What race meant in Detroit in the 60’s
Growing Up in Detroit: A Personal Journey Through the 50s and 60s was a time of pain, learning and acceptence
Growing up in Detroit during the 1950s and 60s was like living in a city that was constantly on the brink of transformation. The Motor City was a place of vibrant culture and industry, I loved the singing and the diverse cultures where you could eat anything, listen to far away lands with a sparkle in your eye, dreaming. And, yet, beneath its bustling exciting surface lay deep-seated tensions that would eventually erupt in ways that would change the city forever.
Although we did not know it at the time we were living in a neighborhood on edge and our family lived just a couple of blocks from where the infamous Detroit race riot of 1967 began. My parents wanted to cross the racial barriers in a way that made sense, by moving there and learning, listening and being part of the neighborhood and as a child, I remember our neighborhood as a tapestry of diverse cultures and backgrounds. We were a community bound by shared experiences and struggles, yet divided by the invisible lines of race and opportunity.
The 50s and 60s were a time of great change in America, and Detroit was no exception. The city was a hub of the automotive industry, drawing people from all over the country in search of jobs and a better life. But as the factories thrived, so did the disparities between different communities. Economic opportunities were not equally distributed, and racial segregation was a harsh reality. Much like we have now.
The tensions rose as the civil rights movement gained momentum across the nation, the air in Detroit grew thick with a sense of urgency and unrest. I remember hearing the adults talk in hushed tones about the marches and protests happening in other parts of the country. There was a palpable sense of hope mixed with fear—hope for change, but fear of the unknown. People started to talk about the forced actions of those in charge and what the equal or greater reaction had to be.
The summer of 1967 was particularly hot, very hot, both in temperature and in temperament. The city was a powder keg, and it didn’t take much to ignite it. I was just a young person, not much more than 16, but I could feel the tension in the air. It was as if the whole city was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. And……
And then it did. The riot began on July 23, 1967, after a police raid on an unlicensed bar in the early hours of the morning. What started as a small confrontation quickly escalated into one of the deadliest and most destructive riots in U.S. history. I remember riding back from Palmer Park after playing baseball to the sound of sirens and the smell of smoke which blanketed the sky was a strange, ominous color, and the air was filled with a sense of chaos.
Our neighborhood was caught in the crossfire. The riot you see started a couple of blocks away from our house. I saw buildings that had stood for decades reduced to ashes. Families fled their homes, clutching whatever belongings they could carry. The streets, once filled with the laughter of children playing, were now battlegrounds.
The aftermath in the days that followed, was a city only a shell of its former self. The National Guard was called in, and a Marshall law was imposed. The riot lasted five or six days, leaving more than 43 people dead, hundreds injured, and thousands of buildings destroyed. The scars it left on the city were both physical and emotional.
I was walking down the street during the five days of curfew and up ahead I saw an older black woman sitting on the curb crying bitterly and as I walked up she looked up with her swollen face damp with tears and held out her hand. I sat down next to her and said “mother, what’s going on, how can I help?” Remember that I was young, vibrant and very very white, go with me here—I, being all of 6’4″sitting next to a little woman of of color maybe 5’4″ at best. What a surreal sight we must of been sitting together in the glow of her house burning down and no way to save it and leaning our heads together in common pain.
And as a young person , it was difficult to comprehend the full scope of what had happened. I saw the anger and frustration in the eyes of the adults around me. Many spoke of outside agitators who had come to the city to stir up trouble, but there was also a deep-seated weariness—a collective exhaustion from years of inequality and injustice.
In the years that followed, Detroit struggled to rebuild. The riot had laid bare the systemic issues that had plagued the city for decades. It was a long and difficult road, but there were glimmers of hope. Community leaders emerged, determined to heal the wounds and create a more equitable future. And today if you go to Detroit which I do from time to time I see grass growing up between the cracks greeting the sun to say, “it’s time, it’s time.
For me, growing up in Detroit during this tumultuous time was a formative experience. It taught me about the power of resilience and the importance of standing up for what is right. It showed me the strength of a community that, despite its differences, could come together in times of crisis.
Looking back, I realize that those years in Detroit shaped who I am today. They instilled in me a deep appreciation for diversity and a commitment to justice. The city has changed in many ways since then, but the lessons of the past remain as relevant as ever.
Detroit is a city with a complex history, but it is also a city of hope and possibility. As we continue to confront the challenges of today, I carry with me the memories of a time when the city was tested and emerged stronger for it. The journey is far from over, but I am hopeful for what lies ahead. A note about now…I saw all of what was going on to get us to the point where it exploded, I can say with a certainty that something like that will happen here. Do we really want that to happen?
