July 22nd marked the day of my sweet
friend Dante’s golden birthday…22 years, wiser all the time. We’d been talking for a while about
visiting and photographing his abandoned middle school, Malcolm X Academy, the
most memorable and valuable educational experience of his youth (Afro-centric
and progressive in many ways), and it became quite apparent as we mulled over how
to commemorate his evolution that his birthday was the perfect day to take on
that mission. And so myself, Dante,
and beautiful Swedish Rebecka (making her return to the D after spending last
summer studying, discovering, and loving Detroit and all that it is), squeezed
into my two-seater pick-up and headed on over to the west side. 
The moment we heaved ourselves up into the building
through a broken out window, the intensity of the experience felt almost overwhelming. I'll let the pictures speak for the
visual impact – an all too common scene here in Detroit, but what became more
and more astounding as we moved deeper through the building was the slap-you-across-the-face, BLUNT symbolism of our educational emergency, of our continued racial oppression,
and of our human situation that seems to be so lost and mis-prioritized that
this sort of thing can just… happen. All over, all around us.
A once beautiful space of learning, where black
students celebrated their heros, and provided themselves with the human right
to learn about their people, their culture, and their history was now nothing
more than a heaping pile of despairing evidence of what once was.
We traipsed through every classroom, every closet,
every bathroom, searching for clues.
It had been 10 years since Dante walked those halls, but it remained well
preserved in his memory. He
remembered each of his old classrooms and the names of all his teachers, Mama
and Baba instead of Mr. and Mrs.
He led us into the classroom of the teacher who still used the paddle,
and the one who generously paid his way to be part of a mentorship program called My Brother’s Keeper. We even stumbled upon the little corner
where he got caught making out with his first girlfriend. 
We discovered that after the school closed as Malcolm X Academy (which has since re-opened in another location, Dante’s old computer teacher is now the principle), it served as an alternative school for one year. We unearthed an old syllabus that revealed the name of that School: Last Chance Academy. As if in naming, they were preparing for everyone's doom.
When we got to the gym, Dante remembered that there
was a big portrait of Malcolm painted on the center of the floor. We used our feet to vigorously kick off
the trash and dust off his face.
And as his face became exposed, so became our purpose there. We were there to visit a past. Dante’s childhood past, our city’s
educational past, our nation’s unjust past, so that we can make something of amends for our future. We are going
back to the school to wash Malcolm’s face clean – to pay our respect, and to make
a symbolic vow to use our energy and talents to strive for liberation, for all people.
That night when I got home, winding down from an
oddly beautiful day, I was sitting in bed checking email. I accidentally hit the “sort by date”
button, so that my emails were listed from beginning to end. Up popped a good 5 e-mails from my
mom. I’ve known in the back of my
mind for the past 5 years since her passing that I had evidence of our correspondence
floating around in my inbox somewhere.
That her being my mom, and me be being her daughter, and our communication
with one another as such was documented and stored. I hadn’t yet been ready to take that on. After the day at Malcolm X, and
experiencing Dante’s courage to revisit a place that was once alive and real,
and now long gone… I suddenly felt able to go
there.
The emails took place a few months before her death, while I was traveling and studying in Greece for the summer. I was recapping my experiences, and she
was being a mom. Happy, proud,
supportive.
“I
cannot express how I've been feeling all day. I cannot believe that I
have a daughter such as you, who has prepared (her whole life, without
knowing), and propelled herself to such a place where she is worthy of all the
universe has to offer. I am so proud, so happy that I am your
mother... You go girl!”
But now I can let that go. I can choose what to remember her by,
and I will remember her for what she gave me. And so this is me, making amends.
We cannot save that building. We cannot bring back the kids from that blighted
hood to learn about their heros in a setting that was created for their
empowerment. And I cannot bring
back my mom and make her exercise and quit drinking and smoking. But we can go there. We can cultivate the courage to revisit
our pasts and make peace with them.
And with the gorgeous nature of the past, we can just sort of drop in
for a visit, and then leave again when we’ve gotten what we need. We can squeeze out the love, only to realize
that the pain isn’t so debilitating anymore. We can show our respect and gratitude for the gifts the
experiences have given our character, and remember that the most powerful tool we have for liberation and transformation are our stories.
