“One can read Teardown and go ‘My, my, my! What a horrid town! Thank God I don’t live there!’ Oh, but you do. Just as the Roger & Me Flint of the 1980s was the precursor to a wave of downsizing that eventually hit every American community, Gordon Young’s Flint of 2013, so profoundly depicted in this book, is your latest warning of what’s in store for you–all of you, no matter where you live–in the next decade. The only difference between your town and Flint is that the Grim Reaper just likes to visit us first. It’s all here in Teardown, a brilliant chronicle of the Mad Maxization of a once-great American city.”–Michael Moore

“There must be a thousand good reasons to flee Flint. I can’t assume there are many reasons to return. Gordon Young’s Teardown supplies a few of these answers. A humorous, heartfelt and often haunting tale of a town not many could love. Fortunately for us, a few still do.”–Ben Hamper, author of Rivethead: Tales from the Assembly Line

“Teardown is the tragic and somehow hilarious tale of one man’s attempt to return to his hometown. Gordon Young is a Flintoid at heart and his candid observations about both the shrinking city and his own economic woes read heartbreakingly true.”–Novella Carpenter, author of Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer

“Teardown is a funny and ultimately heartbreaking memoir. The travails of house hunting are skillfully interwoven with Young’s attempt to reconcile life in his adopted city of San Francisco with his allegiance to Flint, the troubled city of his childhood. The result is an all too contemporary American story of loyalty, loss and finding your way home.”–Tom Pohrt, illustrator and author of Careless Rambles by John Clare

“Like so many other Flintites, I visit my hometown with a mix of sadness, repugnance and anger. Yet the man I have become, the life I lead, and the dreams I carry were all born in Flint, and Flint remains in my heart. We only knew it as home–as a place to learn, love and live. Flint is too easy to criticize, but I look back in gratitude for the values Flint instilled, the education I received and the bonds I made that remain with me to this day. You can take the boy out of Flint, but you can’t take Flint out of the boy.”–Howard Bragman, author of Where’s My Fifteen Minutes?

“Armed with an aluminum baseball bat and a truth-seeking pen, Young returns to the post-industrial wasteland of his hometown in search of a derelict house to buy and restore. At least that’s his cover story. Young’s true mission is to reclaim his past is order to make sense of his present. If you’re bewitched by the place where you grew up, you’ll find comfort and a sense of home in the pages of Teardown.”–Jack Shafer, Reuters columnist and a former Michigander

“This beautifully written tale of Gordon Young’s homecoming offers an unforgettable journey to the heart of one of America’s most compelling places.”–Frank J. Popper, Rutgers University

Gordon Young grew up in Flint, Michigan, the birthplace of General Motors, where his accomplishments included learning to parallel park the family’s massive Buick Electra 225. After reaching an uneasy truce with the nuns in the local Catholic school system, he went on to study journalism at the University of Missouri and English literature at the University of Nottingham. His work has appeared in the New York Times, Slate, Utne Reader, and numerous other publications. Young has published Flint Expatriates, a blog for the long-lost residents of the Vehicle City, since 2007. He is a senior lecturer in the Communication Department at Santa Clara University and lives in San Francisco.

Teardown

Memoir of a Vanishing City

By Gordon Young

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS

Copyright © 2013 The Regents of the University of California
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-520-27052-7

Contents

Prologue: Summer 2009PART ONE1 Pink Houses and Panhandlers2 Bottom-Feeders3 Bourgeois Homeowners4 Virtual Vehicle City5 Bad Reputation6 The Road to Prosperity7 Bar Logic8 Downward Mobility9 Black and White10 The Forest Primeval11 The Naked Truth12 The Toughest Job in Politics13 Urban HomesteadersPART TWO14 Quitters Never Win15 Burning Down the House16 Emotional Rescue17 Get Real18 Living Large19 Fading Murals20 Gun Club21 Bargaining with God22 Psycho KillerPART THREE23 Winter Wonderland24 Home on the Range25 California Dreamin’26 Thankless Task27 Joy to the WorldEpilogue: Summer 2012UpdatesAcknowledgmentsNotesSources and Further ReadingIndexPhotographs

CHAPTER 1

Pink Houses and Panhandlers

I had arrived in Flint in early June of 2009 after listening to the Tigers gamein my rental car during the ninety-minute drive up I-75 from the Detroitairport. I thought baseball on the radio would snap me into a Michigan frame ofmind, but the legendary Ernie Harwell, whose distinctive voice had mesmerized meas a kid, was no longer calling the games. It wasn’t quite the same. But thegame did remind me to stop at a thrift store and buy that baseball bat, a handyaccessory for any extended stay in Flint.

