248 to 312... to 248!

This is the sixth installment of the Detroit Stories series. If you haven’t already done so, check out the background of Detroit Stories  and the the first four installments: an interns take on Detroit, Motown to Manhattan, Becoming a Detroiter, a woman who wants the Motor City and Ghosts of Michigan & Trumbull. 

This is a guest post by Bryan Fenster.

Born and raised in Metro-Detroit, Bryan Fenster returned home just over a month ago from a five year stint in Chicago, where his wife, Cara, attended graduate school. Bryan made it a mission to stay true to his Detroit roots and had the opportunity to do so when he Co-Founded the Chicago Chapter of Detroit Nation with childhood friend, Adam Babcock. Back in Metro-Detroit, Bryan serves as a National Board Member for Detroit Nation, and is working full-time at the Jewish Federation of Metro-Detroit, as an “Online Content & Media Strategist”.

It's hard to believe it’s been over five years since my wife (then, girlfriend) and I shipped slightly west for the big skyline and bright lights of Chicago. Over five years since we left home, our foundation of everything friends, family, and life. 

Even though we left and were open to adventure, we honestly always felt anchored in Detroit. The city and metropolitan area which we had the pleasure of growing up in, had a profound effect on us as individuals and has shaped the people we have become and are becoming. I can’t speak for my wife, but I can tell you that whenever I’d visit for the tease of a weekend, I would literally have a physical reaction, a natural high. The bond I feel to Detroit can only be described in one word: Love. I love this place. WE love this place. This is home.

Now we are back! We’ve come full circle.

It’s a total mind-bender to be back near family and dear friends, and this space we’ve been overwhelmingly welcomed and re-integrated back into after all this time. A new chapter in the place we always felt was home.

Five years isn’t terribly long, but man, given the progress you’ve made throughout the good, bad, and ugly, this place is quite different. When we left over five years ago, the interest didn’t seem to exist in what was happening here. The opportunity to change our narrative and be the change hadn’t been concretely rooted to the point it is now. We didn’t talk about shared struggles with cities such as Lodz, Poland, Turin, Italy, or domestically: Youngstown, OH, and what we could learn while staying uniquely “Detroit”. We hadn’t really started believing and sharing ideas as to “Reimagining Detroit” and the many ways we can become a stronger, more efficient, more comprehensive city with the population we currently have. The region hadn't reaped the benefits of the social streams which is now connecting the social do-gooders and Detroit “Do-Ers” with the world.

In fact, praise should be given to the various citizen journalists, proud residents, expats, bloggers, artists, curious bystanders, and even the “big” media outlets who had an interest and came through our fair city. Love them or hate them, no doubt, they all played a role in keeping Detroit relevant in the mainstream and the #backchannel.

Thankfully while in Chicago, I was able to stay active in the conversation via social media. What I am most looking forward to is connecting with the many people I lived vicariously through for so long, continuing to find beauty and inspiration in this city, and hopefully getting the opportunity to work with all of you in making Detroit the place WE want it to be.

It's so good to be home.

Follow Bryan Fenster on Twitter.

Ghosts of Michigan & Trumbull

This is the fifth installment of the Detroit Stories series. If you haven’t already done so, check out the background of Detroit Stories  and the the first four installments: an interns take on Detroit, Motown to Manhattan, Becoming a Detroiter and a woman who wants the Motor City.

This is a guest post by Nick Nerbonne. I met Nick through Twitter and mutual friends. Since then, we've hung out in Grand Rapids, Traverse City, Crystal Mountain and Detroit.

Nick Nerbonne is an online marketing specialist, outdoor enthusiast and Detroit sports fan living in Traverse City. Get in touch with Nick at http://www.twitter.com/NickNerbonne.

Before Detroit was Hockeytown. Before the Detroit Lions played the first Thanksgiving Day NFL game. Long before Detroit had an NBA basketball team. Detroit was a baseball town. Thanks to our beloved Tigers, it still is.

There’s plenty of excitement in Tiger Town—and throughout Michigan—right now, and with good reason. There’s October baseball in Downtown Detroit once again, with the Tigers in the ALCS in the midst of a tough battle for the right to play in the World Series.

