The Lies They Tell Page 5
Still, baseball is fun. There is music, there are constant cheerful announcements coming from the loudspeakers, and there is food all over: hot dogs and cinnamon buns, ice cream and colored popcorn, cookies and hot pizza, beer and ice pops. Each food item here costs on average five times more than anywhere else, but that’s okay. If the food cost less, nobody would have as much fun. Yeah, Hallelujah.
From time to time the fans roar in approval or in boos. I’m not sure why, and, possibly, they don’t know either.
Before the seventh-inning stretch the audience stands on its feet, and we are treated to a live performance of “God Bless America.”
A few minutes later the line “Make some noise” is projected on screens, and the fans shout. For a moment there I think I’m still in the church.
A young man in a seat next to me says, “I love baseball!”
What’s so great about baseball?
“During the game you can go to the toilet, you can relax. It’s great!”
I bend the visor of my hat and walk out. This redneck has had enough.
The journey must go on; time to cruise with the Cruze.
Gate Three
Fine dining and white people look well together
THERE ARE CERTAIN FEATURES ONE NOTICES WHILE DRIVING. ONE IS THE greenery. Everywhere I drive I see green. This is a blessed land. The other noticeable element is the frequency of American flags; there are so many of them! Are Americans so patriotic?
I press on the accelerator, hoping that no cop will stop me, and soon enough I reach Cleveland, Ohio.
I know I’m in Cleveland because everywhere I look I see the name of the Cleveland Cavaliers, a basketball team. The baseball teams I saw in Pittsburgh call themselves Pirates and Braves; these guys call themselves Cavaliers. Who came up with such titles? Oakland, for example, has the Golden State Warriors. Warriors? Since when? If I owned a sports team I’d name it New York Thieves. Sounds better than Pirates and is more accurate than Warriors.
Cleveland has more than just Cavaliers. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum is also in Cleveland, and I go to see it. I have no idea why the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is in Cleveland, since Cleveland is not known to be a music city, but here it is.
The list of people who have been inducted into the Hall of Fame is long, and some are my favorites: Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles, Billie Holiday and Madonna.
Yes, I like the Material Girl.
Walking up and down the floors of this building reminds me of America’s huge contribution to music in years past, be it soul, R&B, jazz, country, or just plain rock ’n roll – music that influenced millions upon millions in scores of countries. American singers and musicians from, roughly, the twenties through the eighties of last century, shaped many of us into what we are today. They made us feel positive about ourselves, they made us believe that love was just around the corner and they made us think that we’d forever be young.
Here you watch them and you realize, more than ever before, that some of the best of American music was made and performed by black America. Their contribution to the field is immense.
Walking in downtown Cleveland after I leave the museum, I hardly see blacks. I spot some, but for the most part they are the poor who’ll ask you for a cigarette, for food and for cash.
On East Fourth Street, where a section of the street is for pedestrians only, there are a number of fancy restaurants. The diners, at least on this day, are all white.
I take my seat at a fine restaurant called Lola Bistro, and I have a blast. The food is great; best I have had so far in America. Yes, most of the food in America, at least this far, stinks. Even the bread in this country, and I know this from New York as well, is most suitable for dead dogs.
But Lola is good.
• • •
Belly full, I go to meet the poor. I learned this trick long ago from some very successful politicians. On the next street I meet a black guy and ask him how’s life in Cleveland.
“I love Cleveland.”
What’s special about this city?
“I was born here.”
Let me ask you something else: I walked on the street with the fine dining and I noticed that those who were enjoying the good food were all white. Did I get it wrong?
“No, that’s correct.”
Blacks live the hard life?
“Yes.”
Why?
“It’s always been like this here.”
Will it always be?
“Yes.”
Why?
“That’s the way it is.”
Did life not change for black America once Obama was elected?
“Yes. One black family moved to a better house. That’s it. He lives in the White House; we live here. No change for us.”
I ate. I walked. Time to rest. Tomorrow I drive. Where to? Detroit.
Why? Because there’s nothing more American than Detroit. How do I know? I just made it up.
Gate Four
Blacks kill blacks because they’re “niggas” – If you don’t know who you are, you are a German American – If an Indian mosquito bites you, you will become a Native American
ON THE WAY TO DETROIT I SEE FEWER AMERICAN FLAGS ON THE ROAD THAN I saw before. I don’t know why. Are Michiganders less patriotic?
Soon enough I spot a mosque. I have arrived, I believe, in Dearborn. Dearborn, if I remember correctly, is one of the most concentrated Arab towns in the USA.
There must be some good Mediterranean restaurants around. And just thinking of this, believe it or not, makes me hungry.
Yep. My belly is calling again. It had good food at Lola, but that’s long gone.
Let me make one point very clear. There are two obligations that I must meet on this journey: supply Cruze with enough liquids to drink and supply my belly with enough food to eat.
And I will.
