A friend of mine wrote this. It tells the story of Detroits decline pretty well.
AN URBAN SAFARI
I grew up on an island.
Do you picture palm trees, sandy beaches, and people wearing Hawaiian shirts who sip rum drinks?
When French explorers first discovered it in the 1600's, they called it "Grosse Ile" - The Great Island, and the body of water surrounding it "De Troit" - The Straits..
Even now, the island is still known by its' French name. But the water is known as The Detroit River, Detroit, Michigan.
When I lived there, Grosse Ile's natives were clad in flannel Izod shirts, duck boots and surplus naval pea coats. We wore them like a uniform. It wasn't just preppy, it was island preppy. It distinguished us from the guys on the mainland in their bell bottom blue jeans, AC/DC T-shirts and black suede shoes.
We sipped from glass bottles of Canadian beer, or as spelled on the label, biere.
The east side of the island faced Canada, The Great White North. The shoreline of Amhurstburg, Ontario was lined with colorful trees and rolling hills. And, if you looked closely through the haze, you could see the ghostly silhouette of Fort Malden, a British fortress built in 1797.
And even though the people that lived there spoke the same language, shared the same culture, you couldn't help but revel in the fact that on the other side of that river was a foreign country.
And there was something odd.
Anytime I stood on Grosse Ile's eastern shore facing Canada, there was a tickling in my nose. Overpowering the river's dead fish smell was the most pleasant sweet smell of French toast- at least, that's what I thought it was.
I could only hypothesize that since the Canadian flag bore the image of a maple leaf, maybe French toast with maple syrup was the national delicacy, and everyone had just sat down for some celebratory feast.
The west side of the island faced the Michigan mainland, Detroit's Downriver Area. The Downriver shoreline had an abandoned Firestone tire assembly plant, the demolished remains of the BASF Wyandotte chemical plant, and the soot-stained empty shell of McClouth Steel.
On that side of the river was our country.
And its' sour smells only enhanced the bouquet of dead fish.
This might explain why I felt that from a bird's eye view, Grosse Ile resembled a giant turd about to drop into a toilet bowl named Lake Erie.
The cigar-shaped island was 8 miles long and two-and-a-half miles wide. Like two umbilical cords, it was connected to the Michigan mainland by two pivoting, steel truss bridges.
To reside on Grosse Ile meant crossing one of the bridges at least twice a day.
Invariably, you were stuck on either side of the bridge at least twice a week. It would be swung open for what seemed like hours, as a passing freighter or other lake going vessel inched its' way down the river.
There was one grocery store, a drug store, two gas stations, and three bars that made up Grosse Ile's business district. Everything else on the island was houses and golf courses. So, if you needed anything beyond a can of soup, a six-pack of beer, or round of golf, you went off island.
There were some very grand old homes that lined the shores of Grosse Ile. Some of them were over 100 years old. These weren't just houses, they were mansions built by some of Detroit's wealthiest industrial magnates.
However, most of the island's 7,000 inhabitants lived inland, in the typical elongated, brick ranch style home, iconic of post-war suburbia.
Nothing luxurious, yet our parents paid three and four times more what that same house cost on the other side of the river. And, what's more, did it with a prime interest rate of at least 12 percent, double digit unemployment and runaway inflation.
It was the 70's.
So, why would some one enslave their self to so much debt in hard times only to vista an industrial waste land?
Grosse Ile wasn't just an island geographically. It was an island in every sense of the word.
For my sister and I, we grew up feeling that river was a liquid barrier separating us from race riots, predatory drug pushers, the highest homicide rate in the nation, and thousands of abandoned houses victimized by arson.
That was what we knew of the badlands, The Motor City.
Even though it was just a few miles up the river, everything about it seemed like a foreign, war-torn land.
From our avocado and harvest gold colored vantage point, we'd sit in front of the television. Daily, the talking heads brought us images of a dying civilization.
In the 60's, it was the race riots.
In the 70's it was the mass exodus known as "The Great White Flight."
In one decade, hundreds of thousands of white, middle-class Detroiters-many of whom grew up in neighborhoods their grandparents established at the turn-of-the-century, severed their roots to wander the next 40 years in a suburban wilderness.
