We live a mere half an hour drive from one of the most culturally enriched cities in United States history. Don’t roll your eyes because I “clearly cannot calculate that Chicago is actually more like four hours from Ann Arbor, not a half, dontchaknow?”

Just hold on: I’m not so terrible at math. And I do, in fact, own a watch.

It’s Detroit that I’m talking about.

My out-of state friends admit they’ve never been to the city, and frankly, are a little scared to make the journey. I don’t blame them—Detroit is historically renowned as the most dangerous city in the US. Even our previous mayor Kilpatrick couldn’t make a splash with his eight felonies in “the area’s sea of crime,” according to an article on Forbes. No sir, no ma’am, Detroit’s thick history of violence and riots didn’t burn away in the fiery riots of the 60’s, didn’t turn to ash packed into neat, little urns.

A View of Motor City

Au contraire, the city still teems with guns and masks and “Get your fucking face in the dirt and your goddamn hands behind your back!”

I should know: I’ve lived it myself. I’ve put my fucking face in the dirt and my goddamn hands behind my back.

But there’s another time for that story.

Refocus.

While non-Michiganders dance around Detroit like cats avoiding water, kids that were raised in its safe and sweet suburbs flock downtown to try to forget that they are kids raised in its safe and sweet suburbs. Regular migrates include an annoying mix of potheads and recent high school graduates too intoxicated off of cheap whiskey and the fact that they no longer have a curfew to pay proper attention to the city disintegrating before them. Take for instance, Funk Night, or “America’s Best Party.” This monthly event used to be an intimate gathering of 100-200 young adults conversing and laughing and boogying to 45’s under a single, spinning disco ball.

Typical Funk Night Patrons

Today, they only thing they boogey under is the influence. Detroit’s Funk Night has been reduced to a scene of drunken bitch fights, sloppy, dance floor make-out sessions, hands up skirts, and beer bottles shattered on sticky floors. This once warm and personal event rakes in thousands of dollars from the pockets of thousands of attendees each final Friday of the month, attendees that are about as trashy as the filthy, abandoned lots sprinkled about the city like freckles on a redhead. Once inside the event, you can try playing Where’s Waldo, with Waldo being the only sober guy in the joint (good luck).

Yes, the Michigan youth definitely seems to be embracing Detroit, if only to get totally, fucking wasted (as opposed to getting totally, fucking wasted in the suburbs, because it’s not quite as badass, right?)

Which brings me to the point I originally intended to prove. Before the ranting (which I apologize for. Sort of): today’s youth is so wrapped up in the city’s other, er, amenities, that we often overlook the blindingly bright sheen of Motor City’s glory.

Diana Ross & The Supremes

And by “glory,” I mean Motown music—not the auto industry.

Founded in 1959 by Berry Gordy, Motown produced what TIME refers to as “a catalog of songs that cannot be rivaled.” Detroit pumped out number one hit after number one hit, from “My Girl,” to “Stop in the Name of Love,” to “Please Mr. Postman.” It shaped the culture of an entire generation.

And it’s not just Motown—Detroit spawned plenty of melodious Love Childs appropriate for music lovers of every variety. George Clinton. The Von Bondies. The White Stripes. Hell, it’s the birthplace of techno, and (take it as you may) of ICP. Hell, we’ve even got Eminem! Hell, I’ll even admit we’ve got ICP!

Last weekend, I visited some friends back in Detroit, a place that seems to have played a bigger part in my life than air itself. I walked through familiar neighborhoods, screeched my tires to navigate its perpetually unfamiliar streets, and ate a Harvest Burger at Circa (the best damn Harvest Burger you’ll ever taste). During this trip, I eventually found myself exploring an old bed and breakfast/bar on Antoinette Street, a property newly acquired by some mutual friends. In giving me the grand tour, they mentioned that the building had been abandoned for about thirteen years, though I expect that before, it’d been running since the early 1900’s.

A City of Slow Breath

The tour revealed the place as a labyrinth of musty rooms dominated by a heavy scent of lead paint and dust in my eyelids. One room contained piles and piles of rolled-up tablecloths, covered with flaking, creaking floors. The kitchen was industrial style with big, greasy pans for deep frying and refrigerators large enough to store ten Jared’s before his first trip to Subway. The room I spent the most time in featured a circle of mismatched chairs, ancient bowling balls, and two bulging spots in the ceiling that resembled two sagging, tits, though I loved most its warm, striped carpet of orange and red and yellow and green. Various people came and went from that room, as I laid on my side and stared at the raccoon hole in the wall, hypnotized partly by the carpet and partly by Aretha Franklin spinning on the turntable.

Towards the end of the evening we sat out on the porch, so grand it deserved gargoyles, and stared at the building across the street. “What’s that?” somebody asked.

Apparently, before bankruptcy locked its doors and boarded its windows, the structure had been a recording studio for many prominent musical talents: the Rolling Stones, George Clinton, RHCP. Hard to picture these celebrities congregating and producing their finest works within something that is today so broken and barren. I closed my eyes and wondered what it would be like to see Mick Jagger sitting on its stoop.

Will such great faces grace the stoops of Detroit ever again?

Hell, who am I to know? Maybe. With a temporary boom in the film industry, I suppose it’s possible, though I’m not sure Detroit will ever fully recover from the financial punches in the gut its suffered throughout the years.

Spreading Love in Detroit's Corktown

Regardless, I suggest you visit Detroit, and see what you think for yourself. Perhaps you’ll find some fun in its many art galleries, theaters or cultural events. There are some great social and environmental justice movements stirring in the belly of Detroit. And Eastern Market on Saturday’s makes our local farmers market look like a lemonade stand—it’s huge.

In all actuality, it’s unlikely anything terrible will happen to you downtown—the city’s bark is worse than its bite, despite its so-called “sea of crime.” Although I suppose if you’re still worried, you could wear a life jacket.

Peace,
Molly

Molly Ann Blakowski majors in English and jumps in puddles.