Seeing "Detroit" the Movie

I debated on whether to go see the movie “Detroit." Did I want to have that harsh reality from 1967 in my face on the big screen – in living color?

I’d lived through those times.  But I was forty miles away, in campus housing in Ypsilanti at Eastern Michigan University with my husband and six-months-old daughter. I had relatives in Detroit, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, and my parents and sister. My brother was in Viet Nam. 

My fear and concern were huge, but I’m sure it was muted in comparison to the folks who survived what is now known as the riot, rebellion, or uprising, depending on who’s describing it.

Yes, I would go see the movie, wanted to see the movie. So I could discuss it and write about it. And we did, Judy and I. In Coos Bay, Oregon, at noon on a Wednesday. One other couple ventured into the theater to watch. The four of us had the place to ourselves.

The movie’s portrayal of events in Detroit and in the Algiers Motel was harsh, rattling any sense of security and confidence in justice. As I observed innocent people humiliated, dehumanized, threatened, and beaten, their dreams and lives shattered, anger and sadness re-ignited in my heart and gut. 

But, I realized “Detroit” is a film that should not be avoided. This is a work of art that reflects our history as a nation and our on-going struggle with race and policing. It’s a film that shows us, fifty years later, things aren’t much changed. It’s a film that should open thoughtful dialogue.

And then came Charlottesville.

We need to talk. I’m open for discussion, thoughts, questions.  None of us has all the answers. But let’s do whatever it takes to facilitate understanding and the advancement of equality, kindness, and peace. A conversation is a beginning.

~ xoA ~

D is for Detroit

Also known as The Motor City, The D, and, as comedian Soupy Sales would say, “D-E-E-E-E troit!”.

I lived there all my childhood except for the 18 months we were in Columbus. My parents had migrated to Detroit during the early 40s when jobs were plentiful in the war factories, as did many from Ohio and the southern states. The City of Detroit hired Dad to drive an electric streetcar, and Mom, a young bride, would board occasionally and ride along with him. Several of my dad’s siblings lived in Detroit so the young couple had the support of nearby family.

All three of the Cassells kids were born there. I came along in July of 1943, a month after the Detroit Race Riots. My brother Tom was born two years later. Our sister Reenié joined our family in 1950, when we were living in the apartment house that one of my uncles owned on Kenilworth Street. 

Our block was part of a neighborhood off Woodward Avenue, Detroit’s main north-south artery. Directly across the street from us, stood a fire station. I remember, at first, we were alarmed every time the fire trucks, their sirens blasting, left the building. But, after awhile we got used to it. 

Down on Woodward Avenue, the Vernor’s Ginger Ale plant was in full operation. Dad first took us to those three-story glass windows one Saturday morning. Pulling our car up to the curb and smiling, he pointed toward the windows. That’s when we noticed the single-file line of pop bottles coming into view.  We scrambled out of the car and onto the sidewalk to get a closer look. The conveyor belt moved along, turning toward the next station, topping each bottle with a cap, and onward to catch the labels before carrying its cargo back to a mysterious place beyond the wall.  This was the most amazing thing Tom and I had ever seen in ‘real life.’

Grandma Annie Cassells visits

 

 

Returning to Detroit in 1953, Dad had found us an upper flat further on the east side of town, on Concord Avenue.  The concrete steps up to the porch stretched out in front of us, looking as steep as a mountainside.  The front door, a dark wood frame with small square window panes, opened onto another set of seemingly vertical stairs and a tiny landing where we made a right turn and ascended a few more steps to a wooden door and inside.

When someone rang our doorbell, we could peek down the stairs and look through the sheer curtain that covered the window of the main door to see who rang.  Then, we could press a buzzer that would automatically open the door.  

Our neighborhood of primarily brick two-family flats had probably been one that was first inhabited by European immigrants in the early part of the century.  By the time we arrived, there was a good mix of ethnicities, and everyone knew each other and got along.  The neighbors all agreed on one thing: how children should behave.  Any adult in the neighborhood would reprimand a wayward child.  And, of course, that child had better listen and then “straighten up.”

Our house was across the street from Bradley Recreation Center, where we kids spent many hours on the playground, the softball diamonds, and in the horseshoe pits. Tom learned to skate on the ice skating pond they created each winter, and I took tap dance lessons once.  Bradley was the hangout for all the neighborhood kids; Mr. Burton was the Director and a mentor to many of us.