I eventually made it to Saginaw Street, the city’s main artery, which roughlydivides Flint between east and west. As I crossed the river into what was oncethe thriving shopping district in the heart of downtown, the first of severalblack metal arches harking back to the early twentieth century spanned thethoroughfare, announcing that this was the “Vehicle City.” The rumble caused bythe uneven, old-timey bricks that still lined several downtown blocks gave me ajolt of nostalgia, a rush of the familiar that tapped into memories of numeroustrips down this bumpy street with my mom, my grandparents, and my friends. Itfelt reassuring. And although no one would describe downtown as bustling, withits empty storefronts and boarded-up buildings, I saw signs of hope.

There was a crowd at Blackstone’s, a new restaurant located in the former homeof a fashionable men’s clothing store that had folded decades earlier. (Spottinga new business in downtown Flint is as rare as seeing someone driving a newBuick in San Francisco.) The Art Deco splendor of the sixteen-story MottFoundation Building, scrupulously maintained with the financial legacy of afabulously wealthy industrialist once referred to as Mr. Flint, would drawattention in any city. There were enough people out and about to chase away theeerie sense of emptiness pervading so many other parts of the city. A fewconstruction projects generated a reassuring racket that indicated something washappening here. The city wasn’t dead yet.

I was headed to a vacant house owned by a friend of mine named Rich. Like me, hehad grown up in Flint and eventually moved to San Francisco, where we met. Heowned three “investment” properties in Flint, although the fact that all of themwere empty indicated they weren’t exactly generating a lot of income. He hadhappily agreed to let me crash at one of them. “It’s good to have it look likethere’s someone actually living there,” he had told me. “It keeps the thievesfrom stealing the plumbing.”

It took me a while to find the house because downtown still had an inexplicablenumber of confusing one-way streets, an unnecessary remnant of the days whengrowth and good fortune meant traffic congestion. I’d also never spent much timein the Carriage Town neighborhood. It was unfamiliar terrain when I lived inFlint, a neighborhood to avoid unless you were in the market for drugs, hookers,or an ass kicking.

Rich’s sister, Berniece, was there to greet me when I finally arrived. She stilllived in Flint. Although we’d never met, she showed me around the house like Iwas an old friend, presenting a very practical housewarming gift—a four-pack oftoilet paper. She seemed worried about me, offering advice like “Don’t letanybody you don’t know into the house” and “Be careful who you talk to on thestreet.” I tried to reassure her that I knew how to take care of myself. I wasfrom Flint, after all. But I sensed that my San Francisco pedigree, the newPatagonia shirt with lots of snaps and pockets that I’d bought for the trip, andmy teal-striped Pumas were undermining my street cred.

Before I try to pawn myself off as a minor-league George Orwell writing a RustBelt version of Down and Out in Paris and London, I should point out that Rich’shouse wasn’t as rundown as many in the neighborhood. It was the well-preservedformer home of Charles W. Nash, the president of GM in 1912 and founder of NashMotors. It was just across the street from the Durant-Dort Office Building, thebeautifully restored birthplace of GM. Unlike many of Flint’s empty structures,the Nash House had luxuries like plumbing and electricity. The water heater wasbroken, but a cold shower would be better than nothing. Inexplicably, the placewas painted pink, destroying any chance I had of establishing myself as somekind of tough-guy writer, a Buick City Bukowski.

The wood floors, wraparound porch, handsome stained glass window, and highceilings oozed Victorian charm. There was no sign of habitation other than anawkwardly modern glass table in the dining room, a couple of folding chairs, andan expensive-looking Persian rug in the living room. Our voices echoed in theempty space. The bulk of the tour was devoted to the house’s four doors andeight locks. The kitchen door had been nailed shut from the inside with a two-by-four after a break-in. The side door was locked and seldom used. If there wasa fire, Berniece advised, the front door was my best option, other than thewindows.

“I’ll try not to burn the place down,” I joked.

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” she answered. Like any city with a lot ofabandoned property, Flint houses regularly went up in flames.I decided to bed down on the nice rug. Besides adding a little padding, it wasclose to the fire exit.

I walked Berniece out to her pickup truck, suddenly feeling lonely and wishingshe’d stay for a while. As she was driving away, I saw my two closest neighbors,a man and a woman who looked to be in their thirties, playing with two dogs intheir massive yard, which took up about five city lots. I wanted to introducemyself, but it looked like they were heading inside. I started jogging acrossthe wide expanse of lawn that separated the two houses. “Hey there!” I yelled,for some reason deciding to wave both arms over my head to get their attention.”Hey! Hi!”

