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Issue 143 • Detroit • June 2015

CONTRIBUTORS07 EDITOR’S LETTER09 WAY PAST TAGGIN’10

Graffiti artists fight over territory

ON BELLE ISLE16

A gruesome discovery in a decaying city

DETROIT SOUP21

Community through dialogue

THE LIMBO DISTRICT22

Detroit—past, present and future

AMY SACKA39 LITRO Q&A

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Contributors Litro Magazine • Issue 143 • Detroit • June 2015

Amy Sacka Dorene O’Brien Amy Sacka is a street photographer whose work explores the evolving cultural landscape of Detroit.

Her work has been featured in The Guardian, Detroit News, Detroit Free Press, PBS World News Hour, and most recently in the National Geographic book, “Getting Your Shot: Stunning Photos, How-to Tips and Endless Inspiration from the Pros.”

Dorene O’Brien is a fiction writer from Detroit who has won the Red Rock Review Mark Twain Award for Short Fiction, the New Millennium Fiction Award and the Wind Fiction Prize. Her stories have appeared in the Connecticut Review, Madison Review, the Chicago Tribune, the Montreal Review, Cimarron Review, Detroit Noir and others. Voices of the Lost and Found, her first full-length short fiction collection, won the USA Best Books Award in Fiction.

Visit her at: www.doreneobrien.com.

Amy Kaherl

Patricia Abbott Patricia Abbott’s stories have appeared in more than 100 print and online journals. She is the author of two ebooks: Monkey Justice and Home Invasion.

Two print books are forthcoming from Polis Books: Concrete Angel and Shot in Detroit. She lives six blocks from Detroit.

Amy Kaherl is the Director of Detroit SOUP. She received her MA in Theology (emphasizing in popular culture) in 2008 from Fuller Theological Seminary.

Detroit SOUP is a microgranting dinner that celebrates creative projects in the city and has helped Detroiters giving back to Detroiters through over $30,000 towards art, social justice, social entrepreneurs, education, technology, and urban agriculture.

While not running SOUP, Amy is also involved in planning the Naine Rouge Parade in Midtown and serves as DJ Amy Dreamcatcher with a monthly party called “Nothing Elegant.”

Kathe Koja Kathe Koja is a writer—her 16th novel, The Bastard’s Paradise, will be published in Fall ‘15—and the founder and director of nerve, an immersive performance ensemble. Her books have been multiply translated and optioned for film.

EDITORIAL Dear Reader,

Out of the 125 car manufacturing companies born out of Detroit in the early 20th Century, Ford lead the pack of the back with the Model T, a car manufactured on what was the time a revolutionary production line—that boasted a 90,000 plus strong labour force—made up of predominantly skilled immigrant artisans from the shipyards of Scotland, England as well as Mexico, Lebanon and AfricanAmericans from the city’s then growing population of southern migrants.

In 2005, two French photographers Yves Marchand and Romain Meffrel, put Detroit back on the global map for all the wrong reasons—with their book The Ruins of Detroit, a collection of photographs taken during the pairs seven week-long visit to Detroit between 2005 and 2009, the book provided a testimony of the dramatic destructive cost of American Capitalism.

Yves Marchand and Romain Meffrel, photographs captured the derelict remains of once great City-grand baroque theatres, hotels, ballrooms—venues which showcased the some of the greats- Duke Ellington in the 1930s; to the Eastown theatre, a place where home grown rock groups like Iggy and the Stoges, homed their craft before conquering the worlds music stages. The photographs also captured derelict remains of the city’s civic infrastructure: churches, schools, police stations, courthouses all abandoned by its fleeing work force.

An exodus so extreme, that today the city’s residents total 700,000 from a population of an estimated 1.9 million in 1950.

Detroit’s downfall is multifaceted lead by the collapse of the American Motor Industry a downfall starting in the 1950’s—reaching a crisis point in the 1960’s and 1970’s, due mainly to a burgeoning domestic market’s demands for cheaper foreign imports and the global rise in oil prices—to the poor management of underlying racial tensions in Detroit—culminating in some of the largest racial riots—scene in America. By the climax of the American Motor industries downfall—Detroit is now America’s most racially polarized city—a result of a hostilities between the city’s white and AfricanAmerican working population, which had been masked during the City’s prosperity.

The city was not equipped to handle the pool of African Americans brought to man the many production lines. In 1940, Ford Motors was one of the largest employers of African Americans in the United States. This shift in Detroit’s demographic is scene by many scholars as the spark for the many racial tensions that would blow up into one of the bloodiest riots in America’s history. As a result of the city’s racial polarization in the 1940’s 200,000 African-American residents were cramped into some 60 square blocks on the East Side, mostly living under poor sanitary conditions. Ironically, this ghetto was called paradise Valley.

