Fearful Symmetry: Tiger Takes Detroit
We reached Peak Detroit this week. It doesn’t get any more Detroit than this: an actual, live tiger roaming around the Packard Plant.
We reached Peak Detroit this week. It doesn’t get any more Detroit than this: an actual, live tiger roaming around the Packard Plant.
In late summer of 1967, waves of rumors moved through metropolitan Detroit, announcing a series of race divisions across the city and between city and suburb.
Detroit is a city of fist-pumping, all-caps slogans. A hashtag for your Instagram, a bumper sticker for your Ford: NOTHING STOPS DETROIT. DETROIT HUSTLES HARDER. BELIEVE THERE IS GOOD IN DETROIT.
Angela Flournoy’s debut novel The Turner House was published this spring and has met with much acclaim, becoming a May 2015 Indie Next pick and garnering a stellar review in the New York Times.
Last year, when driving back from Detroit to his home in Fraser, my dad took a detour. Dad is by nature an anxious man, but that anxiety spiked when he turned down an ice-and-snow-covered street.
In 2009, Derek Stanton and his band Awesome Color had just moved back to their native Michigan from New York City.
Stately, plump houses and maple trees line Porter Avenue en route from Buffalo’s Peace Bridge to Symphony Circle. The homes are old, but they are lived in and cared for.
I say this because it's true and because I just read a column by Aaron Foley that offered a bleak – if sarcastic – warning to New Yorkers attracted by the Move to Detroit billboards.
You live in New York and you’ve seen a billboard encouraging you to move to Detroit.
I am 30 years old, a fan of top-shelf cocktails and Chuck Taylors, and a Detroit resident. I like live music, and I tend to know about new art galleries before the rest of my friends. Could I be a hipster? Maybe. I’m not quite sure.
In the 1930s, the Home Owners’ Loan Corporation (HOLC) set out to evaluate mortgage lending risk in American cities. The resulting maps codified and legitimized the racism of the day ...
Of all the fathers and sons I know, I’m fairly certain my dad and I are the only ones who would spend part of a hot spring Wednesday afternoon peering into a sewer grate. However, this is not just any sewer grate.