Volunteer State- Part 1- “South”


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I came to Nashville for the same reason that I’ve done a lot of things in the past eleven years­– to get away, to make a clean break, to start over. This is one of the less dramatic iterations, seeing as I don’t want to fully wipe the Etch-a-sketch clear and start over altogether, I just want to get clean, I want to unmuddy the internal so I can resume the life I am and have been building back in Detroit. Thank god at least for that.

I found this place on Airbnb, I liked the idea of going South, a direction I’ve never traveled on my own before, maybe if I go north and back, south and back, it will be like a seamstress reinforcing a stitch, making it hold tight. This particular place seemed rather perfect– a “writer’s cabin,” a “spiritual retreat.” Done.

It was hard to get away. I spent the night before driving down here sleeping on the kitchen floor of my childhood home alongside the heavy-breathing body of poor sweet Tansy, the dignified elderly doggy now struggling through her 14th year. We didn’t expect her to survive the night. I fed her water by hand and watched as her large head, slow motion sagged one millimeter per second until it got low enough to where she could drink it herself. Time was slowing for her.

My alarm went off at 4am, signaling my cue to hit the road, I re-set it for another hour. 5:00. 6:00. 7:00. Maybe I wouldn’t go at all. Dad came downstairs and promptly reported to me that my cell phone appeared to be sitting at the bottom of Tansy’s water bowl. Ouch. Maybe I really wouldn’t be leaving.

The phone was revived magically by a bag of rice and Tansy even stood and went outside to pee. I was morbidly upset that she hadn’t died in my presence these past few days, would I now miss it? Do I dare leave only to have her perish while I’m halfway down America’s rusty spine? Did I even want to go? I went. Continue reading

abundant brevity: an acknowledgement of Time

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Last fall, I met a man in front of his home in Hamtramck. His told me that his name was Mr. Ben Jaros, that he was 97 years old and had lived each of those years in this very house (except for the ones when he was enlisted in World War II). I snapped a photo in front of the house with the intention of sending it to him one day and taking him out to coffee or breakfast or polish food and soaking up his stories. I knew he had many to share and our brief encounter gave me the impression that he just might like to tell them.

My intent was sincere but non-urgent and life is busy. I planned to get to it the next time I printed photos, but over a year passed and I never got around to it. Finally, I got the photo printed and a week or too after that I bought a frame. It sat in the passenger seat of my car for another while until I finally made the time to visit. I wanted to leave a large open window of time just in case the a spontaneous impromptu interview should await me. I knocked but no one was home, more time passed until I found a moment for another visit.

Tonight, I stopped by.

The lights were off and a neighbor was walking by with her fuzzy golden doodle. I asked her if her neighbor was home, pointing to the house that matched my photograph. She looked at me with confusion and said something polish until her husband stepped up. I repeated my question to him and he confirmed my fears: “That man, he died, about one month ago.”

He died.  Continue reading

Uncompromisingly Awake

Screen Shot 2015-10-30 at 10.05.26 AMWhen I was married, I figured out the perfect plan to make the relationship work: if my husband and I both had strong feelings about a topic, we would compromise. But if one person didn’t care and the other had an opinion, then that person would get what they wanted. It wasn’t complicated or clever, it was just logical. In theory, it created a nice balance. In practice, it created a stable imbalance because He always knew what he wanted and I never did, so He ended up making all of the big decisions in our relationship.

Usually that involved some form of travel: He picked the destination when we studied abroad in Australia, He chose when we went to South Africa, He planned our honeymoon to Switzerland, and He made the call when we lived in France and learned French (I preferred Spanish). I kept getting taken to amazing places so I felt that the system must be working, but there were more than a few times when I had the nagging feeling that something was off. I was living someone else’s dream, and even though it was lovely in many ways, that didn’t make it mine. Continue reading

Family Recipe

IMG_4948All across America today, as families and friends gather over heaping plates of food, they are arguing or disagreeing or pushing down their feelings about the offensive things being said across the table. Everyone seems to have a grandma or an uncle or a brother-in-law who thinks outrageous things and finds in a holiday meal an excellent platform to talk about them. So often the dessert hasn’t been served by the time the conversation devolves into a full on argument or seething frustration.

Why does it have to be so hard?

Because families contains a variety of ingredients to make them what they are and family gatherings bring out a rare combination of diversity and intimacy. At a minimum, each family contains a difference in age. We are all products of our surroundings and it is fundamentally impossible for two people from different generations to come ready-made with the same ideas about everything. Throw that into the pot.