To understand how Detroit has become the symbol of the American urban crisis an understanding of its history is needed, I won’t claim to fully cover this here, and writers such as Thomas J Sugrue, in The Origins of the Urban Crisis: Race and Inequality in postwar Detroit is a good starting point for a more in-depth historical coverage.

Detroit the Motor City, in the 20th Century was the capital of America’s most important industry—car manufacturing—the city was a global beacon of modernity and the symbol of American power, capitalism and the labour force that built it. “You can see here, as it is impossible to do in a more varied and complex city, the whole structure of an industrial society.”

Wrote essayist Edmund Wilson, reporting on his visit to Detroit in the 1930s.

The summer of 1943, would see race riots across America, riots had already erupted

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Litro Magazine • Issue 143 • Detroit • June 2015 in Los Angeles, including Mobile, Alabama, and Beaumont Texas. Detroit’s own riots would begin in a amusement park known as Belle Isle, Starting with several incidents during the evening of June 20th, 1943—from multiple fights fights amongst teenagers of both races— to a fight erupting at the bridge which lead back to the mainland—between some 200 African Americans and white sailors—soon a crowd of 5,000 white residents gathered at the mainland entrance to the bridge ready to attack black vacationers wishing to cross.

By midnight, an understaffed police force attempted to manage the situation, but the rioting had already spread too far into the city.

bankruptcy in American history. But the road to full recovery will be long. Once a great American metropolis, Detroit is still struggling with a costly pension system, continuing emptying of neighbourhoods, crime, insufficient city services and immense blight.

There is hope for this once great city to rise again and rebuild itself. Within these pages, fiction comes from; Dorene O’Brien in her story Way Past Taggin’, which takes us inside the sub-culture of Detroit’s graffiti artists, as a promising artist is sucked into a petty territorial dispute, with a fatal outcome. Following that, Patricia Abbott’s On Belle Isle. A budding photographer, obsessed with photographing images of dead corpses, gets her wish after a chance encounter with an artist, resulting in a gruesome invitation for her to photograph a corpse recently washed to shore.

The then Mayor, Mayor Edward J. Jeffries, having waited until late evening to ask for help from federal troops to quell the fighting— it took the arrival of some 6,000 federal troops to result in a truce between the city’s warring factions. Under armed occupation, Detroit came to a virtual standstill—streets were deserted, schools closed and Governor Harry Francis Kelly had closed all places of public amusement.

Amy Kaherl, one of the founding members of Detroit Soup. Writes about her Detroit and the work being carried out by the charity. Amy is one of the many young entrepreneurs in Detroit providing engaging platforms for Detroit locals to help re-build itself. We feature a Q&A with Detroit photographer, Amy Sacka, and find out about her projects “Lost and Found in Detroit”. A photo series that began as a 365 day photo essay, where she literally took a photo a day…a story that after reaching its 365th day is now extended to “The next 500 days”, having moved to Detroit from Seattle and now a Detroit homeowner. We feel this may run for a while yet.

The riots saw Twenty-five black residents and nine white residents killed. The number injured, counting the police, approached 700 while the cost to damaged property amounted to some $2 million. The German controlled Vichy radio broadcasted that the riots revealed “the internal disorganization of a weak nation, torn by social injustice, regional disputes, the violence of an irritated proletariat, and gangstersim of a capitalistic police” echoing some of what Edward Wilson had spoke of in the 1930’s, he described capitalism as “a precarious economic system the condition for whose success is that [its members] must profit by swindling their customers and cutting one another’s throats”.

We end with Bram Stoker Award and Locus Award winner Kathe Koja, who considers Detroit’s new status as a city in limbo; The Limbo District highlights what this might mean for its inhabitants. Despite the abandonment and decay, The Limbo District ends appropriately on a note of hope.

Detroit formally emerged from bankruptcy in December of 2014 after about 18 months, bringing to a close the largest municipal

Eric Akoto, EDITOR June 2015

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WAY PAST TAGGIN’ Graffiti artists fight over territory

by Dorene O’Brien

I

ain’t no toy, not no more. I been writin’ since I could tip a brush and a spray can, and now I can tag, piece and get up better than Smak and Daze, and they call themselves the kings of Krylon, rulin’ the buildings and billboards from midnight ‘til mornin’? But I don’t do what they do, fat cappin’ their gang tags so everyone can see, bubble letters in gold and red across freeway overhangs and laid up train cars. I used to do throw ups, tag Doom in huge black around white letters on garage doors, telephone poles, the urinals at Coney Island. Hell, anywhere I could reach. But that ain’t art, that’s just writin’ your name like you learnt in kinner-garten. Listen, taggin’s alright, especially for toys, but it’s wac if you ain’t got much else after five years.