The 80's; an annual observance called Devil's Night.
As a suburbanite, Devil's Night meant sneaking in the mean old man's, meticulously groomed yard and rolling his bushes with toilet paper. You might soap his windows. Or, if you really despised him, threw eggs at his car.
But in the badlands, the urbanites would set fire to the old man's bushes and trees. They'd turn his car over on its' side, set it on fire and break his house's windows.
And that was with him home, watching.
If no one was home, they'd set fire to the house. And it seemed no one was as it home in Detroit.
Natives were accustomed to seeing the night sky ablaze. However, an orange glow that once meant prosperity in the form of molten steel and automobiles was now a funeral pyre.
And in my case it all felt so apocalyptic.
Having grown up in a southern Baptist church only added to that feeling.
Every Sunday, it seemed, the pulpit was pounded and the proclamation was made that these are the end times. It would be my generation that would face the mark of the beast. And if we weren't right with a fire-and-brimstone wielding God, we'd face Armageddon.
The good reverend was very adamant about the last war taking place in the middle-east.
I always figured it would be in the streets of Detroit.
As if watching a movie inside my head, I'd close my eyes. I saw it so very clearly, scrolling credits and all.
"The fear, pestilence, wailing and gnashing of teeth is all about to end.
Its' time.
Its' Armageddon.
The battle line is drawn at Woodward Avenue.
On the left; Satan and his minions.
On the right; Jesus and the faithful."
Oh, but here's the really cool part. The actors inside my epic apocalyptic cinema-
"Iggy Pop stars as Satan.
"Bob Seger as Jesus Christ!"
The fighting began. Buildings toppled, things exploded. Instead of using standard military armament, each side would catapult one of Detroit's most abundant resources.
Old, rust eaten cars.
Satan flung first with a '68 Cadillac Coupe De Ville.
Jesus answered by catapulting my Mom's contribution to the battle, her old '73 Ford Pinto.
Answering a land yacht with an economy car may seem like an understatement. But, remember Ford Pintos were notorious for exploding.
Plus there's the fact that my Dad hated Mom's car.
And because Dad is an agnostic, Mom's doctrine dictated that he'd be on the other side, with Iggy.
Fade to black.
That's as far as this son cared to imagine.
Like developing calluses on bare feet, I slowly grew used to the whole apocalyptic thing. Not that the fear subsided, I learned to live with it. Like my hair or eyes, it was another anatomical part.
By college, my perception of Detroit had not changed. However, I was old enough and able to leave the island to explore this place for myself.
Fueled by defiance and curiosity, I embarked on my fist journey into the heart of The Motor City.
The day was gloomy and gray. It was mid-winter.
Because of Detroit's proximity to two major bodies of water, every winter day is gray and overcast. The lake effect promotes clouds. The clouds move in-land and decide to stay.
The gray sky only enhanced this dreariness. With no foliage, trees were just scraggly black and grey sticks that poked at the sky. Years of industrial soot mixed with rain stained the houses. Asphalt roads were black.
It felt like driving into an old black and white movie.
Traveling its' side streets was like negotiating an obstacle course. Every single one filled with craters known as pot holes. Veering left and right, I crept down each street so the car's suspension wouldn't bottom out.
Lining the streets were rusted cars, most of them at least 10 to 15 years old. But, they looked like they were driven daily.
Yet, there were no people to be seen anywhere.
'Maybe, there was an urban rapture,' I thought to myself.
An image quickly flashed inside my mind. It was of a bag lady pushing her grocery buggy down the street. At that same time, Cadillac Gabriel honks his horn. Suddenly she floats into the air, where she meets other bag ladies, street walkers, pimps, drug dealers and cops alike; all headed toward urban heaven.
No sooner had I returned to reality that it was time to turn. I had reached the end of the street, facing what used to be the Packard Automotive Assembly Plant
On the next street was the sight of another stripped car in a vacant lot. It was just a bare frame. Even in the form of its' skeletal remains, I recognized it right away.
It was a '73 Ford Pinto.
'I must be just in time for Armageddon.'
