“Siri,” I asked my phone when I pulled up to a red light. “Have you read Ms. Beatty’s story already? These song choices just seem too coincidental.”
This isn’t the 1967 riots. There’s no smoke or soot billowing into the air, but Detroit is still being looted by desperate people.
It’s the kind of place where you brag about hosting a block party in which no one was assaulted.
“I been stabbed,” he said, lifting his shirt to reveal a large patch of blood-spotted gauze across his stomach.
It was getting dark as we met on a hardscrabble street in Detroit, just a few houses from a suspected drug den.
The motley crew of animals my family and I have adopted knew and know nothing but love, security, and joy.
One business owner said, “We’re talking about a real loser.”
An uneasy feeling settled over a small crowd. They knew the fight wasn’t over.
Hopes of reviving the building vanished with the death of legendary boxing trainer Emanuel Steward.
Up for bid: Beautiful colonial homes, abandoned factories, gas stations, churches, a hospital, countless boarded-up bungalows and ornate apartment buildings.