We also lived close to Belle Isle, a beautiful island park situated in the Detroit River between the city and Windsor, Canada. Belle Isle was quite a place with beaches, canals for canoeing, botanical gardens, and miles and miles of paved road. It was the go-to place for all of us as we learned to drive, including our mother.

I attended the High School of Commerce in downtown Detroit along with kids from all over the city. HSC offered us business courses and job opportunities via a work-study program called "Co-Op". I took the secretarial track and learned to type, take shorthand, and do bookkeeping. In my senior year, I joined the "Co-Op" program, working at the Detroit Edison Company in the mornings and attending classes in the afternoons.

High School of Commerce senior - 1960

Detroit was the place where I grew up, got my education, and became an adult. Motown will always have a spot in my heart. 

~ xoA ~

20 Loves, Part 4: I Love to Travel

Easter Sunday, circa 1950

My brother Thomas and I inherited the “travel gene”. His led him to become a driver for Greyhound. Throughout his work career, he was a travelin’ man most days of the week. No surprise to me; I remember when he was a teenager, riding the bus from Detroit to the little southeastern Ohio town where our grandparents lived.

 

The travel gene didn’t fully manifest itself in me until I moved to California in my 30s. Annual road trips across the country became the norm. The thousands of miles between Bakersfield and Detroit yielded many fascinating routes, some not so direct, as well as fun, educational sightseeing opportunities. My daughters became seasoned backseat travelers during those years. With itineraries aimed to appeal to the girls, we visited such places as the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Laura Ingalls Wilder’s house in Mansfield, Missouri, Yellowstone National Park, The Alamo in San Antonio, and Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico.

Since those back-and-forth summer days, after my mom also moved to California, I’ve been able to satisfy my love of history, geography, and cultures in travels to six of the seven continents of the world. I’m missing Antarctica. I’ve never thought I wanted to go there, but something about completion of a group of items and curiosity about the place makes me think that Antarctica deserves a spot on my bucket list.

Murren, Switzerland

People often ask me which trip is my favorite. That’s a tough one. It’s usually the trip I’ve just finished. Some of you may have read my blogs about our most recent times in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, and in Switzerland. Those two were definite favorites, partly because of the length of time we spent there, and partly because of the people, those we visited and new folks whom we met.

Nine years ago, Judy and I took what we called our “dream trip.” She had dreamed of seeing the Galapagos Islands of Ecuador and the giant tortoises. I had a strong desire to see the Incan ruins of Machu Picchu in Peru since it was part of the 7^th grade history curriculum that I’d taught. We found a tour through Overseas Adventure Travel that went to those very places, and we tacked on a bonus pre-trip of four days on the Amazon River. The South America trip was an amazing adventure that brought us new knowledge, experiences, friends and quite a series of bug bites, along with fulfilling our dreams.  

The 2005 African safari that we also took with OAT, was an unexpected, unforgettable experience. Landing in Nairobi, Kenya, I observed Black people in charge and running everything. Every. Thing. That was new for me, and stirred me in a way I couldn’t have imagined. On the soil of Africa, I felt a peace. One of the servers in the buffet line asked, “How do you like it here?” I let him know that I loved it. Then, referring to my skin, he flashed a huge white-toothed smile and said, “Looks like you’ve been here before. Welcome home.” That exchange moved me, too.

On safari, we saw so many species of wild animals, animals we’d only seen in books, zoos and movies, that it was hard to keep track. But one of the most remarkable sights was the migration of the wildebeest. Our driver positioned us so the continuous line of wildebeests and accompanying zebras threading its way along, adults and babies alike, crossed the road right in front of us.  It was magnificent.

Welcome Jumping Dance
Judy's Award-winning Photo

Then, there were our interactions with the Maasai, those beautiful people who seem so regal and in charge. Animals fear them, can smell the Maasai coming and get out of the way. When elephants came  inside one of our compounds, the Maasai were called to chase them out. At a Maasai village we visited, the people greeted us and welcomed us into their school and homes. Though their lives were hard, according to our standards, they seemed happy and self-sufficient. It made me think of how much we take for granted in our lives. 

Traveling the US and the rest of the world has expanded my knowledge, broadened my world view, and made me very happy. It’s no wonder I can’t wait to see where the next trip will take me. 

