Avalon Lesson
Detroit is a city where you get used to loss. When I came here in 1973 there were nearly 2 million people in the city. Now we have less than 650,000. We have been losing people for seven decades, tumbling from the 5th largest city in the country to number 27. We have the largest rate of tax foreclosures of any city anywhere, much of them illegal, so that 1 in 3 properties has experienced foreclosure. We have closed 200 schools in the last two decades. Nearly 1 in 6 homes have endured water shut offs, forcing many people out of the city. We have had the largest closure of catholic churches since the Reformation when 42 parishes were closed by the Archdiocese in 1988. We have seen factories and their jobs disappear, going from nearly 300,000 manufacturing jobs in 1960 to less than 30,000 today. As a result, nearly a third of the city is open land or holds abandoned structures.
These losses are combined with the deeply personal emptiness created by the violence that takes far too many people from us. In 2019, 18 children under 17 were killed in shootings and at least 65 were wounded. Police killings and unacceptable use of force shapes our lives.
As Angela Flournoy, the author of Turner House says, Detroit is a city of “used to be.” There used to be a school there, a church, a community center, a park, a laundry, a factory, a favorite diner. Memory tied to place, requires imagination here.
Perhaps that is part of how we have often been able to turn loss into something new. Vacant lots have become gardens, churches have become coffeehouses, work has become more self-determining, as people create art and music and methods of care for each other. Such efforts form the bedrock of Detroit’s grit and culture.
So, I was unprepared for my reaction to the closing of the Cass Corridor’s beloved Avalon Bakery. I went to the closing party last week. Over a hundred people gathered to tell stories, reconnect, and remember the bakery and the boldness it brought to the city. It was a warm, open-hearted gathering, reflecting the mix of people who could often be found in Avalon on any given day.
As I reached down to open the door on my way out, my throat tightened. I grabbed the latch and thought, “This is the last time I will touch this.” It is a door I have opened a thousand times since 1997. The catch is as familiar as my own house keys.
I helped paint the ceiling there while Ann Perrault put together the bake oven. I argued with the landlord to allow Ann and Jackie Victor to put in windows. I organized countless events from its tables and met hundreds of people for coffee and conversations.
One gift from Avalon is the understanding of how safety emerges from our relationships. In the early days of Detroit Summer, Avalon was the stopping place between the Cass Commons and Peterboro projects. Young people walked or biked to gardens, murals, and construction projects along the corridor. All along the way, the men of Avalon, Larry, J.R., and Thomas had organized street folks to look after the young people. These men, often overlooked as they asked for a dollar from customers, were a critical part of Detroit Summer. Because of them the youth were never far from someone making sure they were safe. Often these men would join us for community dinners, sometimes sharing Avalon bread that youth volunteers had learned to bake. Always checking on the bikes, sharing their knowledge of how to navigate the streets.
We have lost most of these men, too. But the lessons they offered, that our safety is in our own hands, is a gift that endures.