True Detroit

When I say "Detroit", what's the first thing that comes to mind?

If you're not from here I'm going to bet that you thought something along the lines of "murder capital", "gangster mayor who went to jail", "crime ridden", "gang violence," or even...as one online acquaintance put it years ago, "post-apocalyptic hellhole."

If you're not from here, I'm going to guess that the only reasons you'd come here are for business or to visit someone you know. You might wonder why anyone admits to being from here. You also might wonder why so many people who live in the suburbs proudly consider themselves "Detroiters" rather than specifically identifying which suburb they vote in. You wonder that because you don't know the true Detroit.

If you're from here, you know better.

Does the D have crime? Yes. Show me a city that doesn't. Show me a major metropolis that does not have a section you'd avoid at almost all costs. What's that? You can't find one to show me? Exactly. Did we have a mayor who went to jail? Yes. So did Washington DC...and they re-elected him when he was released. I highly doubt you'll see that kind of mayor reelected in Detroit. Are there gangs and violence in the D? Yes...as is true of everywhere, even in the suburbs. Post apocalyptic? Honey, I used to live in a third world country, don't tell me about post apocalyptic hellholes!

None of those negative things you might think about Detroit are unique to this city. More importantly, those things aren't what truly defines Detroit and her people.

Let me tell you what does.

What defines Detroit is the sense of community, the spirit here that says "We aren't done, and we can do better, knock us down and we'll come back stronger because we're in this together." It is evident in the community gardens in the city, in the partnerships between city and suburban schools and churches, in the countless tiny grassroots organizations that serve specific needs in the community. It is evident in the Olde English D logo of the Detroit Tigers, a logo that has taken on representing more than a baseball team, it has taken on representing pride in being from Detroit. It is the spirit that reaches out and celebrates itself among strangers who are united in only one thing: Being Detroiters.

I could list dozens of extraordinary, wonderful, special things about this city. Places to go. Organizations. People. Things that began here. Firsts that occurred here. But what spoke to me most recently, most powerfully about the true Detroit was an unexpected showing of true Detroit spirit at a Detroit Red Wings game last week.

As a nanny, I often offer my charges a choice for their birthday gift: A traditional present or a shared experience, a "just you and me" date. I have yet to have a child choose the brightly wrapped toy. This past month, when Little Litigator approached his 6th birthday, I gave him that choice and he chose the outing. He even knew what he wanted to do: Go to his first Detroit Red Wings game.

I found a coupon code for cheaper tickets, cleared a date with his parents, and made our plans. For weeks he counted down the days, checked and double checked that his Wings jersey was clean and in his drawer, ready to be worn. The day of the game, he willingly took a nap because he knew he was going to be out late on a school night. (I apologized to his kindergarten teacher in advance for the tired boy I knew she'd have the next day...) We made a poster together that read "My First Wings Game" and he insisted I decorate it with red stars and curlicues.

Of course, as the title of this blog suggests, nothing in my life goes according to normal and we had some serious snafus when it came to printing out the tickets I'd ordered online...snafus that set us back over an hour. We didn't get downtown until after the game had started and by then Little Litigator was starving. Our plan had been to park at the Fox, eat at Hockeytown Cafe, and take the shuttle to the game. When I pulled into the parking garage I asked the attendant if the shuttle was still running. She didn't think so, but then she saw my near tears frazzled self, and she saw the little boy in a carseat holding tightly to that poster and she said, "Let me call the restaurant for you and ask." She did...and, for the record, the shuttle runs continuously throughout the game. That lovely attendant then pointed me to a spot directly in front of me...one marked "Reserved"...and said, "Honey, you take that spot right up front and get that little boy to the game!" Detroit spirit, there.

Our waitress put us right where we could see the game on the big screen, advised me on dishes that were fast to fix, and made sure we got our food quickly. When we were done and paid, the hostess called the shuttle for us and told us to wait inside where it was warm, she'd watch for it for us. More spirit.

And then, we got to the game. Little Litigator carried his sign in such a way that it was easily read by people we passed as we climbed the stairs into Joe Louis Arena. If you haven't been there lately, there is a huge section of those stairs roped off for smokers. All it took was one smoker to see that poster and to read it aloud. "My First Wings Game...hey, look, it's the kid's first Wings game!" The applause began. People clapped, they cheered, they shouted "Have fun, buddy!"

Little Litigator turned to look up to me, his eyes wide with wonder, and gasped, "It's like they know I'm a rock star!"

What a way to welcome a kid to the game, eh?

