Extremely Close and Very Uncomfortable

The Story of Two Ladies Taking Fear to Task

Radhika

When Aisha was selling the idea of "Detroit Ho!" six months ago, she had me at the word Detroit. I had been contemplating my post-collegiate future, and was feeling bleak about joining other graduates heading in a mass exodus to those familiar cultural meccas like New York, Boston, D.C., and any European capital. Detroit Ho! was an opportunity to do something different, to make meeting and greeting a new city my first priority, to work with friends and to develop future artistic collaborations. In the following months, when I began to learn more about Motown, I felt privileged to live in a city that has seen such important civil rights activism around housing, workplace discrimination, and city governance. And, I was energized by current stories of community activism, large-scale art projects, and my fellow Seminole residents.

I couldn't have predicted that I would find something to work on as soon as my first day in Detroit, something totally unexpected involving neither art nor activism: fear.

The ground-work was laid before I got to Detroit. My bubbly enthusiasm about coming to stay here caused concern among family and friends, whose perception of Detroit was shaped by the Cops-esque footage of violence often shown on mainstream news channels. The fact of having grown up in an inner-city neighborhood in Boston, where ambiguous noises at night leave you wondering "gun shot or firework?" did nothing to dispel my dad's fear that somehow, Detroit would be a new level of dangerous. It seems even natives of Detroit feel this way: an elderly woman siting next to me on my flight through Atlanta felt that she had to intervene while I was in the midst of gushing about my summer plans, to ask me where I was from. When I told her she said, "You know Detroit isn't Boston, honey."

So perhaps I was predisposed to be scared because of well-meaning, yet fear-mongering individuals. It also didn't help that I have a prediliction to be excruciatingly cautions around unknown men-folk (always reliably half of any population-- except the one where I spent the last three years of college). During my first week in Detroit, my face was consistently twisted into a pretzel of discomfort when I would sally outside alone.

After a run with Aisha on one of my first days out and about in Detroit, this discomfort, which I had unquestioningly accepted as part of city living, came up. She had witnessed my pathetic attempt to wave hello to a man who had greeted us while we were jogging on Jefferson, and afterward subtly staged a friend-tervention. I was introduced to a new and alien concept: being friendly takes practice. It had always been my intention to get to know people in our community, but I unconsciously only seem to rise to the occasion in 'safe' spaces, such as a community garden, bookstore, outdoor jazz festival (already sounds like a post from Stuff White People Like, right?)

So, armed with this knowledge, and excited to end my perpetual cold feet, I jumped into practicing my hellos. In front of the gas station on Jefferson. At the Post Office. By the broccoli at the Indian Village Market. After an initial "hello" there have been some stellar responses: an invitation to a concert at Cafe con Leche, a cool glass of water with ladies from the Congregational Church in Grosse Pointe, "hey baby," a possible new artist collaborator with her mom, and too many returned "hey-how're-you-doings" to count.

So far I haven't had reason to regret my newfound friendliness, although I'm learning to enjoy that there will always be a wide variety of responses. Like when I said hello to someone on the way to Chene park for a Jazz concert, and he said 'Hey Boo boo do you have a light?' Then I got to say, 'Not Boo boo. Lady.' And he got to say 'Excuse me, young lady do you have a light?' Later that day, a visably intoxicated man intercepted a friend and I, physically blocking us as we tried to pass. This experience wasn't particularly enjoyable, but perhaps the opportunity to maneuver out of it was worth the discomfort. My friend kept her cool while I vigorously side-stepped him, repeating, 'Alright, alright.' Extremely close, yes. But as time goes by, more and more comfortable.

Opening up to the possibility of a good interaction is the thing.

Aisha

Of course some things happen regardless of how we walk down the street. A catalytic converter was cut clean off of one of our vehicles, and the tires were stabbed on the other car, both in broad daylight. This despite the nervous watch our across-the-street neighbor keeps on the street-- he sometimes stands with a beer "watching the cars" as an evening past time. A cop-friend tells us with glee about her daily encounters with bullet wounds, standoffs and shoot outs, in what she brags to be the most violent city in the world. It's not so much there is no reason to fear. It's just that there isn't much point.

I am reminded of one stiflingly hot day when we were stopped at a gas station, and a group of teenaged boys walked languidly across the street, shirtless and strong, constituting what on television would be a scene of virile intimidation. The huge, semi-automatic weapon that one of them swung cagily alongside him was made of blue plastic, and the boys were on their way to fill it with water. The threat of danger that statistically has more reason to threaten these guys seems to slide off of their relaxed shoulders while, in a suburban home protected by seven security systems, the idea of danger just rings and rings-- enlivening benign moment after benign moment with the flavor of imagined violence. To what degree, I wonder, does this expectation of catastrophe make you into a target when you might not otherwise have been?

While crime undoubtedly occurs, the scary/sweet image of these boys is much more indicative of our actual experience of danger in this city. Most people you meet are just trying, like you, to get across the street safe, and to keep cool in the heat. Such people within the city limits are, in our experience, much more likely to extend or return a hello to some random stranger with a smile on he face than a passerby in one of the wealthier suburbs we've visited on occasion. In fact, the most overtly aggressive interactions we've had thus far have taken place at a yoga studio in Grosse Pointe. Which has taken a toll on my savasana.

There are most certainly things a young woman should avoid doing in a new city known for drugs, poverty and crime. But encounteing a whole population with the expectation that they are out to hurt you seems to me, at this point, as inaccurate as it is unwise.