Seeing the Old English ‘D’ under the lights in prime time has brought back memories of previous Octobers and of an unexpected brush with Detroit Tigers history that I experienced this summer.

Tiger Stadium as it stood in 2009.I was in downtown Detroit for an event this past July and decided to grab some lunch at Slow’s Bar-B-Q. Driving down Michigan Avenue toward Corktown, I passed Nemo’s and knew a certain intersection was approaching. “The Corner.”

I’d heard Ernie Harwell say it countless times on the radio. Any baseball fan in the state of Michigan over 20-years-old knows exactly what it means. The corner of Michigan & Trumbull. The former home of Tiger Stadium.

I drove slowly as I passed, looking at the iron fence that surrounds the now-empty lot where one of the cathedrals of the game once stood. I couldn’t help but feel the sadness at its absence while recalling so many fond memories there.

As a young boy, fortunate timing put us in the stands of a sold-out Tiger Stadium for Mark Fidrych’s return to the mound after a year off due to injury. Several years later, my dad, brother and I sat in the right field upper deck for Game 5 of the ’84 series as Sweet Lou, Trammell, Gibby, Willie Hernandez and the rest of that great ’84 team cemented their place among baseball’s best. Those and other visions of the grand, old structure surrounding a perfect green baseball field flashed by.

But there was no baseball at The Corner today. Or so I thought.

I walked into Slow’s, sat down at the bar and ordered up a beer and a combo platter with brisket, chicken and pulled pork with a side of mac n’ cheese. Seated next to me were two gentlemen about my dad’s age. We said hello and the conversation turned to baseball.

The two Grand Rapids residents regularly make the drive to Detroit to attend Tiger games at Comerica Park. On almost every trip, they have lunch at Slow’s before the game. We reminisced a bit about games we’d seen at the old ballpark and the history of one of baseball’s classic venues. The ’68 Series. The ’84 Series. All of the legends of the game that played there.

“In fact,” one of the gentlemen said, “we often see guys playing pickup baseball down at the old Tiger Stadium.” Pickup baseball? At Tiger Stadium? I was intrigued. I was told that a group of locals gathered on summer afternoons to play pickup games on the old diamond, which is still intact. “Too bad they’re not out there today,” he said.

I finished my meal and hopped back in the car to head back to northern Michigan. As I approached The Corner once again, I noticed some activity. There were several cars parked along Michigan Avenue. Inside the fence, baseballs were being tossed back and forth. I pulled a quick u-turn and parked behind the line of cars.

Next to an open gate hung a sign: “Ernie Harwell Park.” I walked through the gate and onto the field, now more of a sandlot than a manicured lawn. Walking toward the group of ballplayers playing catch and warming up, I was unprepared and a bit surprised at what happened next.

I stepped onto a mowed area that surrounded the original diamond. To a lifelong Tigers fan, this was hallowed ground.

There was the first base line where Kaline, Greenberg, Ruth and Mantle had run.

Over there was the third base line, where Cobb, Williams, Mays and Robinson rounded third on their way home.

Between them was the pitcher’s mound, where Morris, McLain and Josh Gibson had set records and wowed crowds.

Out there once stood the right field light towers, where Reggie Jackson hit a towering fly ball in the ’71 All Star Game.

In front of me was home plate, where Lance Parrish caught so many games in my childhood, and where Lou Gherig handed the lineup card to the umpire to end his legendary streak.

The memories and emotions came flooding in with every step. I was walking into history. It was a direct connection with some of my best childhood memories.

The crack of the bat and the ball flying toward us through the night sky. Jumping to our feet in the upper deck in right field as the ball landed only a few rows away. Gibby rounding second and the iconic image of his fist in the air after his second home run of the night. The look and sound of a sold-out stadium erupting with cheers. My dad lifting me up in celebration as we knew the Tigers would win the World Series. A dream come true for a kid still of Little League age.

I was talking out loud as I approached home plate, expressing my astonishment at standing where the legends that defined baseball had stood. The original home plate was gone but I stood in the batters box and took a few warm-up swings with an imaginary bat.