I immediately realized this was not the way to introduce yourself in Flint. Inunison, the couple and the dogs swung around to face me. A consistent andunmistakably hostile look animated the faces of both humans and canines. “Whatdo you want?” the guy demanded, as one of the dogs started to growl. I skiddedto a stop, still a good fifteen yards away, far enough that I was almost yellingas I awkwardly explained who I was and offered up a rambling history of myrelationship to Flint dating back to 1972, dropping every local name andcultural reference I could muster. I’m not positive, but I may have recited thenames and addresses of all my high school girlfriends. “I used to be an altarboy at Saint Mike’s, right over there on Fifth,” I trailed off.

The dogs were still intent on ripping me to shreds, but the couple turned andlooked at each other, apparently trying to decide if I was a harmless oddball, apotentially dangerous criminal, or just fucking crazy. “Sorry about that,” theguy said after a long pause. “When someone we don’t know runs up on us likethat, we’re not sure what to expect.” We shook hands, but the dogs continued toeye me warily.

Nathan and Rebecca told me they had purchased their cornflower blue, two-storyhouse seven years earlier for $90,000. I was shocked by the high price tag, andthey admitted that they’d paid way too much. It was a great place, nevertheless.We walked over to their back deck, complete with a hot tub, and they pointed outtheir herb and vegetable garden, compost heap, and the fruit trees and berrybushes scattered across their half-acre property.

They had good jobs. Nathan commuted to Lansing, where he worked as anenvironmental policy analyst with the Michigan Senate Democrats, and Rebecca wasthe executive director of the Flint Watershed Coalition. “I grew up in Lansing,and when I told people I was moving to Flint, they were like ‘Are you frickin’kidding me?'” Rebecca said. “But we never had a lot of apprehension about movinghere. When we lived in various suburbs we were never engaged in our community atall. Now we know everybody. You have a hard time getting your yard work donebecause people stop by to talk. You really feel like you’re part of something.”

They pointed out that although they’d dealt with crackheads, panhandlers, andvarious shady characters, the only thing that had ever been stolen from theirproperty was the small metal sign planted in their front yard warning intrudersthat they had a burglar alarm.

I was growing suspicious. I wondered if these two were operatives planted by thereal-estate agents I was planning to meet later in the week. Aside from anabandoned brick building casting a long shadow that nearly reached the healthyclusters of rhubarb in the backyard garden, the conversation could have beentaking place in San Francisco, although in that scenario Nathan and Rebeccamight become millionaires simply by selling off a portion of their yard. Herewas a couple who seemed to prove that you could have a meaningful, fulfillinglife in Flint.

Right on cue, a loud, exuberant yelp of either agony or ecstasy cut through thequiet, followed by what sounded like a board breaking and laughter. Rebeccagiggled and shook her head. “Ah, that would be the drug house across thestreet,” Nathan said calmly as he continued to survey his property, a smile ofsatisfaction—or was it resignation?—on his face.

After I said my goodbyes, I cut across the yard to my empty pink house. I didn’texactly know what to do with myself, so I started organizing, attempting tocreate a makeshift bedroom by sorting stuff from my suitcase into carefullyarranged piles on the living room floor near my sleeping bag. That’s when Iheard a strange, ghostly voice floating through the house. “Oh luke aht thiswindow, so bootiful!” a woman said in what sounded like a German accent.

I slowly pulled back the curtain of the window closest to the voice and wasface-to-face with a meticulously made up elderly woman who was peering intentlyinto the house. She had on lavender-tinted glasses and was wearing a long cottonnightgown and slippers. With her bright red nail polish contrasting with flashygold rings and bracelets, she reminded me of an aging Hollywood legend paddingaround the grounds of her mansion. She tapped on the window with a well-manicuredindex finger. “Oh, hello there!” she said and unsteadily weaved herway toward the backyard.

I’m ashamed to admit that I briefly considered grabbing my bat before I venturedoutside to investigate. Sure, she appeared to be a sweet little old lady, butshe was wiry, and those polished nails looked sharp. What the hell was wrongwith me? I needed to cool it with the security measures. I went outside—unarmed—andintroduced myself.

It turned out to be Rich and Berniece’s mom, out for a drive with a friend. Theyhad stopped to look at the purple and yellow irises blooming in the yard. I gavethem a tour of the house and told them my plans. I mentioned that I had gone tograde school at Saint Mary’s, and I could tell that the connection meantsomething to Rich’s mom. It was her parish. Before she left, she gave me a hugin the front yard. “You woot be happy if you came back home,” she whispered tome.

Once again, I was in the front yard waving goodbye, this time as my twounexpected visitors drove away. A shirtless guy down the street saw me, wavedback, and made a beeline down the block. I considered hustling into the house toavoid the encounter, but he was fast. “My man, you have to help me out,” hesaid, rubbing his head with one hand and imploring me with the other. “I justgot robbed. You know what it’s like to get robbed on your birthday? That shit ismessed up!”

