“Two people dead in Detroit shooting at funeral repast, police say”
—CBS News Detroit
by Ron Riekki
75 days since the last mass shooting in Michigan,
But that’s over with the warmth, having back-to-back
mass shootings on Feb 19 and Feb 27. One in Flint,
one in Detroit. I drive to the one in Detroit first,
the shooting happening at a “funeral repast,”
a phrase I’d never heard before, a gathering after
a funeral. Where two more would be killed.
On the drive there, I see a park and think to myself
how nice that they have a park here, until I realize
it’s not a park, but a cemetery, that seems to go on
and on and on, and on the same street a billboard of
RECOVERY IS HERE / HOPE IS HERE next to
a cannabis shop, a couple of liquor stores, one
with a wide OPEN sign, massive glowing white
sign, a vulgar-sized sign, as if the OPEN has more
than one meaning, as I think of stores being open
late at night when everything else seems closed
and mouths open to swallow alcohol that turns
into acetaldehyde, toxic, classified as carcinogenic,
Jekyll and Hyde, and hid to the side is a closed club,
sign saying Escape Lounge, a cell-like building,
reminiscent of incarceration, windowless from what
I can see, and I think of Escape, its meanings,
fantasy, and for real, the risks of escape, and there,
so near, is the spot of the mass shooting, two killed,
two injured, and so many of these mass shootings,
over and over, are in areas that feel apocalyptic,
post-apocalyptic, pre-apocalyptic, barren, not one
person walking by the entire time I was there, empty
streets, the rare car, and fence, always fence, so
much fence, barbed-wired fence, but with gaps,
where it’d be easy to squeeze through the fence,
by the Smile you are on candid camera warning
that warns no one, ghosts, the creepy feel, always
so creepy, how empty these areas are in the heart
of urban populations, the two-thirds of a million
people in Detroit, none here, not now, a full moon,
and, looking up, an American flag flapping on a pole,
a pole that looks like it may have been set on fire
once, long ago, and the flag, absolutely battered,
comically tattered, tragically tattered, flicking in
the wind, its large holes, a fuck-you flag, a forgotten
flag that seems to scream to tell a story, the full moon
behind it, an alarm somewhere going off, a parking
lot that feels the opposite of a lot, feels minimal,
and across the street a strange abandoned-looking
warehouse with a massive pile of metal-like boxes,
stacked, left, rusted, the feel that this is the sort of
place for a where-they-hide-the-body Sopranos
scene. I’m sick of visiting these mass shootings,
wonder why I’ve committed myself to visiting
every mass shooting in Michigan, searching, trying
to find out when, who, why, what, how, but all
that seems to emerge is where, the place sticking
in my mind, the constant poverty of these places,
reminding me of a therapy emotion wheel I saw
that lists the ‘feelings’ of being ignored and being
victimized as being rooted in the feeling of being
abandoned, which is all rooted in sadness, this
ignored + victimized = abandoned = sadness,
and these are ignored buildings, victimized
buildings, buildings of sadness, abandoned
buildings, except ‘building’ isn’t right. They
do not seem to be verbs, to be expressing action,
but instead express inaction. What’s the opposite
of a verb? And an alarm alarms always as
I stand there, constant alarm, somewhere, dis-
embodied, and it’s cold tonight, somewhere
in the mid-twenties, but these shootings happened
when it had warmed up, the 75 days without
a mass shooting due to the winter, no mass
shootings because there was no ‘mass.’
There were shootings here, nonstop, all
winter, but one person shot, two, three,
not ‘mass.’ Now, with the warmth, they’re
back. And I drive away, to see a Coney
Island restaurant selling Kentucky dogs
and catfish dinners, vomit in its parking
lot. A sign for CHILD CARE, another
sign for CHILD CARE, and it feels like
a wish, an instruct, a plea. I stop at a bar,
open, a man stepping outside to smoke.
I approach. By the time I get there, it’s
three men, smoking, chatting. I interrupt,
tell them about the mass shooting so near
here, ask how we end the violence, tell them
I’m noticing it’s a theme of young black men
killing young black men. These aren’t
young black men, but see themselves as
old black men, and they talk about young
black men, talking more than I’d have
guessed, opening up as if they’ve been
waiting to speak on this. The first man
says, “I’ll kill someone before they kill
me.” He leaves, goes inside the bar,
and another man replaces him. We four
stand in a diamond shape. Their names:
“Frank,” “Sam,” and “J.” J is a hip-hop
artist, has no album, insists he’s not
a rapper, but a “hip-hop artist.” It’s
open mic tonight. The language goes
fast, faster than I can scribble: “A lot
of black folks go through poverty.”
“My grandma had fourteen kids.”
“I blame women.” I interrupt, a bit
shocked at this, the first time this
has been said in the hundred people
or so I’ve interviewed so far at these
mass shooting sites. And he brings up
childhood sexual trauma. Again,
the first time this has been brought up
in the hundred or so interviews.
he talks about how this is happening
to young black boys. I tell him he’s
the first person brave enough to say
this. The man standing next to him
joins in, says, “I’m a victim of that.”
I say, “Childhood sexual trauma?”
He nods yes. And the language takes
over again, this investment in their
words: “I’m not going to blame it all
on the women.” “You need family.”
“Every person that’s a white person
has a family.” “Kids raising kids.”
They talk over each other, at the same
time, not disrespectfully, but this isn’t
an academic question posed to some
academics. I talked to two social
workers at U of M, asking the same
question, and their responses to me
felt textbook, crafted, safe, cliché,
emotionless. This isn’t that. They
talk bodily, about their bodies, arms
emphasizing, eye contact intense,
patting each other on the back, saying,
“Slavery fucked people up.” “They
tricked us, man.” “Get Trump out
of office.” “No, no, that was way
before Trump.” One tells us of his
Dad joining the Army, then becoming
a Detroit cop. He says, “I stay in
the hood; I stay in poverty.” “You
need the old wisdom.” “They don’t
have tough love, so they don’t have
respect.” “I’m a third-grade teacher.”
“The solution is putting that belt to
that ass.” “I done seen people get
shot.” The man to my left tells us
about his cousin being shot. Where?
Right here. Where exactly? He points,
says his cousin was shot in the head
right here, in this hallway, right here.
He points at the hallway we can see
through the door of the bar. Right
here, his cousin was shot in the head.
Where we’re standing. Right here.
The pace picks up. Adrenaline.
“Look at Emmett Till.” “It’s all
about history.” “I was in the Army
for sixteen years; I’ve seen a lotta shit.”
“We gotta get rid of these guns;
we gotta get rid of these drugs.”
“The government’s got to stop.”
“It’s the social media.” “I play
saxophone.” They smoke. They
care. They argue. They agree.
“You gotta stop the guns.” So
many of these interviews, no
one talks about guns. The discussion
is mass shootings and no one
talks about the guns. So many liberals
I talk to, they never talk about
the guns. I talk to liberals who
own guns, and I don’t understand
it. It’s like the NRA has tricked
them. “Always stick together.”
“Everybody is in control of their
life.” “This world is about dollars.”
What’s the root of the violence?
I ask them. “Jealousy,” comes
the answer. They talk about
poverty, about seeing wealth
on social media. They “want.”
It’s getting colder. Midnight
nearing. People pour inside.
A man comes out, tells J he’s
about to go onstage soon, very
soon, telling him to get ready.
He’s got his hood up, red.
He’s a poet. He’s about to
take stage. I want to go in,
but I forgot to take any money.
I can’t go in. I watch him
disappear into the hallway
where the man to my left
had his cousin get shot
in the head. Right here.
Where we're standing.