But, there was a sobering reality. I was driving my Dad's new car, his first new car since my parent's divorce. And here I was using it on my first urban safari.
'Lions, and tigers, and crack houses, oh my!'
But I hadn't seen enough. I took a deep breath and kept going.
I passed more city blocks of burned houses, one right after the other.
It made sense now, why it seemed the entire city was once ablaze. The houses were so close together, not 4 maybe 5 feet between them. An arsonist could ignite the house on the corner, and like falling dominos stand in awe as that house ignites the next one, that one ignites another, and so on.
An archaeologist on a dig, I could judge the era in which this part of Detroit was built.
These burned out shells were craftsman bungalows, most likely built from 1910 through the 1920's. And since this was the most common architectural theme, this was the era of Detroit's greatest growth. They were everywhere.
It hit me then, this was more than a city, it was a civilization, an empire.
The Romans made aqueducts, roads, and colossal buildings.
Detroit made modern convenience available to working-class America. It could mass produce anything and make it affordable to anyone, including housing.
It was the city that made America the mobile society it is today.
And now, all that remains are charred shells of brick and wood.
The farther I drove, the deeper the dig in earth and that much farther back in time.
The threat of being car jacked had long past. The worry of being struck by another vehicle, being shot by a random drive-by; all were gone.
It wasn't because I was growing brave. There was no one here to do me harm. Aside from the occasional hooker and vagrant its' a ghost town.
Only twenty years earlier, this city's population was 2.2 million people.
Now, the city of Detroit's population is 850,000.
I crossed Woodward Avenue and entered Brush Park. This was Detroit's first upper-class neighborhood, built between 1850 and 1890.
Made of hand-fired brick, limestone, marble and granite, these once grand ladies were mostly Victorian and Italian Colonnade. They were designed by Albert Kahn, the Frank Lloyd Wright of the gilded age.
They were mansions.
Once crowned with slate shingled mansard roofs and widow walks, now they were empty brick shells. The burnt remains of their roofs had long collapsed. Where there once glistened ornate lead glass windows sat gaping holes blackened by the entrails of smoke.
Unlike the other neighborhoods, these were not mass produced. These were built by artisans. At the time, they were exclusive, expensive, and for most-out of reach.
The limestone facades were hand quarried. The doors that once stood in their entryways would have been hand carved. The ornate plaster friezes, crown moldings, stair rails, all were made by artisans.
Even if it were feasible to restore these, there was no reason to do so.
It was getting late, I went back home to the island.
That was 1985.
There would be other urban safaris, the last in 1988. That is when I left home. Not long after, my Dad left the island for good, as well.
Over the years, I made a few trips back to the Detroit area, including the island.
My last visit, I stood on its' eastern shore, facing Canada. Even though the Canadian shoreline was still lined with trees and rolling hills, the view was much more clear than years past.
Between the decrease in industry and a bright, mid-August sun, there was no haze. And without it, my teenage hypothesis regarding that French toast smell was now disproved.
What I once thought was the ghostly image of historic Fort Malden was the Carling Brewery of Amhurstburg, Ontario. That's where that smell came from. But, this time the smell wasn't sweet.
That same sun that burned off the haze, heated the yeast content in the air. And the yeast had soured.
I then traveled back into "the badlands" one last time. I was thinking, or at least hoping there might have been some change.
I had read about progress. I had heard stories of major renovations, true urban renewal, tax incentives, and something Bill Clinton dubbed "an empowerment zone."
There was to be a new baseball stadium, a new football stadium, and several new casinos.
All of this would take place adjacent to that once grand place called Brush Park. Maybe now, there'd be reason to restore the brain fruits of Albert Kahn.
Even if it weren't feasible to restore them, they could at least leave the brick and stone wall shells as an exhibit.
Call it The Fabulous Ruins of Old Detroit.
Much like the way people visit the Roman Coliseum, The Greek Parthenon, or the pyramids of Giza, they could stand in awe of another great, lost civilization that left its' mark on humankind.
However, this would not be the case.
When I pulled off of I-75, turned right on Woodward, and then left on Brush, I found that block after block of the burned houses had all been razed.
It was just an urban prairie.
