Sweet Idea

If I owned my own restaurant I would give people self-esteem cookies at the end of the meal. Wouldn't that be better than fortune cookies? The fortune is never really a fortune. The cookie sucks. So your end of meal experience ends up being a disappointment. Who doesn’t need a boost of self-esteem wrapped in sugar? No one really wants to know what tomorrow will bring. They do want to know that they are better than they are. We all want to hear more compliments.

One street person downtown Detroit has the best pitch. She starts off with a compliment. She doesn’t tell you her story which is probably a downer; she tells me how fabulous I look. She asks me if I have tried a new mascara because my lashes are ready to knock her over. She notices my jewelry. And it all works. Before I know it I am smiling ear to ear feeling great about myself and handing over wads of cash. I know I will see her soon selling the next Sham wow or easy pay religion on late night infomercials because she is that good and I love her for it.

Just imagine opening a delicious treat and seeing "you are hot...you smell great...you bake great muffins....you're so organized...your subtraction is very accurate...you have great looking gums...well-groomed eyebrows....great posture...good work on the flossing...love your meatloaf...those abs are TIGHT...those look very real…great grammar...your are always so prompt."

The wheels of misplaced anger

I always thought riding a bike to downtown Detroit for work would be dangerous because you ride through mostly shabby (not shabby chic) neighborhoods. So I meet a guy who does it and it ends up the danger is from the drivers. They yell at him. They throw things at him. They swerve towards him. They are angry about him riding his bike. He said Detroit isn’t as angry as other counties nearby.

It reminds me of the strangely aggressive and angry reaction I’ve noticed on several things. Like saying you are a vegetarian. “Do you want animals to overpopulate and starve to death? You want to make hunting illegal? Can I eat this cheeseburger in front of you? Are you a communist? So you never eat protein? Do you eat bugs?”

Or if you don’t order a drink when everyone else does, “What did you kill someone drinking and driving? You got liver cancer? Are you in some crazy church? Why don’t you just leave?”

Or when they find out you’re a Jew, “No Christmas…no tree…a Santa? What about bacon? You don’t believe in JESUS? Will they let you into heaven? No ham? No Easter bunny? Are you sure you didn’t kill Jesus? Do you have your own churches?

Economic Traffic Reporting

I listen to the traffic reports on a Detroit radio station. I hear about sofas blocking I-96 and a generator flipped into the median on the Southfield freeway facing north, a pink toilet with its lid open causing a major back up on I-696 west, pieces of particle board flying south on I-75 near the casino, rusty rabbit cage and a box of boy scout uniforms keeping cars off I-94 west.

The list goes on…refrigerators, rocking chairs, numerous sofas or just cushions, children’s play ground equipment, tools, periodicals, and too many mattresses to mention.

I imagine trucks lose their load and inexperienced movers lose pieces of their homes. I wish the traffic reporters could be a little more detailed about the items…the size of the mattress, the color and print of the sofa, does the fridge look to be in working condition, are the magazines in English or Arabic or Spanish, how used is the particle board. The garbage pickers could be the heroes for everyone sitting in traffic and maybe I could find that pink toilet I have always dreamed of.

Blood Sisters

As an outsider I relate to the City of Detroit. To its underdog spirit. We each have been misunderstood, unloved, disliked, discounted, gritty, historic, bitter, lonely, funny, dramatic, dark, fearful, isolated, abandoned. Depth and backbone and intensity with architecture and stories and music and food so sensual you realize why people are devoted.

Detroit can be like having your own secret attic at your fingertips. Steam billowing up from the street, my husband says hell is beneath downtown Detroit like something off a movie set. The city looks its best at 5 o’clock in misty gray.

I never feel out of place. People don’t always look like me. The setting may not be what I have thought to be comfortable, yet in a deeper way I know this is me and I am accepted with my cracks, dents, dusty baggage and frizz.

It’s bumpy and confusing and loud and unfair and scary and broken, but it’s not lost. There is faith and warmth and a willingness to share with an outsider. Nothing can make you feel more at home. Even the deep potholes and grit are laced with glimmers of hope. This is where my soul has found comfort.

It’s like your favorite foods, favorite places to be kissed and cuddled, music, pajamas, who you fall in love with, and if you’re honest, these things aren’t the prettiest, but they feel right deep down in the center of your belly just like home.