For another thing, families actual create their own diversity. Even if one child follows his mother or father’s footsteps exactly, he will be different from the other parent, and the other siblings will be different from him. Kids find their identities by cleaving off of their siblings, and even if the rest of the world would find them similar, amongst themselves they are a special sort of unique. Family dynamics require different roles and characters, so even people who are otherwise alike might fall into roles dictated by their age, rank and gender. Throw that in too.

The most seasoning comes from the influences of the outside world. Every family has someone who is unemployed or underemployed or somehow not “living up to their full potential.” Every family has someone else who is still single and shouldn’t be or who chose the wrong mate or is otherwise making grave decisions that the family could correct quite easily if only the person would listen. Usually there are differences in political or religious beliefs that have a way of making themselves known around the dinner table. If two people find something to agree on, the longer they talk, the more likely they are to uncover something that someone else disagrees with. That’s just how it goes.

Some people avoid the situation altogether because can’t stand to be surrounded by such ignorance and closed-mindedness. But this is a huge mistake.

Growing up means often means moving out, and moving out exposes people to experiences that aren’t shared with their family members. Over time, the relocation has the combined effect of changing a person’s opinions and collecting them with other like-minded people. When people have deep conversations about their beliefs and opinions, they tend to be talking to people who already more or less agree with them. It can become easy to believe that everyone thinks and feels the same you do.

Family gatherings bring together people who have been spiced by individual life experiences into a shared space. These are rare opportunities to think beyond ourselves, to relate to other people, to gain a new perspective through the forced unifier of common experience. If, at a minimum, we asked ourselves “how can they actually believe that?” every time there was a disagreement, we might really learn something. That your idiot uncle might teach you something can be a tough prospect to swallow for someone who is already as enlightened as we all secretly think we are, but it’s more valuable than all the agreeing and better for you than pumpkin pie.

Port Ouvert

Before the media and the politicians got ahold of the collective fear consciousness following last week’s attacks in Paris, individuals reacted naturally in the most vulnerable yet most generous way possible– by opening their doors and homes to strangers seeking shelter from the violence outside. How did the spontaneous hosts know whether or not to trust their guests? It seems unlikely that they were all equipped with sophisticated mobile retina-scanning record-checking intention-evaluating devices. But the alternative is even more inconceivable– a reckless act of hospitality. Only a suicidal sap would welcome a stranger in their home on the city’s most violent night in 3 generations? As the terror subsides and better judgment forms, leaders across the western world have adopted a much more appropriate response of blind prejudice, sweeping antagonism and tightly shut doors.

We would be fools not to respond to violence with preventative measures, and we would be insane not to learn from the circumstances that led to it, but we have as much to learn from our instincts for compassion as from any “intelligence” finding. The terrifying truth is, that we can’t truly prevent violence, and any policy that perpetuates that fantasy is a mistake. Violence is not a communicable disease that can be stamped out by breaking the pump of a single well, it’s best antidote actually comes from increased interactions between people.

The root of all violence is imbalance and as nations with more power, more resources and more wealth, we will be perpetual targets unless or until we correct the skew. Rather than relinquish our grip, however, we focus our efforts on building walls and closing doors, creating dark pockets and miserable purgatory for refugees that act as breeding grounds for suffering and hate. A person’s willingness to leave everything and risk what’s left to seek shelter in behind the walls of a stranger’s home is evidence enough of their desperate circumstances, and is reason enough to leave the door wide open.

Taking Advantage of Detroit

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MetroTimes Repost


Post-bankruptcy Detroit is a place of undeniable opportunity, and people from all walks of life are eager to make the most of it. Massive tax foreclosures led to a record 24,000 properties being up for auction this fall, pitting residents against speculators for the chance to buy a home on the cheap. Everyone is trying to take advantage, but not everyone’s advantage corresponds with the best interests of the city.
So what is best for the city? It comes down to short versus long-term interests. Renters have shorter-term interests than their landlords and landlords have shorter-term interests that owner-occupants. One who depends on a home to raise their kids in has a different incentive to care for a property than one who sees it as a complement to their investment portfolio. For individuals, homeownership provides security in two major ways: First, by offering shelter, and second by offering stability. For speculators, property ownership provides a low-risk, low-effort form of passive income.

study by the Journal of Urban Affairs bears this out, showing that in Detroit, the prevalence of rental properties is a strong indicator of neighborhood crime (even more so than blight). The type of benefit a property owner gains from owning a property has a direct correlation to how much the community benefits in response. Continue reading

Mama Song (Another Round)

I wrote this song for my mother, Cheryl, to celebrate her 60th birthday.

