless. When someone drives a woman to dialysis. When a community member pays to bury a child lost to the city she was to inherit. Small things make a difference, and they mean so much to the thousands forgotten. I recently watched an interview with Grace Lee Boggs, a Chinese-American woman who played a prominent role in the Black Power movement and has resided in Detroit for decades. I don't necessarily agree with her ideas, but I do respect what she had to say about burnout, activism, and change. "You cannot change any society unless you take responsibility for it, unless you see yourself as belonging to it and responsible for changing it."
So I leave you with a few questions for discerning meaning in your life: Where do you belong? For who are you responsible? What is changing because of you?
When you are new to Detroit, as Amanda and I are, the old Packard Plant is one of the places you feel obligated to visit. And, when you are new to Detroit, the whole place is voyeristic. They've even given the phenomena a name, "blight porn." You know it's wrong, but it's the closest you can get to the apocalypse, all from the safety of your driver's seat. If you haven't been here, stop reading now and look at some Detroit Bligh Porn brought to you by Google Images.
I'm told it's better here than it used to be, but by no measure is it good.
And oddly, it's one of the most beautiful, natural feeling cities in the world. It boasts nightlife, sporting events, cultural centers, and one of the most impressive art museums I've ever visited (and I've been to the Met and the Uffizzi). It is home to giants of income and industry. People here wear bespoke suits, suede, and fur. There are hat shops and shoe repair stores everywhere. Image is important here. It's always been important here. It's a town built on the idea that excess is a birthright. It produced the living wage for unskilled labor. I produce war machines that saved the world. It produced home ownership for all. It produced music that changed the world. It also produced race wars, riots, government corruption, failing schools, collapsing infrastructure, and a host of other problems that remind you more of a third world country than America.
Detroit was a boom town that went bust. At it's height, around the time immediately preceding the closing of the Packard Plant, Detroit was the richest city in the US. Today it is the poorest. The skyscraper queens of wealth loom ominously over their burnt out tragic kingdom. There's no question that this hive of American Industry has suffered its own colony collapse syndrome. Today, the workers, the one who built the city with grit and hard work, have either fled or have walled themselves into their own honeycombed cells waiting to die. It's questionable whether the better option is to save it or burn it to the ground. Fires are common.
There is wealth here though. A drive to the Grosse Points is enough to prove that fact. Cruising up Jefferson through the East Side you see boarded up buildings, HUD housing, liquor stores, and the occasional political headquarters (it's election season). Then, you enter the Grosse Pointes, an collection of upper class neighborhoods that line the Detroit River and the shores of Lake St. Clair. Here there are rows of mansions, many in some stage of remodeling or construction. There is a yacht club with private membership and a number of 6-figure vessels that cruise up and down the river daily. I also saw a Bugatti in one driveway (Motor City?) More than anywhere I've been in Detroit, the juxtaposition of the haves and have-nots is most visible here. Needless to say, people here don't mow their own lawns or shovel their own snow. Exploitation has many forms.
As I awoke to a hail storm at 3:42 AM today, my thoughts were twofold. First, I thought about the countless homeless people in Detroit, squatting in houses and abandoned buildings to stay out of the weather. For many, this is the best and only option left to them. Beds at homeless shelters are given out by lottery. And even if you get a bed, it may not be as safe as the shack down the street. Second, I thought about the cattle at home. A thought that was justified by my father hanging up on me this morning upon finding 45 cows with calves out in the soybean field. A tree had fallen on the fence. People and cattle, that's what I thought about in that muddied moment between sleeping and waking. They were in the same situation, but at least the cattle would have someone to come find them and give them something to eat in the morning.
And that's what it has come to here in Detroit--the hustlers and the shufflers and nothing left in between. Detroit loves to show off those young people like Amanda and I who have moved downtown, citing this as a visible sign of the revitalizaion of the city. Last Thursday, they set up screens and had a viewing party for the USA vs. Germany World Cup match in Campus Martius. They estimate over a thousand people attended (mostly young white people). But, as I stood on my balcony observing the scene, excited to watch myself, I couldn't help but notice the small group of protesters picketing two blocks over. They were protesting the city for shutting off water and sewer services to some 32,000 homes which are either $150 or 6 months delinquent. The party led the evening news. The protest didn't get a mention.
That's Detroit. It's a city that desperately wants to do better, but chooses to do it's own thing. It's a selfish city, full of good, scared people. It will take things from you, and then act like it is your best friend. People here like to have a go at you if they can. They like to think they can actually win. The system is rigged against them, and they know it, but you have to keep on living. I suppose that's why there are so many casinos here.
I met a man named Michael this morning. He was obviously a hustler, most likely a drug dealer, though I can only say for sure he is a drug user. I should have taken a picture. He was short, in his mid-30's and wore a teal Hawaiian shirt, long black shorts, sneakers, and a snakeskin fedora. I was walking Freddy, he was sitting on a bench in the park with two homeless men, both who apparently had managed to stay out of the storm last night (They were dry.). Both wore plastic bags on their feet. To the side sat a large man in black slacks, a black t-shirt, and black patent leather loafers. All of them were black. All of them were smoking (some cigarettes; some joints). The two homeless men had brown paper sacks with liquor in them. It was 8:00 AM. The conversation went something like this.
