Day-twa

Day-twa. That's how "Detroit" is pronounced in French. Now you know. And knowing is half the battle.

On Wednesday, my dad and I took an afternoon trip to Detroit. Ever since I discovered this blog, I was determined to uncover the hidden treasures of the city - or at least learn more about its history. I know that Detroit can be a very scary place to some, whether or not they've actually visited, and the negative implications of the 1960s riots hang over its skyscrapers like a fog, but Detroit has always been... different for me.

In the 1980s and early 1990s, I remember visiting my great-grandmother, Rose, at her home on the west side of the city. Abandoning the adults and their talk of the "old days," my brother and cousins and I would climb the hundred-year-old stairway to the attic and marvel in the pure ancientness of the space. Dust covered everything and hung in the air, seemingly suspended by rays of light filtering through the filthy windows. A mothball-infested wardrobe sat in an alcove, and as much as I always wanted to discover Narnia within, I was never brave enough to place more than a foot inside. (My male cousins always threatened to lock me in, so that might have been a deterrent as well.)

My great-grandmother lived on St. John street. A historically Polish neighborhood, the houses were slowly succumbing to age, and their inhabitants were leaving for the suburbs. The older generation held on, but no one new was moving in.

We didn't know much about the changing demographics of the city, and I don't know that it would have altered anything in our minds. We saw our great-grandmother as a powerful being - a woman who was born in a one-room home in Poland, and earned her way to America by working for three years as an indentured servant. She made the trip across the Atlantic and through Ellis Island with only her brother. Her parents could only afford passage for four of her six siblings, so she and her brother waited it out in Poland for three years. Really.

Can you imagine what it must have been like to want a new start for your family... to want it so much that you were forced to leave some of your children behind in order to make that dream a reality? Can you imagine the sacrifice and the feelings of guilt? When we visited Rose's house, those stories continually danced through my mind. How would I have reacted to that decision? How would I have reacted to that decision at age twenty, let alone at age ten? It is just incredible.

Rose's story is just one of thousands, and those stories built Detroit.

Detroit is not a burned-out city to me. It is a proud city. It is a place that jump-started the lives of immigrants and gave them new hope.

One of the reasons for this post is to defend Detroit - but I know that there is only so much a twenty-seven year old girl from the southern suburbs can say without sounding like a hypocrite, so I'll share pictures and history instead. (The entire album can be viewed here.)

My dad planned out our afternoon beginning with a stop at St. Anne de Detroit Catholic Church.

St. Anne's was established by in 1701 by Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac, the founder of Detroit. It is a gorgeous gothic revival building.

After St. Anne's, we drove to a place I have always wanted to visit: Michigan Central Station. Closed in 1988, and now exhibiting nothing more than a shell of its former grandeur, the Station has been overrun by vandals, graffiti, and nature. As a child, my dad once sat in the main hall with his aunt, waiting for the train to take them on a weekend trip to Chicago.

There has been much talk of refurbishing the station, but until then, the station awaits its fate and is slowly overtaken by the elements.

Our next stop was old Tiger Stadium. In an era when parks weren't named by the highest bidder, Tiger Stadium was one of the first ballparks in the country.

The stadium is located in Corktown, the oldest surviving neighborhood in the city. The Most Holy Trinity Church is located just a few blocks from there:

We parked in Greektown and had lunch at Pizza Papalis.

Yes, I took a picture of my lunch. And it was delicious. And no, I did not finish it.

We walked for the remainder of the day, starting with the Wayne County Building. When my dad was first practicing as an attorney, he would often come to this building to argue cases and to file motions.

We walked through the front doors, hoping to peek inside, but the guard set us up on an unofficial tour instead! The style and craftsmanship of the building, both outside and in, is a testament to the city and a view into the past:

Lex means "law" in latin. Thanks, dad!

Next, we crossed Jefferson Avenue to see Mariner's Church. Directly adjacent to the Detroit River, sailors worshiped here before leaving for the waters of the Great Lakes. Mentioned in Gordon Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald," it is a small, humble church, but breathtaking at the same time.

Just down the road from Mariner's Church is Hart Plaza. Resembling a wingnut, Dodge Fountain is peculiar and striking. (I'm pretty sure that it lights up when spewing water around.) The Plaza was practically empty as workers prepared for the Red Bull Air Race the coming weekend.

The Fist of Joe Louis marks the entrance to Hart Plaza and the waterfront:

The Spirit of Detroit. In the past ten years, each time the Red Wings qualify for the Stanley Cup Playoffs, the statue dons a massive red and white jersey. This year? A bath was in order instead:

The Civil War Monument at Campus Martius:

Joe Louis Arena. Home to the DETROIT RED WINGS!

The Cathedral of the Most Blessed Sacrament and home of the Archdiocese of Detroit:

My great-great grandparents' grave at Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery. The graves bear predominantly Polish surnames, and in the case of my relatives, no English:

(Apparently there was a mistake - my great-great grandparents were not Kwakas, they were Kwokas. Aren't you glad to have learned that?)

It was an exhausting, but fascinating afternoon. My dad is a wealth of knowledge, and I can't imagine learning about Detroit from anyone else.

. . .

I know why people spurn Detroit. It's old and entire areas are crumbling, it has a crooked mayor, and it has a checkered past. But it's also Motown. It's Hockeytown. It's the City of Champions. It's where many Michiganders can trace their roots, and it boasts some of the finest cultural attractions in the country.

I've climbed the spiral staircase at the Detroit Institute of Arts, I've watched a fourteen-inning baseball game with my grandpa at Tiger Stadium, I've eaten saganaki at Pegasus, and I've done research at the Detroit Public Library.

I'm not ignorant to believe that crime is nonexistent in Detroit. I know better than to drive there alone, especially with my innate ability to get lost in nanoseconds. There are areas of Washington, DC, that I would have never visited during the day, and that's true of Detroit as well.

It's a big city, and big cities have problems. Once you can get past that, you should be able to enjoy Detroit for what it is: a gem.

It's okay if people are scared of this city. I'm not. I am, and forever will be, in awe of Detroit.