Why I Loved--and Left--Detroit

Detroit is a bad city. I mean, Michael Jackson bad. Urban Dictionary bad. I love the country feel of the East side because it reminds me of home. I love the stylish realness of the West side because it reminds me why I left home.  I love being in a city full of black people where I could walk into a room, a bar or a party and not feel the heft of an entire race on my shoulders.

Detroit gave me a profound service that perhaps no other city could: it taught me that agriculture is cool and that black is beautiful. When I was 14 I left my family farm so that I could go to school and escape the fate of being a lowly small-scale farmer in the bush (by small scale I’m talking less than 100 acres).  In Belize, like anywhere in the world, farming is for peasants unless, of course, it’s a big old mega farm where the owner is not really a farmer but a lofty manager of managers or farmers.

Farming—putting your hands in the soil—is just not a respectable trade in most parts of the world. As much a I loved watching things grow, I knew I had to leave if I wanted to wear shoes or eat cheese more than one day out of the year. But despite the hard times, farming followed me around. Plants wouldn’t leave my head. Up until the day my dad died, the day I left Belize was the saddest day of my life. I was 14.

For four years I felt ruined, I stuck with my decision because I believed I had a better future. After enduring all the pain, culture shock and homesickness, if you were to tell me that I would end up in agriculture in the end I would have felt defeated. It would have shaken my will to live.

But being in Detroit changed me. And then this happened: After 16 years in Michigan (seven of them in the city of Detroit) I moved back to farm in Belize.

Right now I am sitting in my room here in Belize City at my family’s house. It’s dry season here and everything is crispy hot. A few thirsty frogs are croaking in the empty drains under the window. Through the darkness I can hear people talking in the street, trying to get their kid to take a bucket bath.  The barking of dogs is so constant I hardly hear it anymore. The backs of my heels are on fire from walking around the city in new shoes. My tongue feels gritty from eating too much cashew fruit (more on that later).

Today was my first day of having a real job. Before this I bounced from contract to contract hoping ends would meet. I scraped by with writing work, mostly corporate puff pieces, and selling goods grown on vacant lots in the city of Detroit. In fact, I threw all my energy into a one-acre (about 14 city lots) urban farm operation for three years only to realize that unless you’re prepared to live in poverty, work for a nonprofit, live off of grants and/or are privileged enough to get periodical cash lump sums from your parents, then small-scale urban farming is not a realistic, sustainable source of income.

The reality is that the global food system is simply not set up in a way that allows for anyone to survive above the poverty line by working off of anything less than ten acres of land. It’s just not.  One or two acres can feed a whole lot of people, but when it comes to income, rent, utilities, etc. that incredible value of fresh food doesn’t transfer into cash. Over the years I started looking at it like an overtime job with less than part-time pay. Not only do you gotta love it, you gotta be obsessed.

 I am saying this because I put three years into trying to make it work; I mean, all in. By any standard I lived in poverty, making less than  $12,000 USD a year and that’s without subtracting taxes. But I grew up in poverty so I found a strange comfort in it and was able to make it work (or not work) for so long. I wrote some grants; that helped. But I don’t have any financial support system. If I fail, I fail. No parental subsidies.

 I could be ironic and say I’m moving to a (so-called) third-world country to get out of poverty, but that would be irresponsible. But it’s way more complex than that.

 Living in Detroit did something magical for me. It exposed the cruel design of the American food system and beyond. Not only did I get exposure to the unjust systems in Detroit, but I got a hand in challenging it. 

Detroit made it okay to be me: a wild and strange bush girl with the reflexes of a single quash. 

Detroit cured my bitterness about farming.  The city linked me with people whose faces lit up when I told them I grew up on a farm; people who openly admitted they wanted to farm. Good people, cool people, smart people, stylish people. My mind was blown. I didn’t know how to take it. At first it made me mad. My head raced with sharp thoughts, like: “What could these city slickers know about farming? If they really had to farm to live, they would hate it. It’s not cool, it’s not glamorous, these fools! If only they knew the suffering I endured in order to escape the farm life!”

 But after five years of working with people who have made farming in the city a part of their life, I realized that if it’s done right, urban farming is an act of social justice and community building more than anything else. In the city, the moment you tear up even a patch of grass and put in kale, it’s an act of defiance. It’s a powerful thing to do.

Unfortunately, we live in a world where food is not currency. Our food system has taught us that it’s an insult ask for $3 for a pound of carrots while it’s a status symbol to buy a shot-sized cup of coffee for $6. I know people who work tirelessly to change that. And they are doing it one heart and mind at a time. But that takes time. The hard truth I don’t want to even say out loud is that in the given current system, micro-farms cannot fully financially support the amount of people/energy it takes to run them without some sort of subsidy.

This isn’t something we can work within the system to change. We have to find new models.  In the meantime, though, I can’t starve waiting. So I got a job managing a cacao supply chain in my hometown in Belize. 

I’ll be working with a company whose mission it is to support small farmers and develop their access to resources to scale up their production and their income. I’ll also be rehabbing my old family farm with my main goal to revive our subsistence farm that will ultimately hammer down my cost of living so that the amount I make in cash isn’t a reflection of my quality of life.