One of the ball players started hitting ground balls to a few others scattered around the infield while I chatted with a couple of guys nearby. They get together at what’s left of the old ballpark to keep the game alive at a place where it’s been played for over a hundred years. There were no dugouts, no bleachers, no crowds, no hot dog vendors, no ball boys. Just baseball in its purest form.

I smiled, shook a few hands and thanked them before walking back across the field and through the gate. They didn’t know it, but they—and the ghosts of Michigan & Trumbull—had provided me with another reason for this “northerner” to feel connected to this great city.

Follow Nick on Twitter.

Some people get new cars for their midlife crisis. One woman wants Motor City.

This is the fourth installment of the Detroit Stories series. If you haven’t already done so, check out the background of Detroit Stories  and the the first three installments: an interns take on Detroit, Motown to Manhattan and Becoming a Detroiter. 

This is a guest post by... let's call her Gingham. I met Gingham through comments and subsequent emails. We met in person at Honey Bee Market over the summer.

Like a lot of suburbanites that were raised in the post-1967 Detroit area, Gingham (short for 'Groovin on Grey Hair and Moxie') grew up believing that Detroit proper was mainly good for three things: (1) concerts, (2) baseball games, and (3) lamb on a spit. That is, until this year. She has asked to remain incognito for now so that the power of Google does not tip off her employer to her impending re-relocation to The D.

It has been said that the quality that attracts a person to a new lover is often the very thing they felt was missing in their previous relationship. 

I've been in a stable, generally happy relationship with my chosen hometown for a long time now. She has been good to me, my clean, cultured city of abundance (the location of which I will enigmatically say only is somewhere in the quadruple digits of miles away). She has taught me to throw myself into nature with reverence and delight; taught me self-care, both inside and out; taught me to slow down, have fun, and be kind.

And yet I've come to that place where I'm kinda done with her sublime but sanitized scene. Yeah, *snap*. Unsurprisingly, I've also reached middle age. And if I got nothing else out of that psychotherapy degree that I'm still paying off, I got an appreciation and understanding that people change. It's normal. It's nobody's fault. And most relationship problems come from failing to make room for the reality of that. (An insight for which I will never regret the hefty student loan debt.)

About this time last year—as I was falling out of love with my old life—my high school and college buddies began posting anecdotes, videos, and news items that made me see my first hometown, Detroit, through new eyes. The lively arts scene, the civic engagement, the entrepreneurial efforts, the urban farming movement, the stirrings of new investment, you know what I'm talkin' about—this was not the Detroit I left 20 years ago! 

I saw what the people of Detroit were doing for themselves and, more importantly—for each other—their artistry, their humility, their dedication, their generosity and collaborative spirit, their sense of pride in place and history—and it just made me deeply proud. Proud because it takes more than money and political self-determination to bring a city to life. You need shared values and collective action and for that you need trust—the kind of trust that reaches across the differences that divide people. It's truly frickin' magical when it happens and, given a transporter or a time machine, I can't think of a more exciting time or place to be in a city's history. 

From then on, every time I read or heard about somebody doing something good on behalf of The D, I got so verklempt that I had to quickly fan myself and fake like I had just accidentally swallowed a gob of Coney Island relish and mustard. I wanted in. I surprised myself with just how badly I wanted in. I wanted everybody to know that DETROIT is where I'm from. 

Since then, things have just clicked. I mean like "cosmic synchronicity", "higher power", "the seas part", "makes you think it was meant to be" sort of clicked. Some say that luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. Detroit has plenty of the latter. It took me doing only a bit of the former by reaching out to a few Detroit movers and shakers that I read about on Detroit Moxie, Model D, and other blogs, and, before I knew it, we were out for a series of visits and getting a personalized tour of neighborhoods and insights into daily life in The D. 

Last month, we headed back again, the fourth trip in as many months. But this time to buy a beautiful, old, boarded-up house on the east side. (More on that another time.) It's gonna take a lot of love to make it habitable. And we aren't totally clear on how all the funding for it is gonna materialize. But like everything else about this middle age transformation, it's a leap of faith, and one that couldn't feel more right.