What memorable travel adventure have you experienced?

~ xoA ~

A Fetching of Firsts, Part 7: First Defining Moment

First Defining Moment

Eighth grade, 1957

Marcy, our neighborhood elementary school in Detroit, served students from kindergarten through eighth grade. I began there in 1952 as a fourth grader when our family moved from Columbus, Ohio, to Concord Street.

Even in the younger grades, students went to special subjects classrooms for science, physical education, art, and music. These were the days before Title IX, so it was common, in the upper grades, for physical education classes to separate into boys’ and girls’ teams.

One winter during 7^th or 8^th grade, each Wednesday, instead of being teamed up with another class, we were the only group scheduled for physical education. This meant that there were not enough students to have two boys’ teams and two girls’ teams to play against each other. We had to play co-ed soccer.

During this era, a school rule existed that girls could wear only dresses or skirts to school. This made those co-ed soccer games difficult, uncomfortable, and painful for us girls. “If only we could wear jeans or slacks for gym class!” we all grumbled.

I decided to write a petition to try to get an exception to the rule. I cited the freezing temperatures and how our legs were numbed by the cold, the robust games with the boys, the girls’ discomfort as we worried about falling, and the limitations on movement those straight skirts posed. The next day, I talked up the petition in class. Every girl signed it. I delivered the document to the principal's office, leaving it with the school secretary. A day or two later, we got word that our request had been granted.

The following Wednesday before physical education class, we girls strutted into the large restroom, our jeans in paper bags, and changed out of our skirts. Then we marched onto the field and played soccer, uninhibited.

I still remember how proud I felt about the petition and the outcome. I’d experienced the “power of the pen” firsthand. I remember how the girls played full-out, into the game, and how good it felt to be heard.

This experience was a defining moment. It showed me that I was a leader. I could do things to effect change; I didn’t have to settle for the status quo.

What was your youthful defining moment?

~ xoA ~

A Fetching of Firsts, Part 6: First Job

First Job

I never babysat or washed cars for pocket money when I was a kid. My mother told me, “Be a little girl as long as you can. You’ve got a long time to be a grown-up lady.” So, I had the chance to experience the freedom of childhood.

The High School of Commerce, the school I chose while still in the eighth grade, offered programs in secretarial skills, retailing, and accounting. My thought was that, if being an office worker turned out not to be the career for me, I would at least be able to get a job to pay my way through college. 

Commerce was known for its Co-op Program in which students worked at real jobs for half a day and attended classes during the other half. The first few years, I was too busy studying, working on the school paper, playing basketball, and being involved in the biology club to work. By senior year, I decided to participate.

The placement office set me up for an interview with the Detroit Edison Company. I remember the night before the job interview. I sat on the living room floor in front of Mom’s chair while she pin-curled my long hair. I’d already selected my outfit: a straight dark skirt and white blouse beneath my flared, lime green winter coat. I’d polished my black high-heeled pumps and laid out the feminine torture tools: garter belt and nylon stockings. 

Detroit Edison hired me and a girl named Minerva to share the job. We didn’t know each other and never met since I worked the mornings and she worked the afternoon shift. We communicated by leaving notes that told each other where we’d left off in the day’s work. 

Our duties spanned two offices on the first floor of the building, Employment and Employee Services. Sorting and delivering the mail, answering the phones, and cleaning and servicing the mimeograph were our main responsibilities. 

All was good until the first payday. The interviewer had shown me a pay scale and pointed out what the job paid. Over the next two weeks, I spent the money in my head, dreaming of cute angora sweaters, the latest Elvis album, and a new purse. When I ripped open the pay envelope, my face and heart dropped to my kneecaps. The numbers on the check were only a fraction of what I’d expected. 

Sitting down at my desk, I examined the paystub and began adding the payroll deductions to the amount of my check. They totaled exactly half of the number I’d expected. That’s when it dawned on me. The interviewer had shown me the amount the job paid a full-time employee. As part time workers, Minerva and I would split that figure. Not letting my disappointment show, I quickly adjusted my attitude. In later years, remembering this experience led to clear understanding of how and what I would be paid.

I enjoyed working at Detroit Edison. It was gratifying have adult co-workers and to be a responsible participant in the grown-up world of business. I gained valuable work experience and references to take to future job interviews. I made a little money, too.

Tell me about your first job.

~ xoA ~