The Pilgrimage

Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit
He took the midnight train going anywhere
--"Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey

Six years ago I was that Journey-song protagonist. In my case, "anywhere" is taken as College Park, and it was my car, The Blue Biscuit, rather than the midnight train (although The Midnight Train would be a good car name). Anyway, last week I journeyed back to the Motherland, south of Detroit, still believein'.

But like most homecomings, I never really got there. (Of course literally I did—and on time, despite a Northwest airline strike.) Every year, home seems more foreign.

It started with the refrigerator. My first Christmas back home after grad school (I lived at home during college), I went for a cold drink but was distracted by the strange heft of the refridgerator door. "Did we get a new refridgerator?" I asked. We hadn't. The aphorism needs some work, but isn't home where your motions are automatic? I closed the door and then opened it again, forgetting what I was looking for. "Are you looking for a pop?" my dad asked. Again it felt strange to hear pop, not soda, which I was already used to. I could readjust to these minor changes though, like going back to your BMX bike after riding a 10-speed.

But with time the 10-speed turns to a car and then a plane. Sometimes you find this happening while literally on a plane. A year or so later I flew to a conference in Texas and returned home—but not to Detroit, to Washington, DC. And it felt like home. Detroit was fading from my life. I could see it—or rather not see it—right there on my return ticket.

Several years after leaving home I quite suddenly noticed a Michigan accent. I always thought the Midwest was neutral—indeed the model American accent is a Midwestern newscaster—but now in Michigan I hear nasal vowels shifted towards 'a', overly stressed consonants, clipped endings of words, and the occasional 'Ohh yah'. It is somewhat subtle—my girlfriend Heather, who's come with me on two Michigan trips now, only notices when I point it out with an impression—which often sounds exaggerated, like a mix between Fargo and the Saturday Night Live 'Da Bears' skit. So I wonder: How do I sound to people in Michigan? I've asked, but no one (aside from a Canadian acquaintance) has said I sound Southern or otherwise different. The Michigan accent seems to vary from person to person—maybe my new accent is within the variation. There is, however, at least one Michigan regionalism I haven't lost: using the past tense for the past participle of some irregular verbs, for example "should've went" instead of "should've gone." I often catch myself, but sometimes the past tense slips.

Something else past is starting to slip too: my memories. I forget directions to what used to be familiar places (though they come back fast). I forget how much open space (as opposed to trees) there is too, and how run down things look. My parents live in the suburbs south of Detroit, in an area called Downriver. The name sounds like a euphemism, and unfortuneately it's apt. There are a lot of dilapitated buildings; many are vacant. Considering its proximity to Detroit, it's not surprising there are a lot of auto-related businesses: collision auto shops, auto junk shops, used car lots, oil change garages, brake and muffler shops, transmission repair shops. Since Detroit is the Motor City, Downriver might be called Used-Transmission Township, or maybe Old-Camshaft County.

I also forgot about the proliferation of bars. This may be an aspect where Downriver was ahead of the times: before the police started caring about drinking and driving in the late 70s, Downriver had already solved the problem. Most people have a bar (or two) within walking (or even crawling) distance. The bars may not be the most attractive establishments, but most do have one or more karoake nights a week! Also, Bingo seems to be more popular than I remember, though maybe that's because I've always been younger than their target demographic.

I'm not selling my hometown very well; there's good stuff too. Indeed Great stuff! The Great Lakes are everything you ever wanted in an ocean, without the hurricanes (a benefit this week's tragic events in the Gulf only underline). But I should stop, because you're never a reliable source about your hometown. Of Detroit, as of my own self, I'm probably both more fond and more critical.

So maybe you should just go and see for yourself. That is, if you haven't already went.