When you cross into the bubble, it makes life seem so boring, and yet it offers a blanket of fearlessness for what is ahead.
But as you exit, you get a wild rush that tells you there’s nothing written in stone, that your life is in the hands of Detroit, and the sex, drugs, and rock n roll that come with it. This is the border between Grosse Pointe and Detroit, a barrier feared and loved.
Growing up in Grosse Pointe is like growing up on a farm- there is nothing to fear. Odds are you’ll never see a murder or be raped. But I didn’t grow up in Grosse Pointe. I grew up in the beast to the south, Detroit. I was born in San Diego, and I was 14 when we moved into Grosse Pointe. It was so boring, I often rode my bike into Detroit, buying and selling drugs. It wasn’t till one day that I knew my life was always in peril…
I had left the house with my mom thinking I was going to a concert all night. I had other plans, though. I rode towards the city, drugs filling my coat pockets. Children played by the road, and even in the road. I pulled up to my spot and dropped my bike. I went up to the door and knocked briskly, my hands almost denting the old, rotten wood. He came to the door wearing a fur coat and silk pants. His chest was visible in the center, and his greased muscles rippled beneath his dark skin. A TV blared in the background, and you could faintly hear a baby crying somewhere in the old, run down house.
“What you doin’ so late?!” he joked, his smile pearly white. Even though he was clean, I still felt dirty when I saw him.
“Nothing, but you called earlier?” I replied, already knowing what he would say next.
“Yeah, come in.”
As I stepped into the house, the smell of crack and pot engulfed me. Needles were strewn about, as well as clothing, a few guns, and an old phone painted black that was duct taped to the wall.
He walked up to me and handed me six crisp hundred dollar bills. I reached into my pocket and pulled out an ounce of black tar heroin. He took it from me and motioned for me to sit down. He began to open the bag when a child, no more than seven years old, walked into the room. He went over to my customer, and I thought he would be welcomed by open arms. Instead, the man hit him, hard, in the face. I couldn’t believe it. But it wasn’t over. The little boy was screaming, scared to death of his father. The man then picked up a gun. I got up and managed to tell him I had to get going, but he forced me back down. I was terrified. He pointed the gun at the boy and told him to turn around. I tried leaving again, but he wouldn’t let me.
“No, dad,” the boy said, but to no avail…
I rode home as fast as I could and called the police. But it still haunted me, and does to this day.
Are drugs more valueble than your own children? This taught me forever that the value of a child’s life is so much more than anyone could imagine…