well.
I consider myself lucky. Have the Bertuccis seen our share of tragedy as one of the families who stayed in the city and tried to pump life and energy into it even if it was in our own small way? Yep.
Show me a person who hasn’t been affected in some way by the years of city mismanagement and the downtrodden economy, and I’ll show you a liar. Whether it was violence or arson or loss of work or a family member’s loss of work; if you stayed in this city to work or to live, you’ve been affected. We’ve all had to dry our tears, square our shoulders, rebuild our homes, and bar our windows—but not our hearts. Because once we become desensitized to what’s going on around us, we might as well move to the suburbs and pretend it doesn’t affect us.
A black T-shirt with Detroit street names and landmarks screen-printed in white script across it from every angle caught my eye.
People have asked us why. Why do we stay? Why not move our business and our family outside of the city? And Papa responds the same way every time.
How can we?
Detroit is our city. It’s the town created by the car-manufacturing boom that gave my great-grandfather the opportunity to work his ass off, and save enough money to start his own produce stand at Eastern Market eighty years ago. The city that allowed the Bertucci family to open two more grocery stores, one within the city limits, the other less than a mile outside the city.
Sure, Detroit is also the city where arsonists burned down our house nine years ago. It’s also the city where someone shot and killed Papa’s best friend while helping him unload a produce truck early one Saturday morning seven years ago. It’s the city that keeps knocking us—and countless others—down, but also allows us to pick up and come back stronger than ever.
As I rubbed the soft material of the T-shirt between my fingers, a horn beeped from directly behind me. Started by the sound, I twisted toward the road and watched a sleek, silver car veer to the curb. The passenger side window framed Landon’s face. His big brown eyes sent a silent, comforting message through me. Safety. Warmth. “Need a ride?”
I let go of the shirt and took a step toward his car. Without a second thought as to why Landon pulled over or why he asked me if I wanted a ride, I rushed to the car and opened the door.
“How’s your dad?” he asked while I pulled the car door shut.
“He’s doing really well. It was a mild heart attack.” I reached for the seatbelt, slid it over my shoulder, and clicked it into place. “He’s home now, so that’s good.”
“That’s awesome, Gaby. I’m glad he’s okay.” Landon checked the traffic in his mirrors and pulled back into the street.
“Thanks.” I relaxed in the seat next to Landon. Though still slightly surreal, being with him felt natural. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to the place my parents met.”
And just as quickly as I’d relaxed in the seat, my shoulders tensed again. My hair was still gathered in a sloppy work ponytail, and I had on jeans and a 313 Artisans T-shirt. “It’s not a super special place, is it? I’m not really dressed for, um, anywhere but work.”
“You look great, Gaby. Don’t worry.” Landon winked at me. Then he turned onto the service drive and floored it. I took in an eyeful of some of the most unsightly views of Detroit as he merged onto I-94.
My intrigue grew when he exited at Gratiot Avenue. Though it gets better the farther north you drive, this particular part of Gratiot had a dangerous reputation. Where the heck could he be taking me? Where the heck had his parents met?
“Here we are,” Landon announced as we drove north on Gratiot. My head swiveled left and right looking for the landmark or restaurant where he would stop the car. I couldn’t imagine where he’d stop.
“Where?”
“Right here.” Landon nodded out the window at a telephone pole in the middle of an overgrown island.
“I’m
I consider myself lucky. Have the Bertuccis seen our share of tragedy as one of the families who stayed in the city and tried to pump life and energy into it even if it was in our own small way? Yep.
Show me a person who hasn’t been affected in some way by the years of city mismanagement and the downtrodden economy, and I’ll show you a liar. Whether it was violence or arson or loss of work or a family member’s loss of work; if you stayed in this city to work or to live, you’ve been affected. We’ve all had to dry our tears, square our shoulders, rebuild our homes, and bar our windows—but not our hearts. Because once we become desensitized to what’s going on around us, we might as well move to the suburbs and pretend it doesn’t affect us.
A black T-shirt with Detroit street names and landmarks screen-printed in white script across it from every angle caught my eye.
People have asked us why. Why do we stay? Why not move our business and our family outside of the city? And Papa responds the same way every time.
How can we?
Detroit is our city. It’s the town created by the car-manufacturing boom that gave my great-grandfather the opportunity to work his ass off, and save enough money to start his own produce stand at Eastern Market eighty years ago. The city that allowed the Bertucci family to open two more grocery stores, one within the city limits, the other less than a mile outside the city.
Sure, Detroit is also the city where arsonists burned down our house nine years ago. It’s also the city where someone shot and killed Papa’s best friend while helping him unload a produce truck early one Saturday morning seven years ago. It’s the city that keeps knocking us—and countless others—down, but also allows us to pick up and come back stronger than ever.
As I rubbed the soft material of the T-shirt between my fingers, a horn beeped from directly behind me. Started by the sound, I twisted toward the road and watched a sleek, silver car veer to the curb. The passenger side window framed Landon’s face. His big brown eyes sent a silent, comforting message through me. Safety. Warmth. “Need a ride?”
I let go of the shirt and took a step toward his car. Without a second thought as to why Landon pulled over or why he asked me if I wanted a ride, I rushed to the car and opened the door.
“How’s your dad?” he asked while I pulled the car door shut.
“He’s doing really well. It was a mild heart attack.” I reached for the seatbelt, slid it over my shoulder, and clicked it into place. “He’s home now, so that’s good.”
“That’s awesome, Gaby. I’m glad he’s okay.” Landon checked the traffic in his mirrors and pulled back into the street.
“Thanks.” I relaxed in the seat next to Landon. Though still slightly surreal, being with him felt natural. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to the place my parents met.”
And just as quickly as I’d relaxed in the seat, my shoulders tensed again. My hair was still gathered in a sloppy work ponytail, and I had on jeans and a 313 Artisans T-shirt. “It’s not a super special place, is it? I’m not really dressed for, um, anywhere but work.”
“You look great, Gaby. Don’t worry.” Landon winked at me. Then he turned onto the service drive and floored it. I took in an eyeful of some of the most unsightly views of Detroit as he merged onto I-94.
My intrigue grew when he exited at Gratiot Avenue. Though it gets better the farther north you drive, this particular part of Gratiot had a dangerous reputation. Where the heck could he be taking me? Where the heck had his parents met?
“Here we are,” Landon announced as we drove north on Gratiot. My head swiveled left and right looking for the landmark or restaurant where he would stop the car. I couldn’t imagine where he’d stop.
“Where?”
“Right here.” Landon nodded out the window at a telephone pole in the middle of an overgrown island.
“I’m
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