So, Detroiters, you couldn't have done a better recruiting job if you all got together and planned it. I can't wait to be your neighbor. I know, for better or for worse, whether I intend to or not, I'm gonna be a gentrifier too. (More thoughts on that another time, too.) But what I most want you to know is that I'm coming back because I want to be a contributor to, not just a consumer of, what makes Detroit Detroit. I hope to make you as proud to call me yours as you have made me of you. (Damn, there I go again. *Fans self*. Talk amongst yourselves.)

I'm hoping Gingham will stop back in and keep us updated on her progress in moving to Detroit.

Becoming a Detroiter

This is the third installment of the Detroit Stories series. If you haven’t already done so, check out the background of Detroit Stories  and the the first two installments: an interns take on Detroit and Motown to Manhattan.

This is a guest post by Craig Hennigan. I met Craig through his comments on this site, following him on Twitter and connecting in real life.

I’m Craig Hennigan but on here or on twitter you might know me as Toka313. I feel honored and privileged to write to you my story of coming into the city of Detroit. I am presently a PhD student and debate coach at Wayne State University, and before I came into the city proper, I was a city councilperson in Madison Heights.

After the Madison Heights city council meetings, most of the councilmembers and the Mayor go out to dinner at the Master’s. As I sat at the table thinking about my near hopeless re-election prospects, I was deciding about what my future would hold.

“If I don’t win this election, I think I’m going to move to Detroit.”

The councilmembers stared at me, almost aghast, and one chimed in,

“Good God, why?”

And my reply was quick:

“Because none of you are gonna do it, and somebody has to.”

It turns out that it was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life. I’ve been here a year now, and “Becoming a Detroiter” has been an adventure in learning about a very unique culture.

I was rather anxious being the ‘new guy’ in the neighborhood, but the place I moved into was quite possibly the perfect opportunity for someone new to the area to live. I live in a house with 4 others, the owner and his girlfriend being two of them. She works at Inside Detroit, so every weekend—every day even—I had the opportunity to know something more about the city that I never would have known otherwise. I thought I knew Detroit when I lived in Madison Heights. I had only scratched the surface.

Another roommate worked at the Hub of Detroit, so getting a bicycle was a first priority upon moving in. The bicycle culture here in the city is larger than I had imagined. From Critical Mass to Tour De Troit, to the Bikes and Murder Slow Ride to Slow Jams, to the Full Moon bike ride from Fender Bender, there is not a lack of people who are willing to take a ride on a nice day (or a rainy/snowy one!)

When does one “Become a Detroiter?” It’s a question I had asked myself over and over again during the early time I was here. “You aren’t a Detroiter because you haven’t been here long enough.”

So I thought giving myself an arbitrary temporal milestone would give me justification and I changed my twitter and other online ID’s from Toka248 to Toka313 only after I lived in the city for one year. But it wasn’t the in timing that made me a Detroiter.

I had one of the kids I work with tell me, “You aren’t a Detroiter because you don’t live in the ‘hood.” This was funny because she lived in Saline and considered herself a Detroiter.

Others can say “You aren’t a Detroiter because you grew up in the ‘burbs.” I just have a hard time believing that only those who grew up in the city have exclusive rights to the term Detroiter.

I think the real turning point for me is showing genuine concern for the community around you. That is how you “Become a Detroiter.” Whether it was volunteering for urban debate leagues, protesting to save the Catherine Ferguson Academy, farming and shopping locally or participating in local events; it is in those moments that I felt truly invested in the city and became the real Detroiter that I am today.

Detroit isn’t just a place where you live, it is a place that you are. Now that I am a Detroiter, the only focus is to become the best Detroiter that I can be. Yes, I'm a booster. No, I am not blind to problems in Detroit that are similar to problems in many aging cities. But when you start doing your part to keep this city the best in the world to live in, you also will know what it means to “Become a Detroiter.”

What do you think makes someone a Detroiter?

Follow Craig Hennigan on Twitter.

Motown to Manhattan: a few observations

This is the second installment of the Detroit Stories series. If you haven’t already done so, check out the background of Detroit Stories and the first installment, an interns take on Detroit.

This is a guest post by Erica Moss. Erica and I met through the social web and became friends. Her enthusiasm and passion are contagious. She’s also pretty damn smart and full of creativity.

