Transcript
A (0:00)
You've made it on time for the McDonald's breakfast menu. You think to yourself, finally I can start my day. But what if breakfast could be even more perfect with the hot honey sausage egg biscuit? It finally is. Go to McDonald's and get it while you can.
B (0:15)
Hey there. Today's episode is hosted by the poet Samia Bashir. Enjoy and I'll be back on February 18th.
C (0:31)
I'm Sarah Abashir and this is the Slowdown. Recently, feeling fractured by competing deadlines, I found myself distractedly stuck in the loop of a particular cinematic moment. The rap battle between Eminem's character Bea Rabbit and Anthony Mackie's character Papa Doc, aka Clarence, in the 2002 hip hop biomythographical movie 8 Mile. Detroit is an uncredited star of 8 Mile. It's also one of my homes, my mother's home. I've been thinking of her lineage as I often am, but especially during Black History Month, infamously the shortest honorific of a month each year, it grew out of Negro History Week, created by Carter G. Woodson, one of my own ancestors, a cousin on the Woodson side of my family, her side. A thing that is often missed about Detroit, a so called chocolate city, if there ever was one, is that it is actually and historically one of the more notably and spectacularly diverse cities in the country. Long before and ever since the great migration north of African Americans, driven significantly by the auto industry's unusual for the time decision to recruit and hire black workers, Detroit was marked by deeply entrenched ethnic diversity. Irish, Jewish, Syrian, Greek, Anishinaabe, Ottawa, Ojibwe, Polish, Italian and German residents together built and expanded the city from its roots as a French trading post to one of the most powerful metropolitan areas in the country. Detroit was so powerful it bent time. Its clocks, which following the sun, should actually match its close by central time neighbor Chicago, were instead cemented into the Eastern time zone to sync with the demands of finance and industry. This is why, to me, B. Rabbit's rap battle victory is so pinnacle. Not just with regard to the commentary on class versus Race to which it's so often boiled down, but because Detroit itself has always pushed so firmly both into and against such simple binaries. Detroit is one of the few cities in the US from which one must cross a river heading south to reach Canada, and each mile marker street acknowledges its northward stretch from the national border of its city center. Today's poem is one of those that crushes me with its ending. It makes me grasp my chest, I bend at the waist, as if being punched or held tight and sure against a fall, our Detroit poet manages to whittle the grand and often devastating expansiveness of history right down to the explosive synapses which drive in a light our very gray matter. And in the end, these binaries which so often divide us if we are truthful, are far more gray than black and white. Historical Sight By Tommy Blount still, it's dark enough this morning that I can see the fireflies going off and on, recording what angles the old house's cameras cannot see. Something is watching me, so I keep my distance. When I strain my eyes to read the lit plaque to the left of the front door, my eyes are useless, vision not good enough to parse out what part of history is important enough to warrant bronze foundry. I overheard at Meyer one day that some part of this house was used to hide slaves until nightfall, when they'd follow the stars and south of here to Canada. As often with history, this house has been restaged. Not even the land it squats on is the original address, the house lifted from its foundation a mile down the road. Yet it makes for a lovely setting for white weddings, picnics, guided tours. I'm afraid of this big house when it is dark like this, when I am dark like this, not a slave, I can read and want to run my finger across the raised lettering, even though that would trigger some alarm, would flood the yard with white light, would signal the police to come, and the police would flood me with white light, so many stars spangling all over me, I'd be the constellation those runaways angled their necks up to, blinking and blinking. The Slowdown is a production of American Public Media in partnership with the Poetry Foundation. To get a poem delivered to you daily, go to slowdownshow.org and sign up for our newsletter and find us on Instagram @downdownshow and bluesky@downdownshow.org.