Cruze is doing okay at the moment; I poured enough gas into her belly this morning, and now it’s my belly’s turn. Where shall I find the food?
I drive on residential streets, and when I see a guy walking on the sidewalk I stop the Cruze to ask him for good Arab food. He sends me to some hotel. No, I say to him; I want to eat with the people!
“You are on the end side of Dearborn,” he says to me. “If you want to go to where the Arabs live, all I can tell you is that you better not.”
Why?
“That’s a dangerous place.”
I love dangerous. Can you give me directions?
He directs me to the highway. Why does he think he can fool me like this?
I drive a bit more and when I see a man getting out of his SUV I stop next to him. Where can I find good Arab food around here? I ask him.
“There are some around,” he says, and suggests a tourist restaurant.
No, I say to him. I want to eat with the people.
“What people?”
Arabs!
“What do you mean?”
Where the Arabs go to eat!
“The restaurant I suggested to you is –”
I cut him off. I want to eat with the real people of Dearborn. You know what I mean? The Arabs!
“I’m afraid you don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you.”
Explain!
“You want to be in the heart of Dearborn, where the original mosque is?”
I have no idea what he’s referring to, but I say: Yes, that’s exactly where I want to go!
“That’s a scary, dangerous place. I’m sure you don’t want to go there.”
I love “scary” and I admire “dangerous,” my man!
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
Yes!
Now convinced that I’m totally deranged, he gives me the right directions.
• • •
I drive there. While driving I pass deserted buildings that look like old factories, and I drive over the biggest and deepest potholes imaginable in any developing country. Am I really in America? What’s
the story with these potholes?
While driving in and out of potholes I repeatedly see this sign on the road: “Injure/kill a worker $7,500 + 15 years.”
Whatever this is, I’m sure it has nothing to do with Islamic law. I don’t remember reading this in the Quran.
Yes, I studied the Quran. Actually a nice book.
I keep on driving until I see signs in Arabic. I’ve arrived in food paradise! There is only one little problem: the restaurants are closed.
How didn’t I think of it before? It’s Ramadan! The Muslims are fasting during the daylight hours. What an idiot I am.
I get out of the car and look for some humans who can tell me when the Islamic day ends and the Islamic night starts in Dearborn. A young man, wearing his baseball cap backwards, tells me that the breaking of the fast today is at 9:14 p.m., about two hours from now. What shall I do till then?
Well, I could talk with the guy. Tell me something, I ask him, do you know what people around here say about you?
“What?”
That this place is dangerous. Is it?
“Where you from?”
Jordan.
“I’ll tell you why they say it: because they are liars. Here, dangerous? You know that we Muslims are the best. Don’t you? Detroit is the murder capital of the USA. Not Dearborn! We are the best!”
My brother, I don’t know if you read the news lately, but we are not doing very well. Look what’s happening in the Middle East, Daesh (ISIS/ISIL, the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant) is beheading people right and left and everybody is seeing the pictures.
“Don’t believe anything you see on the news! They are all liars!”
Where are you originally from?
“I was born here, but my family is from Yemen. Everybody here is from Yemen. If you want the Jordanians or the Palestinians or the Lebanese, they are a fifteen-minute drive from here.”
Where will you break the fast today?
“Not with my parents; they went for a vacation in Yemen.”
They vacation in Yemen? There’s a huge war there!
“Who told you? Don’t believe the news!”
Since it’s so good in Yemen, why aren’t you moving back?
“Why? What’s wrong with here? I’m an American! I have the freedom to stay here!”
• • •
I bid him farewell and drive to the Jordanian, Palestinian and Lebanese section. And I meet an Iraqi man named Muhammad. I ask him who lives around here.
“Arabs.”
Muslims?
“Yes.”
Only?
“Yes. It’s good.”
No other people here?
“What people?”
Let’s say, Jews.
“Where are you from?”
Germany.
“Okay. I have a sister there.”
Can a Jew live here?
“No.”
Why?
“He can pass by here, but not live here.”
Why?
“That’s the way it is.”
Why?
“There are Jews about ten miles away from here, but not here.”
Why not here?
“That’s the way it is, I told you.”
He reminds me of the black guy from Cleveland. Both say, “That’s the way it is.” The blacks won’t have fine food, and the Jews can’t live here.
Yeah. That’s the way it is.
• • •
I move on to an Arab sweets store, where I find three young women. All are Lebanese. Do you like America? I ask the one who seems the youngest of them.
“No.”
Why are you here?
“I study in a university here. I study interior design.”
Why here and not in Beirut?
“It’s too expensive there.”
What will do when you finish college?
“Go back home, to Lebanon.”
I heard that there are some problems there.
“No! Hezballah is strong and they protect us.” All present agree.
Hezballah (the Party of God) has been on the United States State Department list of Foreign Terrorist Organizations since 1997, but I don’t raise this issue. Instead, I say: You are probably right. I like Hassan Nasrallah (the leader of Hezballah) very much!