Smak and Daze, they ain’t got much else, and that’s why they want me in the Bloodhounds.

They say I got to get hooked up, that it ain’t good writin’ alone with the city puttin’ cameras all up in here, that they won’t bother with the face cuttin’ but I gotta wear the cap with the BH on the side. I wanna ask who did that, like did their grandmas stay up late watchin’ TV and sewin’ these bloody letters with red thread and not askin’ what it all means. What it means is Smak and Daze know I’m good and they wanna keep me close ‘cause the best writers get respect and they ain’t the best writers no more with their loose taggin’ and their sloppy taggin’ and their ain’t got no play taggin’. What I know is I’m way past taggin’ and they ain’t got nothin’ on me. I got my own style. I got my own beefs. I got eyes in the back a my fuckin’ head.

I never told no one I went to the local art school for a year as the poor, hungry black kid after my grandma showed ‘em my stuff, that everything I learnt there fell right through my head.

I just stared at the old white dude who taught colour and light, watched him match up colours on a wheel, watched him shade boxes and circles to make ‘em jump off the page, watched him do shit I’d been doin’ on the side of Bank One and Compuware for three years.

The jewellery lady was nice with her frizzy hair and her hippie clothes and her small hands.

She used to touch everybody like she meant it ‘cause she did. She’d thread glass beads onto wires with those tiny fingers, starin’ ‘til her eyes were crossed, forgettin’ about everything but the bead and the wire. I thought bad shit then, like I could crack her in the skull and steal her purse and she wouldn’t be able to figure it out ‘cause her life right then was the bead and the wire, but I never did ‘cause I saw that she was just like me when I was piecin’: my life was the paint and the wall and the need to get them together. My life still is the paint and the wall and the need to get them together, and that’s why Smak and Daze want me in their crew: I’m good ‘cause I feed off the hiss of the nozzle, the rattle of the can, the masterpiece that keeps me goin’ ‘til I can do it all over again.

But they had no room for what I did in school, no wild style, no piecin’. I couldn’t do with an airbrush what I did with the can so the teachers kept me down, kept sayin’ I had to do June 2015

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ON BELLE ISLE A gruesome discovery in a decaying city

by Patricia Abbott

I

had a history with the Yacht Club. My mother waitressed there in the Eighties and I sometimes made myself useful by folding napkins into swans, placing floral arrangements as big as my head on tables, setting their signature glassware on the bar. Once the evening began, I’d find a corner to sketch the women in their ball gowns, furs, and brilliant jewels, the men in tuxedoes with their shoes shined to a patina, musicians setting up on the dance floor, silver platters filled with food I couldn’t name. That sort of night was less common now, but Detroiters had grown adept at slipping on blinders along with formal attire.

The boat slips were empty today, but light traffic circled Belle Isle. The arboretum had reopened, and cars were parked outside the Casino, a venue where seniors played cards, sold discards and crafts, chatted over sack lunches. Parking in the almost empty lot by the DYC, I waved at the porter, Stan Horsham, who knew what I was up to: Checking things out before an event was essential. Sometimes furniture critical to an event got moved around; last year’s bare windows could now be covered in heavy drapes. More than once I found a name spelled wrong on a wedding cake or a bar set up for a Baptist wedding. Shooting an event in aging buildings presented certain problems: how to avoid photographing rusting pipes, spackled plaster, and cracking linoleum. Such was Detroit.

“Doing the Janda party, Vi?” Stan asked, drawing closer. The workforce was minimal weekdays, but Stan was always around in his stiff uniform, his hair slicked back, his hand cupping an ear.

“Karolin’s marrying a state senator. Mrs. Janda’s become my constant companion.” I waved my phone.

“The kitchen brought a guy in from Hamtramck to oversee it.” Stan made a clucking sound.

“Like any Detroit chef doesn’t know how to turn out pierogis and sernik.”

After making a few notes—and yes they’d recovered the valances—I took off. On impulse, I decided to circle the island before heading home. I still had dreams of leaving bar mitzvahs and weddings behind, of photographing the places or people that made up this city. Detroit had the media’s attention for almost flaunting its decay. It was hard to avoid seeing denuded landscapes, windowless buildings, pot-holed streets as potential art.