Erica Moss is the social media and outreach coordinator for the online Masters in Nursing program at Georgetown University. She adores Mexican food, Taylor Swift, community building and Michigan football.

We couldn't have been more excited to see this New York City sign. We were blissfully ignorant as to how far away from the city we actually were.I didn’t grow up in the Detroit area. I grew up in a sleepy little suburb of Grand Rapids, I’d never been to a Tigers game and I knew very little about the Motor City. So when I moved to the 248 three years ago, there’s no way I could have known the impact it would have on me and the amazing people I’d come to call friends.

And then everything changed.

OK, so I’m being dramatic, but in July, my husband and I really did pack up all of our possessions (including one white English bulldog) and embark on the 12-hour drive to New York City. He had been accepted to Columbia Business School and would be pursuing his MBA for the next two years.

I was apprehensive to say the least. We had built a life in Royal Oak, and I wasn’t ready to leave that behind. I was perfectly content driving to work every day, calling my beverage of choice “pop” and living only a short car ride from my family.

New York City looks good on us, don't you think?We’ve been here for about a month-and-a-half now, and while it’s not the complete 180 I expected it to be, there are some distinct differences between Manhattan and Motown. A lot of them are food related—lay off me!

A few things I’ve learned so far:

It’s ALWAYS soda. As Michiganders, we’re aware what soda is, but we all call it pop, right? New Yorkers are quite the opposite. They simply don’t know what pop is, and if you ask for one, you get the deer-in-headlights look. And don’t make the mistake of requesting two refills of your “soda” at the restaurants that charge you full price for each one.

Almost every restaurant posts its menu out front. This is genius, and a product of the walkable nature of the city. It allows you to check out what they have to offer before committing to a table, and also prevents you from sitting down at a restaurant that charges you $20 for a burger (this is NYC, after all).

All of the McDonald’s locations are deplorable and slow. I know what you’re thinking: Why am I bothering with a fast-food chain when I have access to some of the greatest restaurants in the world? Well, sometimes a girl has to get her Chicken McNuggets fix, but I’ve learned to subdue it after several trips to different locations around the city. There’s trash everywhere, the tables are dirty and there is simply no urgency to fulfill your order in what any person would consider a reasonable amount of time. I asked a native New Yorker about this, and he validated my experiences, saying they actually used to be worse than they are now, but that the company has made steps to improve. We’ll see.

Every single pizzeria is “New York’s favorite pizza.” And they get away with it by putting quotation marks around the phrase. It’s comical.

You haven't had pizza until you've had it at Grimaldi's in the DUMBO neighborhood of Brooklyn.

You notice subtle differences in everyday phrases. When you order food from a fast-casual restaurant, they ask you if you want to “stay here” as opposed to what I’m used to: “for here or to go?” At retail shops, they say “on line” versus “in line,” such as “Next person on line, please!”

If you buy groceries, they always double bag everything. Once again, it’s a product of the fact that people walk everywhere. And since you’re going to have to haul your goodies home on foot, be sure you don’t buy your milk, apple juice, green tea and laundry detergent in the same trip.

None of the ATMs are outside. Almost all of them are housed inside their respective banks, and if it’s after-hours, you have to swipe a debit or credit card from that institution in order to get inside the bank and gain access to it. A good safety feature, I guess?

The Subway system isn’t nearly as scary as I thought it was. I really only have to worry about the 1, 2 and 3 trains, for the most part, and all you need to know is that the 1 is local and the 2 and 3 are express. And the public transportation option on my Google Maps app is a lifesaver — I couldn’t get around without it. Oh, and the Houston Street stop is pronounced “Howston,” not like the city in Texas.

If the DJ plays “Empire State of Mind” in da club, the people go nuts. Kind of like when the “born and raised in South Detroit” part comes on during “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

OK, that’s all I’ve got for now. It feels like I learn something new every day in this giant city, so if the fabulous Becks Davis is up for it, I might be dropping some more New York knowledge on you guys very soon.

Did any of my observations surprise you? Do you know something about the city that I don’t? Just want to give the Mosses (or Mona) some love? Feel free to light up the comments section.

Follow Erica Moss on Twitter.