Since July when I last blogged, ten of us have come together
to create New Work Field Street Collective, in which we embody the principles
of New Work/New Culture/New Economy. We strive to produce as much as what we
need as possible under our own roof and eventually support ourselves and our communities through
self-sustaining cottage industries,
That’s the plan, right? What this means in actuality is that
in August, we moved into a huge, stunning turn-of-the-20th century
house without water, electricity, or heat, with peeling paint and crumbling
plaster. We have asbestos covered pipes, we have old lead paint, we have mold
in the basement. Everything that could have been stripped from the house had
been taken by plunderers during its vacancy: pipes, radiators, light fixtures and bulbs, wiring cut in
every room. Even the doorknobs were stolen.
Over the course of months, we finally have electricity,
running water, one working toilet, and a kitchen sink. Friends and friends of
friends have donated a refrigerator (never mind that the door doesn’t quite
seal), a stove (even though only one burner ignites, we can light 2 of the
remaining 3 with a match), and we have raised money for a boiler and radiators
to be installed soon.
In practically any other city, what I am doing would be considered
outrageous. Exposed asbestos, lead paint, carrying buckets of water from the
neighbor’s spigot, huddling by the space heater for warmth. But in Detroit, I
have tons of company. Practically everyone I know has lived like this, if
they’re not still. Some folks have chosen to live without central heat or
running water. Some have absolutely no choice. I get no pity here, it’s just
not that big a deal.
I have been in survival mode since August, and I have
limited energy for yoga practice, Korean language study, blogging, songwriting,
meditation, or any of my other self-sustaining practices. As long as I had to
make appointments for bowel movements, showers, and internet, depending on the
generosity of my neighbors, I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I
understand just a bit more what the experience of the marginalized in our
society must be. At the same time I recognize that the way I am living is
similar to how humans have lived for millenia, and still how much of the world
lives now,
No matter. I still have wild greens growing in the alley for
smoothies. We’ve discovered a slew of untended apple trees in our neighborhood,
and one glorious Bartlett pear tree. We wake to the smell of apple crisp, and
use the dehydrator as a heat source as it dries apple chips. We have several
musicians in the house and more in the neighborhood, a living room full of
musical instruments, and spontaneous drumming and jamming circles on any given
day. We have poets and emcees and visual artists and chefs. We have former gang
members and Black Panthers-cum-community organizers, connecting folks and
groups. We have gallons of home-brewed kombucha: since our main oven doesn’t
work, we use its pilot light for fermentation. We have beautful hand-craftedleather belts, soft reusable cloth menstrual pads, and our first Field Street Quilt. We have food for months, including dozens of quarts of jams, apple
sauce, tomatoes, and much more.
Last night was a breakthrough: I took my first hot bath in
my own house. Not because we have hot water and a tub! That would be so 20th
century. No, it happened because I scrounged up a round plastic basin I found
covered with basement grime, cleaned it up, and boiled up a kettle of water.
Thanks to my years of yoga and supple hip flexors, I was able to squeeze
myself, knees to chest, into the steaming water for the best bath ever in my
entire life. Upstairs, Crystal, recovering from a death-defying car accident,
lay in bed strumming ukulele. In the living room, Ty improvised on his
accordion. Listening to strains of Beirut, “Let it Be” and “Here Comes the
Sun,” as I scrubbed the callouses off my feet, it was once again, pure magic in
the New Work House.