While my experiences in Detroit helped clear the static so could heard the tropics, my birthplace calling.  One thing Detroit is not is tropical. To me, the winters became more frightening to live through than hurricanes. 

Detroit, hopefully my mark on the city will live on in the farms I built and worked and supported with all of my energy. Hopefully my work will show in the perennials I planted, the grants I wrote, the dirt I dug and buried my heart into. Detroit became such a part of me that in a way, I haven’t really left.  When I lived in Detroit, that's how I felt about Belize. They say home is where the heart is but I wonder: can the heart be in multiple places at once without being broken? I am starting to think the answer is yes.

Ripping Stitches

“Let’s talk about race,” I said, breaking the silence among a group of old girlfriends I was attempting to reconnect with. One of them had just asked a well-dressed Indian man to fetch her car, obviously mistaking him for a valet.

 The man looked at her, aghast. “I’m not the fucking valet," he muttered,  and kept walking. She blushed, looked down at her shoes, and for second there was a thickness in the air that could not be accredited to the humid summer night.

We were a standing under the awning of a downtown nightclub after celebrating a friend’s engagement. But soon, too soon, in a fidgeting attempt to clear the air, she looked up and said, “Oh my god, is it starting to rain?” It wasn’t. But in the distance thunder rumbled, and a cool breeze blew between the buildings. The real valet, (a young white man with acne and a yellow jacket that said“VALET” in red letters), pulled up with the car and we all got in.

 That’s when I said it. “Let’s talk about race.” I was just tipsy enough not to be offset by the discomfort I knew the question triggered, but I was not drunk enough to go on a belligerent rant that would discredit my genuine concerns.

 At first there was some snickering and someone said, “We’re supposed to be having fun tonight. Let’s talk about Coney Island.”

But the woman, Kelly, who had mistaken the Indian man for a valet runner, spoke up. “I’m not racist,” She said. “I just—I made a mistake. Where I work the valet guys are all Indian dudes.” She was talking louder than needed in the small car with the windows up. Her face was red and she looked like she was either going to cry or pick a fight.

 “I didn't call you a racist,” I said at a volume that matched hers. “I just think that kind of mistake happens all the time and we don't talk about it.”

 The conversation turned into exactly what I was trying to guide it away from: a back and forth between Kelly and me in which she was describing in detail how not racist she was, and I was clumsily trying to articulate some deeply complex thoughts about systemic racism.

What I was trying to tell Kelly is that as a white person, she had a choice whether to address race or simply to shoo it away with a comment about the weather. What Kelly was trying to tell me was that she was not a bad person who thinks all brown people are valets. Eventually we dropped it, ate some late night conies, looked at photos on each other’s phones, and collectively failed to evolve the discussion of race.

Maybe it wasn’t the time and place. But I don’t think so. I think it was one of the many times and places and a missed opportunity. A month later, George Zimmerman was acquitted of charges for killing unarmed Trayvon Martin. I thought of Kelly’s logic: Zimmerman wasn’t racist, it’s just that where he lived, all the criminals were black. And it tore me apart, making me feel like I was going to explode.

I had to get better at identifying and articulating my feelings. I had to wrangle with language so that when it came up again, I would be prepared to engage and guide a conversation with people like Kelly or anyone who would engage me. I thought back on all my awkward, misfired and unprepared attempts at tackling race in social settings. Those times that race bubbled up but was shuffled back into the undertow with a knee-jerk swiftness, a trick we are all socialized to use to stave off discomfort.

But as much as we shuffle and scuttle and sweep, we can’t stall the current that is running just under the carpet. We are not living in a “post-racial” society—worse: we live in one that is fiercely attempting to be colorblind and steeped in denial, stuffing all the soreness, the ugliness, the tension of the country’s hideous history into one foul crack and draping a curtain over it.

 Meanwhile,  acceptable discussions of racial inequality serve up antiquated images of the 1960's civil rights movement, how MLK and Rosa Parks fixed everything and it’s all better now. We even have a black president. Nobody’s racist—that is, nobody is regularly beating up brown people while shouting racial slurs, no one’s denying anyone a seat just because the color of their skin--because that is apparently the only definition of racism.

 While the blatant, outright and honest racism may not be as prevalent as it once was, it has taken a much more covert form. It has snaked into the brambles of class and there it lies, camouflaged and venomous as ever, taking victims in plain sight. It has bled into the fabric of socialization so that before you learn your first words, you learn that there are people, and then there are modified, hyphenated people who are brown.

Once I was in a store and overheard a conversation between a mother and her daughter (both brown)  picking out dolls. The mom offered the girl a black barbie. The girl declined saying she wanted a "normal colored" one.

 It’s time we cleared the brambles and lifted the veil. It’s time we exposed the systems at work, the self-sustaining unjust machine that classifies humans based on the color of their skin.

That’s why some friends and I got together and created a discussion group aimed at honing skills in discussing this uncomfortable, unpleasant topic. One of our major principles is to make conversations about race more approachable and effective.