(Audio)

Down in the neighborhood when she as young
Cheryl was a friendly one who always got along
hop the fence right after school oh what a lot of fun-
to be jumpin rope and hopin scotch and skip n play n run?
But when the day was through she wished it wasn’t done–
she had to go home alone.

Suppertime and sleepy time oh wouldn’t it be nice-
for a brother or a sister who could make it fun by twice?
No one knew her secret wish but every night in bed
she closed her eyes and said….

“Oh I love my ma and I love my pa
and I thank dear god above,
but when I lay me down,
I pray another round:
“won’t you give me a little friend to love?” Continue reading

The Right Size

in Detroit, Michigan, United States on November 18, 2014.

They used to call it downsizing
-but that wasn’t very popular-
So then they called it “Right Sizing”
-but everyone knew it was the same thing-
And then they started calling it “Future City”
-but still we knew better.
And so, they didn’t say anything.
Silently they issued yellow tax foreclosure notices
And water shut-off trucks by the thousands
Like a drone strike time bomb.
“That’ll do the trick.”
You can’t hear them but if you’re paying attention you’ll know
that there are active forces of relocation and de-neighborization and gentrification
And this is not eminent domain, there are no relocation checks,
This is “your fault” and “don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Tear the buildings down once they’re gone and now we’re on
to a fresh start without those pesky people.
The perfect plan for a city trying to lose a little weight.

Now wait, this wouldn’t be so frustrating if it weren’t for the fact that there is a way out.
A really good, really reasonable way out.
You can buy it in the auction.
You can get your home and a fresh start for $500
But not if you don’t know about it.
Not if you don’t even know to look
Because you don’t have the internet and if you did, how would you buy a house with it?
Because your landlord wants to keep getting that check every month so he tells you “it’s all taken care of”
Because you’ve been paying your mortgage every month so why would there be any kind of trouble?
Because you never got a tax bill to begin with let alone a foreclosure notice,
let alone a solution
Because every time you went downtown to get answers they pointed to a number with four zeros behind it and said that was on you to pay
and that’s the only way

In the auction, there is no guarantee
You might get outbid in the first minute,
You might get a lesson in reality estate:
“didn’t you hear this neighborhood is hot?
didn’t you know Detroit is coming back?”
But at least this way
you had a seat at the table
at least this time
you were a participant in your own fate.

So that’s why we’re out there talking.
We start on the doorstep with some Good News.
Not that kind,
but the kind that says you could own that house
that you call home.
You could break that cycle of a landlord who doesn’t give a shit
Or the bankers who, like wizards, change their LLCs or their T&Cs and leave you no choice but to sign or walk
to an uncertain future maybe in a city that will treat you better
your baby’s toys left behind in the winter snow
We’re out here because there’s a way out
There’s a way to stay put instead of move out

There’s a way to get a deed with your name on it and some pinch of security
That you do belong
And yes enroll your kids in school,
say hello to the neighbors,
touch the earth of the garden
and for god’s sake fix those stairs.
You don’t even need good credit.
But you do need to know.
And I sure hope you answer when we knock on your door.

Houses full of families?
Families safe in homes?
Small faces at the windowsill
warm bodies in the beds.
That sounds like a Detroit worth staying in.
That sounds like the right size to me.

The Fast Lane

For the first 14 years of my life, I really didn’t talk to boys.

It wasn’t really a problem in elementary school and, while it kinda sucked always sitting at the singles table in middle school,  it wasn’t that big of a deal. But it was definitely an issue in high school. Girls seemed to measure how much they liked another girl based on on how much boys liked her, and I was barley in the equation. Somehow I was a member of the cool crowd but it always felt like a favor rather than a fact. It didn’t help that I lived far from school and had to ride the bus ride home while the city kids hung out. My friends tolerated me because I was easy to gang up on and I tolerated them because they were cool.

It was midway through freshman year and I got invited to an “away” basketball game with two of my friends who were both dating boys on the varsity team. While we were sitting in the bleachers, one of their boyfriend’s friends came and sat down next to us– next to me actually. He was incredibly intimidating, attractive, mature and just superly stupidly cool. His name was Josh. He tried making conversation but I found it almost impossible to talk back. Finally, I came up with the excuse that I had a headache to end the tortured interaction, but it backfired when he suggested we go to the vending machine to see if they had any Tylenol! I was not prepared for such an offer. I said “no,” “that’s ok,” “don’t worry about me” and that was it. He left and sat somewhere else.

My friends could barely hold it together. After the game one of them practically cornered in the parking lot: “MICHELE! What are you doing??? When a HOT JUNIOR wants to talk to you, you talk to him. When a hot junior wants you to go to the vending machine with you, YOU GO!!!” Obviously she was right. I completely blew it. Continue reading