"Hey man, got a cigarette?"
"Nah man, I don't smoke?"
"But you smoke pot?"
"No, I don't smoke pot either."
"How 'bout a dollar then."
"I don't carry my wallet when I'm walking my dog." (This is true, I stopped after being constantly asked for money on the street.) Michael stood up.
"Look at that little pit bull... What's his name?" (Freddy is a Dachshund mix.)
"Freddy."
"Can I blow pot smoke in his face?"
"No, but you can pet him." Michael does, play fighting with Freddy a bit and then petting him. These people always attempt to get the dog to bite them if they can. It's a common scam. They can sue you if it happens. When he realizes it's not going to work he ignores the dog.
"You're not from here. I can tell. Where you from. No! Don't tell me. I'm good at guessing accents. Bet you a couple bucks I can guess."
"I don't have an money."
"Whatever, say something. I'll guess."
"What do you want me say?"
He pauses, thinks, "Oklahoma?"
"Indiana."
"I knew you wasn't from here. Why you in Detroit? You get a job here?" This is baiting. If I say yes, he'll go back to the money talk.
"My wife did." This leads to a short conversation about my wife and BASF and our moving around the country. I'll spare you. By this time Freddy is ready to go. I decide to end the conversation.
"Hey man, I gotta finish walking the dog. You have a nice day."
"You too," he steps forward and extends his hand, "I'm Michael, nice to meet you. Say hi if you see me down here again."
"Adam. I will. Come on Freddy." I shake his hand.
"Later Freddy." He says as we walk away. Then, he utters something about cocaine. I ignore him, and cross the street on the return walk home.
The thing is, I'm sure he would have sold me drugs if I wanted them. I think he would have taken the handout had I had a couple bucks. I'm also pretty certain he didn't need the help, though the men with him certainly did. He is a product of a place that is forgotten. He didn't want to hurt me. He obviously wanted to exploit the situation. I don't blame him. I was a captive audience. I listened to him, for only a moment. I also had a dog and couldn't just walk the other way.
I've often tried to express to people, that though statistically Detroit is dangerous, I've never felt in scared here. It's more sad than scary. Detroit is an old dog, tired and in pain. It can bite. Its bite can hurt. But, it's lost most of it's teeth. People need to feel like they matter. The people here know that they don't. Corporations are people now, legally. How can a homeless man compete with a corporation? How can anyone for that matter?
We're headed back to New Jersey in a month, and I've been trying to pull some semblance of meaning from our time in Detroit. It's at once incredibly beautiful and incredibly tragic. It's a place that sang the siren's song of consumerism and excess to America, and was also the first ship to hit the rocks. Meaning is easy to find on a farm. You can see it when you see a newborn calf, or a sunset, or a field of growing corn. Things live and die in their own time in rural America. And death, however tragic, is also somehow beautiful there. It is understood.
Detroit has died too young, and no one had the money left to bury her. So now, she rots, festers, and spews her foulness on anyone left. I'm not sure what will grow up here from the ashes. Things are certainly getting better. There are a lot of people here who say the right things, but if the past is any indication, those same people will become thieves or worse.
And what about those who can make a difference? What about the young professionals flocking back to the city? Can this new generation change the cycle of corruption and forgotten people? Will they have the empathy to make a difference? Will they care to have purpose? Or, will they take care of themselves as so many before?
I'm not hopeful. If you've known me long, I've always contended that my generation will bring us back to a society without a middle class. We expect self-sufficiency. We aren't willing to sacrifice for others if it doesn't benefit us. We've left community organizations in record numbers. I'm just as bad.
Recently, our church had a sign up to help with cleaning up the city and working with high school kids. I'm particularly qualified to do this. But, I'm leaving in a month. My rationale is adequate. I don't want to get involved if I'm not going to be around to follow up. Yet, I'm left feeling that I could have done more. I made an excuse. I took the easy way. I hustled myself. I once had an English teacher tell me that Form follows Meaning/Function. I wonder what meaning or function I have in the world when all that forms from me is words on a page, a clean apartment, and the occasional casserole. As of last Sunday, the church had filled 6 of 150 slots for workers. Our church has around 2000 members when you count all the campuses, most of which live in the suburbs. Detroit is a sad place.
But hope prevails, in small ways. When people have honest conversations on the street. When people feed the homeless. When someone drives a woman to dialysis. When a community member pays to bury a child lost to the city she was to inherit. Small things make a difference, and they mean so much to the thousands forgotten. I recently watched an interview with Grace Lee Boggs, a Chinese-American woman who played a prominent role in the Black Power movement and has resided in Detroit for decades. I don't necessarily agree with her ideas, but I do respect what she had to say about burnout, activism, and change. "You cannot change any society unless you take responsibility for it, unless you see yourself as belonging to it and responsible for changing it."
So I leave you with a few questions for discerning meaning in your life: Where do you belong? For who are you responsible? What is changing because of you?