I was used to being panhandled in San Francisco, but it had never happened in myfront yard before. Rich had warned me to never give anyone change in theneighborhood, but I didn’t want to be too harsh with this guy since he knewwhere I lived. “Happy birthday,” I said, trying to sound firm yet friendly. “Idon’t have any money.”

“Come on, man!” he said, taking a step toward me, suddenly angry. His face wasinches from mine.

“Sorry, but I can’t help you out,” I said, getting a little pissed off myselfand regretting the decision to leave my bat in the house.

“Cheap-ass muthafucka,” he yelled before abruptly turning, crossing the street,and cutting through the parking lot behind the Durant-Dort building, no doubtcovering the same ground that GM’s creator, Billy Durant, had traversed numeroustimes about a hundred years earlier.

I took a deep breath, found a shady spot on my front steps, took out my phone,and called Traci in San Francisco. She reported that our cat, Sergio, hadinvaded the neighbor’s house again, peeing in their basement, then sacking outon one of their beds and refusing to leave. He was relentless in his quest toacquire new territory, an impulse I was beginning to understand. The previousnight Traci had gone to a party filled with other writers and reporters that haddegenerated into the typical group lament over dwindling jobs, bad editors, andlow pay—the sort of unrestrained bitching that often defined our lives asjournalists.

I tried to explain how one day in Flint contrasted with the cold, superficialfriendliness of San Francisco, where I sometimes felt like I could go longstretches without making a real connection with anyone besides her. I’d alreadybeen fretted over by Berniece; confronted, scrutinized, and ultimately acceptedby Rebecca and Nathan; embraced by Rich’s mom; and called a muthafucka by thebirthday boy. It was all a visceral reminder that the anonymity of big-city lifein San Francisco and the stereotypical laid-back character of California hadtheir drawbacks. If you weren’t careful, you could float along on a sheen oflovely views and trendy pop culture distractions. Ironic roller derby matches atthe Kezar Pavilion, graffiti masquerading as art in the Mission, and themesmerizing fog rolling over Twin Peaks. At the risk of sounding like a touchy-feely Californian, somehow Flint felt more real, like I had permanent ties herethat I could never make in San Francisco. This must have come off as an overlyenthusiastic endorsement, because Traci cautioned me to give Flint a few weeksbefore I came to any big conclusions. “I miss you,” she said before we hung up.”The house seems empty without you.”

I lingered on the front porch, resisting the urge to go inside and needlesslyrearrange my belongings. There was nowhere I needed to be. I tried to sit backand appreciate the fact that after all the planning, worrying, and soulsearching, I was really in Flint, well on my way to buying a house. But Icouldn’t quite silence the small voice in the back of my head whispering thatthis was a very bad idea.

CHAPTER 2

Bottom-Feeders

Looking back, the desire to own property in Flint was rooted in my decision tobuy a house in San Francisco. Despite the yawning economic, geographic, andmeteorological gap between the two places, they were united by one thing: Ididn’t have any business owning property in either place. By nature, I am deeplyskeptical when it comes to most things that involve spending money. A fewfriends have jokingly used terms of endearment like “cheap bastard” and”tightwad” to describe me. (At least I think they’re joking.) But my frugalityseems to disappear when it comes to real estate.

Traci discovered this six months after we gave up our respective apartments andmoved in together in 2003. We had a nice two-bedroom flat up a steep flight ofstairs on the western slope of Bernal Heights, with built-in bookshelves, anelegant nonfunctioning fireplace, and a back deck, all set to a soundtrack ofmuffled salsa music that drifted up from the bars on nearby Mission Street. At$1,850 a month, it was reasonably priced by the outrageous local standards. Wewere happy. We were in love. Why mess with this arrangement?

Well, I couldn’t help thinking about all the money I’d handed over to thelandlord of my previous apartment on Potrero Hill, roughly $130,000 in rent overa decade. And I’d always felt a little like a visitor to San Francisco. I likedthe idea of Traci and me becoming official residents with a real stake in thecity. I was in my forties, and I wanted to be a homeowner. I foolishly believedthat by combining the meager incomes of two journalists we might have a shot atowning in one of the world’s most expensive markets. Our household income wasaround $90,000. Starter homes in the San Francisco neighborhoods we foundacceptable started at around $500,000. Neither of us did that well in math backin school. We were writers, after all.

Our friendly landlord at the time, Michelle, was a real-estate agent who was, ofcourse, very encouraging. She thought my plan was brilliant, especially since wewanted her to be our agent. Her husband was a lawyer who grew up in Muskegon andwore U of M T-shirts, so there was a Michigan connection. Already I was basinghousing decisions on extraneous emotional attachments.
(Continues…)Excerpted from Teardown by Gordon Young. Copyright © 2013 The Regents of the University of California. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS.
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