from the desk of pat greene
I ’ ve Never Seen La Chinoise by Patrick Greene
My brother said , “ It looks depressing .” That was his fi rst impression of Detroit . The architecture was older and more industrial than anything we were used to . We arrived in February of 1967 , a few months before the riots . Many houses and other buildings burned to the ground . I was partially raised in turmoil , but I was shielded from anything real . I was informed mostly by hearsay , news clips , and the sound of distant gunfi re . July of 1967 was one of the bloodiest riots in a non-war region in American history . Forty-three people , mostly African-American , died during the few days of rioting of what has also become known as the 12th Street Riots , or sometimes the Algiers Motel incident . Over a thousand were injured . Hundreds were incarcerated . Unknown amounts left homeless , and / or disenfranchised . The genesis comes way before the vice squad raided a blind pig . A blind pig is a club that sells liquor illegally . The raid ignited the frustrations of unhealed wounds of the 1943 riot . fought for the American League pennant with three other teams all the way to the last few days of the season . The Boston Red Sox won . Detroit didn ’ t get a black player until 1958 . It was eleven years after Jackie Robinson broke the color line . The only team that took longer was the Boston Red Sox . Earl Wilson won 22 games for the Tigers that year . He was tied for the league lead with Boston ’ s Jim Lonborg . Wilson was the fi rst black pitcher for the Red Sox a few years back .
Baseball was still a bit foreign to me . I was in the fourth grade ; it was my fi rst year in Little
League . I played like a fresh immigrant who had never seen a baseball . I listened to every piece of advice given to me . Everyone seemed like an authority to me . My mind was nearly uncritical .
It was probably easier to compare my batting stance to an inanimate object rather than a real baseball player . I have this image of me looking as if I ’ m waiting for a signal from another place . Maybe my expression was comparable to Anne Wiazemsky ’ s in Jean-Luc Godard ’ s fi lm La Chinoise . It ’ s the fi lm where Godard put an earphone in Anne ’ s ear . He
Buildings Burning Out of Control , image courtesy of Declan Haun / Time & Life Pictures / Getty Images
My memories of walking home from the only all-white public school in Detroit are of hearing gunshots far away , or at least that ’ s what I was told they were . I was detached from the bullets . I heard the stories of people seeing others die . Most ( white ) adults would always change the subject or complain about the “ ingrate blacks .” I was told to fear the black man , by adults . He was the other . He was an exotic who was the product of the scatological mythologies of my nine-year-old mind . He was the Godzilla that ravages Tokyo , and now Detroit , but I didn ’ t know any black people . My father told me that what these people were saying about the black man was ignorant and dangerous . He said the blacks are people like you and me . They have mothers , fathers , brothers , sisters and people close to them . He said most people base their opinions about everything on fear . “ This country is happy to send the black man to Vietnam to get killed , and they are fi ghting for a country that they are not free in .”
I did have heroes who were African American . Willie Horton , the burly Detroit Tiger star , a hometown slugger who grew up near the blind pig , stood on top of a car attempting to speak to the masses during the riot . There was so much tension . His voice went unheard . It was 1967 , the year the Tigers
13 www . ARTBORNEMAGAZINE . com