That welcome continued as we entered the Joe, as we walked towards our section, and as we climbed more stairs to our seats. People high-fived him, congratulated him, some just grinned and nudged their companions as we passed by. We took our seats and inwardly I groaned at the lack of child aged people in our section and the abundance of young adult hockey fans with adult beverages in their sweaty grasps. I instantly worried about what expletives his perked little ears might overhear and how I would explain those to his parents when they came flying out of his mouth at some inopportune moment. I focused on getting a wiggly overexcited 6 year old out of his coat and hat and into his seat when a most extraordinary thing happened: Detroit spirit settled over us and wrapped us in its embrace.

A young, professional looking man sitting in front of us and several seats down saw Little Litigator's sign. "For real?" he asked him. "It is really your first game? Congratulations, I hope you have fun!" They high fived. The man spoke to his girlfriend, then they both got up. I presumed they were going to get drinks, perhaps use the restroom. Very shortly, they were back. "Here, this is for you." This stranger...this fellow Detroiter who never shared his name with us...had nothing with him but one of those giant foam fingers that fans wave in the stands.

What kind of person gets up during a game and buys a souvenir for a kid he's never met? A Detroiter, that's who.

Maybe you know a kid like the Little Litigator...but he's not shy. He is particularly not shy about sharing his delight and enthusiasm. Every molecule in him radiates his mood and his excitment is enough to make you smile...even laugh...just observing him. He's contagious. He was more fun to watch than the game was.

It's a good thing he is contagious because the Wings blew big time. REALLY big time. As the St. Louis Blues racked up goal after goal, I kept waiting for expletives to fly from the fans around us. None did. Maybe they weren't the kind of people who use that kind of language, but I suspect that much of it was in deference to the tiny little fan waving a foam finger and a poster announcing that it was his first game.

The horrific scoreboard didn't seem to bother Little Litigator. He quickly figured out that dancing kids got noticed and filmed for the jumbotron, so every timeout and every break he stood up and boogied his little heart out, waving his poster and hoping he'd see himself on the screen. I sat next to him and laughed. Another person sitting near us saw me snap a photo of him and called to me..."Let me take a picture of the two of you," she said. "You two are the cutest things I've ever seen". I am forever grateful for that fellow Detroiter...I take hundreds of photos of my charges, but have very few of me with them. I like to think that Detroit spirit whispered in that woman's heart and told her that we'd love a together photo of that night. The picture is perfect...a sparkling boy, his grinning nanny, a hug, a gifted souvenir, and a poster. Perfect.

When the ice cream vendor walked through the section next to ours, Little Litigator was inexplicably (note my sarcasm there...) ravenous. We tried...and failed...to capture the vendor's attention. So you know who flagged him down? That's right...a fellow Detroiter sitting a few rows up, moved by Detroit spirit to intervene on behalf of a hungry, sweets craving child.

The score kept getting worse, but the Little Litigator was riding high on sugar, adrenaline and the friendliness of strangers. "You know," said our gift-giving neighbor, "I think he's the only one here having any fun...but at least he's keeping the rest of us from crying!" Indeed, just before St. Louis scored their tenth (TENTH!!) and final goal of the game, a tiny irate little voice bellowed out "Hey ref! Where's the whistle?!" and triggered a wave of laughter through our section. "That's right, kid, you tell 'em!"

I suppose some would argue we just lucked into nice people. Maybe. But here's the thing...that's a lot of nice people to be a city you'd call grim, no? I don't think it was just nice people. I think it was Detroit. It wasn't just Wings fans...it was a community embracing a new young fan, a community that didn't care what suburb he might be from (or even that he was from the 'burbs), that didn't care what his parents do for a living, that didn't care what color his skin was or what religion his family practices, that didn't care what political leanings he might grow up to have, that didn't care about anything except that he was one of them, that he was a Detroiter doing a Detroit thing for his first time. And that this was enough to celebrate.

That, my friends, is truly Detroit.

After the game, as we wandered looking for the right shuttle, I hefted him onto my hip and pointed out the lights across the Detroit River. "See that? See the river? See those lights? Those lights are a whole other country, sugar bean. Those lights are Canada." He was briefly fascinated, and then replied, "But this side is still Detroit, right? And I'm from Detroit, right?" I thought about that. He wasn't born here, he was born in Chicago...a city his family still dearly loves. I reminded him of this fact. He thought for moment, then lifted his sleepy head from my shoulder and gazed across the river. "Yeah," he said, yawning. "But not anymore. I used to live in Chicago, but not anymore. I choose Detroit now."

Congratulations, Detroit. Another Detroiter.