This Is Why I’m Ready to Walk: Letter from a University of Michigan-Flint Lecturer
By Scott Atkinson Photograph by Erin Emory This is why I teach. I’m perhaps halfway through my digital stack of [...]
By Scott Atkinson Photograph by Erin Emory This is why I teach. I’m perhaps halfway through my digital stack of [...]
I was sitting at home on January 26, reading the news and having a hard time sitting still. The shock of a new president had not (and still has not) worn off, and story after story was pushing me toward a deeper sense of despair. It was far beyond politics—I grew up in rural Michigan, and Republicans are not foreign, scary creatures to me.
I had just started writing about Flint when I found myself sitting next to Michael Moore, listening to him talk about what Flint had to offer the world.
On a recent Friday evening, the cast of Flint Youth Theatre’s current production The Most [Blank] City in America, rehearsed a scene in which community members have gathered for a meeting ...
It started with Cher calling for Rick Snyder’s head, and really, who could blame her? This was in January, when the media had fully descended upon Flint, Michigan, in the midst of its water crisis...
Michigan Governor Rick Snyder was on his way to Flint to spend some quality time with reporters dodging questions about whether or not he was responsible for the lead that had found its way into Flint’s water supply ...
Leo Napier is walking around each side of a wrestling ring in Dearborn, Michigan, teaching the audience assembled there how to be his fan. They are willing. They are eager.
“Hey, man, he got a spot,” says Kenny Lucas, pointing his thumb toward Dallas Schiestel, as another man joins the growing party in Riverbank Park, waiting for the Flint Community Cookout to begin.
“I think people are seeing this can have a lot to offer,” said Beth White as she walked along the dozen or so red-bricked blocks of Saginaw Street that constitute Flint, Michigan’s downtown.
Don’t call it a renaissance. Or a revival. Also out: Revitalization. Do not, do not, bring up Brooklyn when you’re talking about Detroit, not unless you’re ready to have that conversation with Gary Wasserman.
After an hour-long drive, Doug Suiter is sitting at high stool at The Machine Shop in Flint, Michigan, one hand on his knee and the other wrapped around a sixteen-ounce can of Bud Light, waiting to see if Whitey Morgan is the real deal.