Hometown

There’s something about Detroit that will always be home. No, I don’t still have my address ending in 48224 or have to take an exit off of the Lodge to visit friends. But there is a considerable part of my being that is derived from Detroit. It’s become a bit more popular to talk about Detroit since the Chrysler commercials and the “Imported from Detroit” epidemic. People here have asked me what it’s like or what it was like growing up there. I share vivid stories of all the things I loved about the city I left more than 10 years ago. I’m keenly aware that there’s a fascination here with the city. It has a history and a legacy that are worth discussing. See, I respect Detroit and love it for the person it shaped me into. My street smarts and witty humor are directly related to my hometown. I’m proud to be a descendant of a city that played such a huge role in music, international relations, fashion, and Black history.

Today, however, the city itself is foreign to me. Everything that made Detroit home has changed or disappeared. I can drive through my old neighborhood and find maybe one person who remembers me. The others have moved away. My favorite restaurants have closed down. The mall is no longer what I remember from working there as a teen. The people, the places, the memories of home are just that…memories. I’d rather preserve them in the beauty that they are in my mind than have them tarnished with the reality of Detroit today. Those people aren’t my neighbors anymore. The kinship I felt when walking to the corner store or cruising on the isle with classmates is not there anymore. The closeness I felt at church is gone as well. It’s moved to another building and I don’t even know what section my friends sit in anymore. In the old location, we always sat about 8 rows back, against the right wall. I don’t know where to find familiar faces anymore.

The route I’d take from college back home is different too. I recognize some of the same potholes, but my normal gas station isn’t there anymore. The car wash has burned down. When I turn onto my block, yes my childhood home is still there, but who I really would want to visit at home is not. It’s a house now, no longer the place of refuge and joy it was all those years. Now, it belongs to someone else and the reason I’d go there is no longer waiting for me either. I still have my keys and can remember how excited I’d be pulling up to the house. Now, I’m grieved when I drive down Outer Drive. That drive makes me miss my mother more than anything. Visiting her in the cemetary isn’t nearly the same as pulling in the driveway. So, why go to Detroit? Why? It only reminds me of what was and no longer is. Why go to Detroit? It saddens me to realize how much things have changed, and not all for the better.

I haven’t had a visit yet that hasn’t left me in tears. I long for the Detroit I thought there would be when I was a child. I imagined I’d always maintain a home there, just to come back to. But now, I don’t even like to visit. Detroit reminds me of my own mortality and that one day I’ll no longer be here. It reminds me that someone, someday will ride down these same streets and wonder what ever happened to me, and I’ll be gone. Someone rides down the street today and wonders that about me or my family. We’re gone.

Home is supposed to be a place of comfort and security. I have found that, not only in another city and state, but in particular places. I am at home with the church family I have locally. I feel like I have a place that is all mine. People take me at face value. They let me be who I am and don’t want me to become who I am not. I’m appreciated. I’m loved. I’m home. When I travel with my friends I feel the same way. It is not the location that I am comfortable in, but the company. With my friends, I have a comfort and security that extinguishes all fear or self-doubt. Instead, I am challenged to become a better version of myself. I’m encouraged. I’m supported. I’m home.

So, if I’ve found a home, why do I need to go to my hometown? It brings me such sadness and no one seems to understand. It isn’t the city alone. It’s everything. It’s knowing that the life I lived there will never, ever be again. People constantly ask me to come to the city. They nonchalantly try to persuade me to spend some time there. I’d love to. I wish I could. I wish I could enjoy the city while I’m there as much as I do when I’m away. Here, away from the city, I eagerly tell others that I am a Detroiter. I defend my city’s honor to the end. I speak of the vitality and resurrection like I’m an eyewitness myself. I’m a believer. I know too many good people from my city to throw it all away, but I just don’t want to go to Detroit. I wish that could be respected. I wish people would stop asking me. I wish they would just understand and accept that it’s not them, it’s me. I like the life I’ve created for myself across the state line. Here, my mind isn’t filled with memories and my eyes aren’t filled with tears as I drive down the street and recall taking the same drive with my mother as a girl. Here, I can pretend that all is well. I can act like I have it all together. I can be strong and resilient, captivating and legendary, just like Detroit.