I stopped near a wooded area. Violent crimes on Belle Isle were few—the island had its own police station—and today it was nearly deserted. Trash and overgrown shrubbery increased as I moved further from the road. I’d slipped a new battery and memory card into the camera in case a subject caught my eye. I didn’t mind using digital for certain kinds of work.

I stopped abruptly, my sneakers protesting in the wet grass. A grey, bulky object lay not thirty yards away. I approached it cautiously, convinced I’d found a body. My stomach pitched with fear and excitement as I inched along. Such a find deserved more than a digital, though I certainly couldn’t have set up the Deardorff out here. Why was I thinking about art when I should be dialling the cops?

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DETROIT SOUP Community through dialogue.

by Amy Kaherl

I

promise this piece will not shock you, leave you breathless, or feel like I have found the solution to poverty, or racism, or sexism. I feel like everyday I open my computer to one more story that is supposed to shock me into compassion. I hope I am never shocked by acts of thoughtfulness, but hope to encounter them everyday. I happen to run a project called Detroit SOUP which helps empowers solutions to our problems. Daily I am left to feel inspired and empowered.

I live in a city where everyone seems to have an opinion about how it needs to change.

I live in Detroit; a place where words like ‘blank canvas’, ‘needs saving’’, ‘ rehabilitation’, and ‘apocolyptic’ are all words used to describe this place where I call home. It is a broken place, a history of mismanagement, racism, job loss, and education decline has defined the narrative of the people in this place for the last 50 years. It’s the story of what happens when the American dream isn’t for all of us.

I moved into the city in 2010. My mother had just passed away from a cancer battle that had lasted 14 years, I had just completed a Masters degree in Theology and pop culture, and the housing market crash had just taken the down turn and felt locked into staying in Southeast Michigan. I grew up just a mere eighteen miles away from the city center and grew up only venturing into its bowels for concerts, sporting events, or a fancy meal.

Returning, I knew I had walked into a tipping point of the city. Residents were fed up with bad press coverage and wanted the story to change. People were excited to do work. Whatever the work was to change the dialogue and the narrative. There was an energy to the people to try to do anything to fill the gaps for city services, so community projects, art, or anything really outside of basic services was outside of the cities abilities to help and create. I stumbled into a group of women artists who were asking questions of belonging and being. Here I found a home of people who wanted to ask questions while exploring through an artistic practice of gathering together to explore community arts funding through conversation and democracy.

SOUP was born in 2010 from that same group of women artists and is a microgranting dinner celebrating and supporting creative projects in Detroit. For a donation of $5 attendees receive a potluck style meal and a vote. The diners hear from four presentations ranging from art, urban agriculture, social justice, social entrepreneurs, education, technology and more. Each presenter has four minutes to share their idea and answer four questions from the diners.

At the event, attendees eat, talk, share resources, enjoy art and vote on the project they think benefits the city the most. At the end of the night, we count the ballots and the winner goes home with all of the money raised to carry out their project. Winners come back to a future SOUP dinner to report their project’s progress.

I think deep down every community ‘wants’ to see poverty eradicated, but how we go about doing this is difficult, uncomfortable, data heavy, and people are not the center. The utopian, and yet, possible dream of all humans living and working together peacefully is alive and June 2015

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THE LIMBO DISTRICT Detroit—past, present and future

by Kathe Koja Located on the map between reality and conjecture, ambition and waste, this dreamscape, landscape of loss and continual becoming: the limbo district, Detroit. Where Lazarus might live, if he had a mind to.

How the city got to this point in its history (founded 1701, refounded as you read and I write) is as exhaustively documented as a war, or an especially harsh divorce, with competing theories abraded by ongoing facts. The details that interest me, as a writer (and a native: I was founded here, too), are less municipal than emotional, less industrial than—call it spiritual.

Limbo is limbus, the Christian region of souls for whom heaven is still a goal; limbo is the passageway, the place between worlds. Detroit is a place, now, very much between worlds, and as I watch its daily growth, I feel not exhilarated so much as wary.

The ironic grit of Berlin, the unplanned green of Eden, the zen of having one’s wounds exposed, multiple wounds…Detroit owns all these things. There’s stealthy, tender beauty here: what survives a decades-long onslaught—citizens, architecture, genius loci—is fragile, yet frighteningly tough. You can cut yourself on rusted metal, right down to the bone.

