The room where my complicated, naïve love-affair with Detroit began. The building was demolished in 2006. Credit: Michael Fitzgerald
I have been pretending to know Detroit for most of my adult life.
It’s a common affliction among youngish white journalists in Michigan who’ve never lived in the city. Even the fact that I talk about “knowing” the city is probably a giveaway that I’m not a Detroiter. My friends who are Detroiters, and Detroiters who comment on my stories, seem pretty tired of the discussion about what Detroit is or isn’t, what it represents or doesn’t and what the rest of us think about any of it. They’ve moved on.
But I can’t seem to stop myself from writing about Detroit as if I know what I’m talking about. I’ve even attacked other non-Detroiters for their lack of understanding (most people who read that rant believed it was written by a Detroiter, which only embarrasses me more).
Like most white, non-Detroiters, my fascination with the city started in my early 20s. And it involved urban exploring.
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