Problematizing the idea of the "city"
When you hear the word, "city," what image pops into your head? I'll bet it's not far off from the image in my head: congested streets and sidewalks, skyscrapers stacking up people's work and home lives till they block out the sky. Noise: car engines, car horns, car alarms; people walking, talking, yelling. Music pulsing out from cars, clubs, apartments. Sirens. Whistles. Lots of noise. Maybe a little romance thrown in: dreams and aspirations, futures, relationships, heartaches, a microcosm of human lives. Shopping and theatre districts. Public art. Graffiti art. Thugs. Guns. Gangs. Crime.
The truth is, even places we call "big cities"—which is certainly a relative term—don't fit this picture. Or they fit it imperfectly.
For example, I live in Oakland, California, a city whose reputation precedes it. Yes, there is violence here, crime, sirens, all that. Gangs and graffiti, all that. But overall, it feels quite suburban in many places. In the heart of the city, there is a large lake, a bird sanctuary and wildlife refuge. In Oakland, the buildings don't grow very tall, and downtown is small. Mostly, the city is made up of neighborhoods, each centered around its own small stretch that feels like any small-town Main Street with its boutiques, "mom & pop" groceries, familiar faces, and local flavors.
San Francisco is similar—it's made up of small-town neighborhoods. But while in both geographical size and population it is relatively small, its downtown has a big-city feel—tall buildings, theatre districts, a homelessness epidemic and all. Disproportionately to its small size, it's an important American city, particularly on the West Coast, and is a global tourism destination with so many vivid landmarks known the world over.
But I'm from Detroit. Recently, I saw a map showing the fact that San Francisco, Boston, and Manhattan could all fit within Detroit's borders with plenty of wiggle room. Detroit grew very rapidly beginning around the turn of the 20th century (the beginning of the city's third). Famous now for its fast depopulation, its boom—its explosion—happened much faster. As it grew, its borders expanded, even swallowing two "enclave" towns, Hamtramck and Highland Park. Now, with a population that's shrunk to just under one million (roughly equivalent to that of San Francisco and Oakland combined), it encompasses stretches of modern ruins and abandoned property. Many vacant lots are being reclaimed for urban, community gardens. Our sports teams are returning to the city, where there is available, inexpensive land. Downtonw is small, but beautiful and tall, even if dead quiet on a Saturday.
It's said, though, that all of Detroit is inner-city. It's true we have outrageous poverty and unemployment statistics, rund down and burned out housing, and more than our share of violent crime. But Detroit doesn't look "inner city"—at least not the way that term is imaged on TV cop shows set in Chicago and New York.
Detroit is, after all, if not the birthplace, the nursery of the American Dream. Most housing is detached, double- or single- family dwellings, with or without garages and driveways. There are pockets of wealthier homes, and scattered apartment buildings. No one lives downtown.
Detroit's a big city, suburban, and rural all in one.
Metro Detroit, which includes the city and its suburbs (including the suburb to the south—Windsor, Ontario, Canada), is made up of cities that melt into one another, blurring distinctions between neighboring cities. Warren, directly north of Detroit's East Side, is Michigan's third-largest city, but it's a suburb, and very suburban at that. You would be hard-pressed to find any stereotypical "urban" images there. Southfield, north of central Detroit, could be a second downtown to Detroit, were it within city borders. It's where many business moved after leaving Detroit, piling up skyscrapers to nest in.
Zooming out, Southeastern Michigan encompasses Metro Detroit (sans Windsor), plus "exurbs"—bedroom communities on the outskirts of the suburbs where people live and commute to the suburbs in a parody of the former commute from suburb to city. Southeastern Michigan also includes small towns, rural areas, and Ann Arbor, another major Michigan city. A college town.
Like any college town—like Athens, GA, or Berkeley, CA—Ann Arbor has a perennially fertile culture and arts scene. Like any city, it has a few skyscrapers, theatres, farmer's markets, and festivals, as well as a major university with its major hospital. Ann Arbor has suburbs of its own, too. The immediately adjoining city, Ypsilanti, may or may not be one of them.
Ypsi is either a large town or small city. Sometimes it feels more urban than Ann Arbor. On a smaller scale, Ypsi and Ann Arbor are, respectively, Oakland's real-world to San Francisco's artsy and cultural identity.
Lansing (the state capital of Michigan), Flint, Jackson, Grand Rapids, Midland, Saginaw, Port Huron, Mt. Pleasant—these are just a few of Michigan's other cities, island-like amid small towns and farms and woodlands. The tiny northern town of Alpena has its own TV market—perhaps the nation's smallest—simply because no other market is nearby. In Northern Michigan and the Upper Peninsula, a "city" is pretty much any small town that stands out from the backdrop of Michigan's wooded, rural beauty that draws more tourists, I'm sure, than our cities do.
What is a city? In my home state, sirens, taxis, subways (of which we have zero), congestion, are not requirements for a city. A city is quite possibly just a spot you can point to on your hand.
But it's still about some collection of certain public spaces and services, (relatively) tall buildings, cultural resources, and population. Running into people you don't know.
Older, European cities tend to be organized around a public square. American cities are sometimes criticized for this lack of order, for their much more pragmatic approach of putting up buildings wherever space can be bought, like uninvited guests crashing a party without regard for proper dress. This, too, problemizes the idea of the "city," since, for Americans, part of our image of a city tends to include a bit of chaos, and perhaps loneliness in the midst of crowds, the hardship, excitement, and challenge of being thrown in where there is little semblance of order or decorum. My own hometown of Detroit has been described as a "palimpsest" because of its map, originally planned as the spokes of a wheel (à la Rome) but erased and redrawn on the fly.