And there’s space here, too. Not merely in the sense of real estate, or potential for “development” (hello, Newspeak), but mental space—in limbo, you see farther, further, when what remains is so permeable to the view. This manner of seeing can make one feel stranded, or lost; or disoriented, threatened. Or empowered, ambitious: it might suggest that we clear away all that detritus and put something else in its place, something new. Paint it blue! Bright, forward-looking, indelible blue. Having endured those Lazarus lessons of defeat, that blue paint might look very desirable, it might seem to resemble salvation: We’re not going to go through all that shit again!

No. But. If we can sit in this space—like Lazarus, just stepped from the tomb; it must have been quiet in that tomb, no doubt he got a lot of thinking done—sit and see the neighbourhood blocks gone prairie, breathe in the ancient smell of the river, watch the new things edging up or blooming or jostling the venerable and the gone—if we can sit to examine these ugly, beautiful remains, we may conclude that much of what died here should stay dead. What lives here, in lacework decay, in rude and stubborn glory, may be what has anchored those who stay, and drawn those who have come here to live; may be what a city can be, needs to be, had better be in this swift and ominous new century already upon us. If we’re going to terraform, let’s not copy the ethos of the cancer cell, let’s not commercially metastasize and call it success. Ruin can be a gift, a hard lens to show what happens when we get things wrong. And if you already know what it’s like to be dead, oh, don’t squander that knowledge.

Limbo is transit; Limbo is Lazarus, slowly lacing his shoes. Limbo is sunlight and dust and the billion motes that swarm between, every mote an idea or a spreadsheet or a dream. In this limbo district of Detroit, so many things can happen; what will happen is whatever we choose.

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LITRO Q&A with Detroit photographer

Amy Sacka

Q1inYouadvertising used to be a writer with Getty

Images, what experience made you transition into photography?

Q2Can you remember your first image you shot?

I don’t remember the first image I shot, but I clearly remember the shot that changed me.

It was on the trip I just mentioned to India.

There were children playing by the water and they ran up to me, eager to interact with me. “Do you see me?” I remember feeling that question emanate from them.

Ironically, that’s when I think photography saw me. It saw potential in me, not just to take a decent picture, but the potential to feel more fully and experience people more deeply by taking photos. It saw the best of what I, as a person, could offer.

I’ve always been attracted to imagery. Working at Getty honed my taste and my experience.

I remember writing about Spencer Platt’s World Press Photo of the Year in 2006. At that point, I began to understand the power of the stories a photographer can tell with imagery.

When I started taking photos of people, a few years later on a trip to India, I began to feel that maybe I, too, could connect to the stories of people through my camera. That trip ignited something in me—the images communicated something that I could never manage with my words. A possibility. And I followed it.

Q3Your initial project had

you taking a photograph a day for a year in the city of Detroit, what was the inspiration?

The inspiration was curiosity. So many of us who grew up in the suburbs call Detroit home, but we have no idea what the city is about. We also watched it crumble, myself included, and we stood by and shook our heads. This disturbed me. I wanted to explore the “why?” the “what happened?” and “what was my role in this?”

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1–27 June 2015

Join the Kingston Writing School and the British Council at our third annual International Creative Writing Summer School, this year in Athens and Thessaloniki. www.britishcouncil.gr/events/international-creative-writing-summer-school-2015 www.kingston.ac.uk/writing/

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SC H AV O FU AI LA LL LA R S BL HI E PS

Master’s in Philosophy AND ITS USES TODAY PROFESSOR ROGER SCRUTON FBA

October 2015 – September 2016 A one-year, London-based programme of ten evening seminars and individual research led by Professor Roger Scruton, offering examples of contemporary thinking about the perennial questions, and including lectures by internationally acclaimed philosophers.

Seminar-speakers for 2015/16 include: • Roger Scruton • Sebastian Gardner • Simon Blackburn • Raymond Tallis Each seminar takes place in central London and is followed by a dinner during which participants can engage in discussion with the speaker.

The topics to be considered include consciousness, emotion, justice, art, God,

love and the environment. Examination will be by a research dissertation on an approved philosophical topic chosen by the student, of around 20,000 words. Guidance and personal supervision will be provided.

Others who wish to attend the seminars and dinners without undertaking an MA dissertation can join the Programme at a reduced fee as Associate Students.

Course enquiries and applications: Ms Claire Prendergast T: 01280 820204 E: claire.prendergast@buckingham.ac.uk

THE UNIVERSITY OF

BUCKINGHAM

LONDON PROGRAMMES

May2015 2015 June

Litro Magazine Litro The University of Buckingham is ranked in Magazine the élite top sixteen of the 120 British Universities: 5 43 The Guardian Universities League Table 2012-13