“We love him!”
The others agree again.
• • •
I buy some sweets and drive around the neighborhood. I can’t spot one American flag flying from anyone’s home. Yet it’s America here. A visit to a local hookah store, where they sell tobacco for nargilas, makes this clear. These tobaccos come in different flavors, such as apple and orange, but in Dearborn they also come in the flavor of “Starbucks Coffee.”
The Fourth of July is coming in a couple of days, and here you can’t tell. What you can tell here is that today is Ramadan.
I’m starving.
I go to a restaurant called Al Ameer, which is open for Arab Christians who don’t observe Ramadan. I order hummus, baba ghanoush, falafel, kibbeh, Turkish coffee, and for a moment there I imagine that I’m in Bagdad. The food is great, just like Mama made in Iraq before America invaded the country.
Is Arab Dearborn scary? No. Is it dangerous? No. Are its Arab residents racist? You bet, but no more than their racist neighbors who call them scary and dangerous.
• • •
I drive in this land and I meet blacks, Jews, Arabs and Quakers. No Germans.
I am looking for Germans, those fifty million Americans who claim Germany as the land of their ancestors. Where the heck are the fifty million Germans?
I keep on driving.
By the way, I’m starting to get used to driving and I am loving it. From time to time I go over the speed limit, run a red light or two, but all in all Cruze and I are getting to know each other well. It feels like dating.
At this moment I am driving on the roads of America’s famed “Motor City,” Detroit, and I – new driver that I am – feel a certain connection between the city and myself, as if it were my homeland. Your lost son is home again, Motor City!
I reach Michigan Avenue, which I think is in the direction of downtown. Driving along Michigan Avenue, though, I notice something sad. Block after block is deserted, desolated and ugly. Condemned buildings are the rule rather than the exception.
What happened to my hometown? I don’t know. I just drive.
When I reach a sign saying “Heidelberg,” I stop. Heidelberg is one of my most favorite German towns. Have I reached its duplicate city? Have I just found the fifty million? I drive there.
I see two German tourists, standing close to their car, but that’s it. The rest are blacks.
I leave Heidelberg and I go on driving. Where to? Let my Cruze decide.
I make a few turns on side streets, and then I reach a place that – I can’t tell what it is. It reminds me of a place I was in years ago: Fukushima, Japan, right after the tsunami and the nuclear reactor meltdown. As in Fukushima, there’s an air of total mayhem here.
Once upon a time this place must have been a lovely neighborhood, with nicely laid out private homes. Now those homes look more like rotten monuments, some of them just skeletons, but I can tell that there are creatures moving inside them, maybe ghosts or rats.
This area must have been abandoned decades ago. Wild shrubs and advanced decay are almost everywhere, and then I see debris here and there, there and here. I drive closer.
And I notice people.
Yes. People. People who, in this setting, look like ghosts. Frightening.
As if from under the earth, a black guy with a bicycle appears near me. His name is Jay and he’s a twenty-six-year-old father of four. What’s going on around here? I ask him.
“Black people killing each other.”
Why?
“’Cause they’re niggas [niggers, meaning blacks]. They do it ’cause they do it.”
Why?
“If they think you didn’t look
at them right, they shoot you. No other reason.”
That’s it?
“You know where you are?”
What do you mean?
“You know what this place is?”
I want to say Fukushima but I say “not really” instead.
“This place called Red Zone.”
Red Zone?
“Yeah.”
Red Zone of what?
“Last zone.”
After here, death?
“Yes. Here you don’t know who will shoot you.”
Is it always like this?
“Always like this with black people. They shootin’ each other.”
The situation is getting worse, he says, because it’s summer. “It’s hot, and people shoot.”
Across the street is a burned-out house. How did that house get burned? I ask.
“A black drunk man lived there. He was drinkin’ and he lied down by the fireplace. The house was burned and he was burned.”
Did he burn himself on purpose?
“No! He was a black drunk, that’s why.”
The Fourth of July is coming. Are you proud to be an American?
“Yeah. Black American!”
The houses here look like they’ve seen better times. What happened?
“We didn’t build them. They are ours ’cause they were abandoned and if you fix an abandoned house and live in it, it’s yours. Squatters’ rights. We didn’t buy them. We moved in. But people are stealin’ all the time. A door, a window. Anythin’. And we kill each other, black against black. Is the red car yours?”
Yes.
“You want me to keep it for you, while you’re walkin’ around?”
No, thanks. Tell me: Do you need a gun to live here?
“Yeah!”
Do you have a gun?
“Not on me.”
We shake hands, and I depart.
How long will Jay stay alive? I don’t know.
• • •
A few houses down the road there’s this sign on an empty house: “Reduced Price. 5,000 or best offer.” Yes, there are places in the country that boasts some of the world’s most exclusive real estate where you can buy a home for $5,000 or less.
Everything’s possible in America.