What is a city?
It's probably a crazy-quilt of much more diverse images than any one of us has stored up in our own head.
The truth is, even places we call "big cities"—which is certainly a relative term—don't fit this picture. Or they fit it imperfectly.
For example, I live in Oakland, California, a city whose reputation precedes it. Yes, there is violence here, crime, sirens, all that. Gangs and graffiti, all that. But overall, it feels quite suburban in many places. In the heart of the city, there is a large lake, a bird sanctuary and wildlife refuge. In Oakland, the buildings don't grow very tall, and downtown is small. Mostly, the city is made up of neighborhoods, each centered around its own small stretch that feels like any small-town Main Street with its boutiques, "mom & pop" groceries, familiar faces, and local flavors.
San Francisco is similar—it's made up of small-town neighborhoods. But while in both geographical size and population it is relatively small, its downtown has a big-city feel—tall buildings, theatre districts, a homelessness epidemic and all. Disproportionately to its small size, it's an important American city, particularly on the West Coast, and is a global tourism destination with so many vivid landmarks known the world over.
But I'm from Detroit. Recently, I saw a map showing the fact that San Francisco, Boston, and Manhattan could all fit within Detroit's borders with plenty of wiggle room. Detroit grew very rapidly beginning around the turn of the 20th century (the beginning of the city's third). Famous now for its fast depopulation, its boom—its explosion—happened much faster. As it grew, its borders expanded, even swallowing two "enclave" towns, Hamtramck and Highland Park. Now, with a population that's shrunk to just under one million (roughly equivalent to that of San Francisco and Oakland combined), it encompasses stretches of modern ruins and abandoned property. Many vacant lots are being reclaimed for urban, community gardens. Our sports teams are returning to the city, where there is available, inexpensive land. Downtonw is small, but beautiful and tall, even if dead quiet on a Saturday.
It's said, though, that all of Detroit is inner-city. It's true we have outrageous poverty and unemployment statistics, rund down and burned out housing, and more than our share of violent crime. But Detroit doesn't look "inner city"—at least not the way that term is imaged on TV cop shows set in Chicago and New York.
Detroit is, after all, if not the birthplace, the nursery of the American Dream. Most housing is detached, double- or single- family dwellings, with or without garages and driveways. There are pockets of wealthier homes, and scattered apartment buildings. No one lives downtown.
Detroit's a big city, suburban, and rural all in one.
Metro Detroit, which includes the city and its suburbs (including the suburb to the south—Windsor, Ontario, Canada), is made up of cities that melt into one another, blurring distinctions between neighboring cities. Warren, directly north of Detroit's East Side, is Michigan's third-largest city, but it's a suburb, and very suburban at that. You would be hard-pressed to find any stereotypical "urban" images there. Southfield, north of central Detroit, could be a second downtown to Detroit, were it within city borders. It's where many business moved after leaving Detroit, piling up skyscrapers to nest in.
Zooming out, Southeastern Michigan encompasses Metro Detroit (sans Windsor), plus "exurbs"—bedroom communities on the outskirts of the suburbs where people live and commute to the suburbs in a parody of the former commute from suburb to city. Southeastern Michigan also includes small towns, rural areas, and Ann Arbor, another major Michigan city. A college town.
Like any college town—like Athens, GA, or Berkeley, CA—Ann Arbor has a perennially fertile culture and arts scene. Like any city, it has a few skyscrapers, theatres, farmer's markets, and festivals, as well as a major university with its major hospital. Ann Arbor has suburbs of its own, too. The immediately adjoining city, Ypsilanti, may or may not be one of them.
Ypsi is either a large town or small city. Sometimes it feels more urban than Ann Arbor. On a smaller scale, Ypsi and Ann Arbor are, respectively, Oakland's real-world to San Francisco's artsy and cultural identity.
Lansing (the state capital of Michigan), Flint, Jackson, Grand Rapids, Midland, Saginaw, Port Huron, Mt. Pleasant—these are just a few of Michigan's other cities, island-like amid small towns and farms and woodlands. The tiny northern town of Alpena has its own TV market—perhaps the nation's smallest—simply because no other market is nearby. In Northern Michigan and the Upper Peninsula, a "city" is pretty much any small town that stands out from the backdrop of Michigan's wooded, rural beauty that draws more tourists, I'm sure, than our cities do.
What is a city? In my home state, sirens, taxis, subways (of which we have zero), congestion, are not requirements for a city. A city is quite possibly just a spot you can point to on your hand.
But it's still about some collection of certain public spaces and services, (relatively) tall buildings, cultural resources, and population. Running into people you don't know.
Older, European cities tend to be organized around a public square. American cities are sometimes criticized for this lack of order, for their much more pragmatic approach of putting up buildings wherever space can be bought, like uninvited guests crashing a party without regard for proper dress. This, too, problemizes the idea of the "city," since, for Americans, part of our image of a city tends to include a bit of chaos, and perhaps loneliness in the midst of crowds, the hardship, excitement, and challenge of being thrown in where there is little semblance of order or decorum. My own hometown of Detroit has been described as a "palimpsest" because of its map, originally planned as the spokes of a wheel (à la Rome) but erased and redrawn on the fly.
What is a city?
It's probably a crazy-quilt of much more diverse images than any one of us has stored up in our own head.