Yes, people of all races and cultures have the similarities that make us human, and it’s important to acknowledge that, but we can embrace each other’s differences as well. It’s okay. To reach this goal we first must form language—which often is the lurking barrior to race conversations—that is constructive and respectful. It is also to un-encrypt the codes that are tossed around in lieu of racial terms, words like, “urban,” “diverse,” “reclaim,"  that have become part of the curtain that is made to conceal.

We make sure our meeting space is a relaxed, honest setting where touchy subjects are hashed out and combed through over beer and chips and, in the summer, lawn chairs. We try to make sense of personal experiences and identify how these tie into the systemic design that still holds non-whites inferior.

It’s clear that race is deeply intertwined with class and power. And in this we recognize that we all have work to do to unveil the shape-shifting monster of oppression. Because here in the 21st century the first step to unraveling the machine is exposition. By seeking new perspectives, listening as well as talking, one year later I feel better equipped to handle these conversations be I under the awning of a club at 1:00 am or elsewhere.

 But this is just the beginning. A year later, after spending many hours discussing race every month, the thing that becomes clearest is that it takes practice. And we need people of all perspectives to enhance the discussion. We don’t seek to always be nodding and smiling. It’s okay to embrace discomfort and work through it. There is a way to do that in a casual setting. We are making a way.

It’s when people feel accused of something that they get defensive and shut down. So our approach is inclusive—because we’re all in this together as humans. We hear about first world problems, white people problems, black people problems, but most importantly, these are all people problems. As people, we all need to try to recognize and understand human. This sounds like a no-brainer but it is very, very difficult.

 By admitting our own prejudices, we rip stitches of the curtain. I was inviting a friend to the group for the first time and they seemed lukewarm. “You sit around and talk about what? By choice?”

The answers are "race" and "yes"—because when you have a command of language and ideas, you feel equipped to go into the world and express them clearly. It’s a form of mental liberation. To those who run for cover when race comes up, I say this: I talk about race hours straight every month and I can’t wait to do it again.

 Recently, I ran into Kelly and we small talked a bit. Then I told her I wished I had been more articulate the last time we spoke. “I hope you understand why I brought it up,” I said. “I think about race all the time because often I find myself being the only brown person in the room. I don’t have a choice but to be aware of it.”

 She took in a deep breath and went on a long explanation of herself. How from young she was told to think everyone was equal, but how her mom would always ask what city her boyfriends were from before she met them to discern if they were white or not. Kelly described how her mom used to say she loved all people, but when she brought her black friend in the house her mom suddenly decided it was too untidy to have company over. It seemed like it was a long awaited confession and when she was done, she looked at me like I had the power to absolve her. It made me uncomfortable.

 Then she said, “But I’m different from my mom, I don’t even see color.” Instead of going all out -- that is, going into some knowledge about how not seeing color as a mechanism of the privileged to avoid discomfort—I said, “Of course you do,” and laughed, not in snide way but with a knowing, warm intention. And she laughed. And we went our separate ways.

 When our discussion group first started there were some conflicting ideas on how to approach these conversations, each with valid points. On one end, why should we sculpt our language in a way that is not upsetting to an opressor. One the other end, skillful language can disarm people and coax them out and make them willing to even have the conversation instead triggering a defensive angry or dismissive reaction that results in a complete shutout.

 Communication is tough, and a lot of it is in observation because much depends on the situation.

 Once I was in a public restroom and an older white woman said to me, “Is that your hair? Or what is it made out of? Can I feel it?” And she reached a boney hand towards me.  I wanted to slap it away. Her words and action are what some people call micro aggressions: purposely singling out people because they are different.

But to me the lady’s temperament wasn’t aggressive. Sure, she was a person benefitting from the oblivion of white privilege, and she honestly had not seen mixed hair before up close. Were her actions and comments ignorant? Yes. Were they micro-aggressive? No. Or at least I didn’t think so. For me, an instant gut check can tell me if someone is intending to hurt or is just plain unaware. If it’s the latter, the goal is to bring awareness. How you choose do it is up to you.

Some might have said, “It’s not okay to go around reaching into stranger’s hair. I'm not an animal in a petting zoo. Are you telling me you've never seen a brown person before? For shame!”

That would have been one approach that may have been justified. But it's not my personality.

I responded, “Only if I can touch yours,” referring to her meticulously coiffed 'doo of sparse processed hair. She brought her outreached hand up to her hair gently and shook her head to say no. “This takes hours,” she said looking surprised at the offer.

 From our practice discussions I have learned how we each have to gauge our own encounters and  how it can be crucial to respond earnestly and in the moment, because who benefits from brooding over what some ignorant person said to you three weeks ago in a public restroom?

 Another thing I have found affective is analogies. So I’ll close with one: When I was a kid learning to swim, I was scared to go under water without holding my nose, so I never did it. One day my brother pushed me under before I had time to grab for my nose and I was scared I would drown. But the only thing that happened was that I realized I didn’t need to hold my nose underwater. I could use both my arms as I dipped under the surface. That’s when I learned to swim.