It was the ‘70s; I was twenty years old and thought I was invincible. I was all grown up, I could drink, vote, and sign a contract… so off I went from the comfort of my parents’ beautiful lake front home to the dangerous life of freedom on 7 Mile and Gratiot in Detroit. The neighborhood was what people called ‘changing’. There were very old people who had always lived in these homes, and there were young families and hippie-types, a mixed, racial and socio-economic blend of people. I rented the upper flat of this house on Saratoga for two years. I was independent. My rent for the 1 bedroom/1 bath place was $125 (this included all utilities except my phone). When I moved out of my parents home I figured it would be parties every night, loud music, late nights and freedom. Little did I know that my landlady, who lived downstairs, would be watching my every move. I had to be SO quiet… I wasn’t allowed to have “gentlemen spend the night”. No loud music… I think my folks called her before I moved in!!
Well after about 3 months, she and I became the best of friends. She knew her house was safe, that I wasn’t quite danger she thought I might be. I had to work long hours to be able to pay my rent, so late night parties were out of the question… It took me over a year to save up for my stereo… so loud music really was never a problem and men, well, let’s just say I didn’t really fight her on that one.
What I did find by making the decision to move to the city was that I had been sheltered from so many things. The culture of Detroit, the mix of people, the foods, the style, these were all things I had only heard about from others. I learned to interact with young and old people who had wonderful stories and colorful pasts. I felt safe and secure in my neighborhood in the “D”.
Traveling back to the area I was excited to see my old home… the city has gone through so much over the past few years; the storefronts are boarded up, the signage all seems to scream poverty. “We take EBT and bridge cards”, “Check advance”, “Sorry, we’re closed”. I got nervous as I turned down my old street.
There I saw overgrown bushes, boarded up houses, and chipping paint. The streets and sidewalks were strewn with trash. My house, along with 5 or 6 others on the block was broken down; burnt. Yet, in this rubble there were 5 or 6 other homes still standing, well landscaped, painted and occupied. On the street, there were children playing, and when I got out of my car to take pictures of my house they shouted friendly hellos. They asked what I was doing and I said “I used to live here”… then they smiled knowingly and when I got back in the car to drive away they waved. The neighbors were the same as I remembered them to be 35 years ago… In the “D” there’s a certain “big heart” sense that people who have never lived there can never understand!
Saratoga Street
Detroit, MI
Remnants of the upper flat I lived in 1973-75.
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