Who is Flint?

In the past year, I've taken a liking to this place. The cozy little yoga studio where I teach, the bright airy farmers market where everybody knows everybody, the monthly art gallery parties downtown. Even the soup kitchen feels more like a big, loud family reunion than a meal for the poor. When I moved here, Flint's reputation had me crippled with fear. Yet the more I became exposed to the quirky and gentrified downtown, the more those concerns faded away and were replaced by another sort of blind satisfaction with this place.

Then a different side of Flint began to seep into my periphery. One of my patients told me he needed his hip to work for him because he couldn't walk outside in a compromised physical condition. Not because of pain or his inability to walk long distances, but because if he was jumped on the streets he wouldn't be able to get away. "It's a ferocious world out there," he told me, in a very manner-of-fact way.

One of my jobs is reading surveys given to people at the farmers market about their satisfaction with the new location. They are all resoundingly positive, and everyone is thrilled with the new community hub. Last week, the enthusiasm for the market came with a dark undertone. "It is like an island here," one survey read. "I feel like I am in a different universe. Everyone is so happy and nice." Most surveys mention that it feels like a safe place. I get monthly email notifications about shootings that occur at the bus station right across the street, so I never walk on that side. I started to realize that I live on the Flint island, and I have never even set foot on the beach.

Yesterday, I met Flint. She was a scrappy just-over middle aged woman wearing pajama pants and a jean jacket. She was the kind of person who looked tired and full of energy at the same time, bright, alert eyes framed by dark circles. She is an artist and a dancer and works for Walmart, and she has big plans for the city. She is writing a grant to turn an old warehouse into artist studio space. In the fall, she was going to buy a big house and convert it into an art studio/bed and breakfast, but her partner backed out on her at the last minute so she bought a house at the tax auction for 300 dollars instead. When you buy a house that way, she told me, you inherit all of it's problems. Without running water or a stove, she has been urban camping in this place ever since. She has a membership at the Y, where they have hot showers and coffee and snacks and a comfy leather couch where she can sit and read the paper. This was a great comfort to her during a rough patch after she had been attacked by two pit bulls, her car had broken down, and she was terrified to walk outside. Two years of constant loss, she told me. Two years of nothing going her way. Even Robin Williams died, she said. But on that sunny spring morning, she believed things would change. The next two years are going to be good, she told me, because we are due for it.  

Exhausted and full of energy. Beaten down and full of hope. I'm still not sure what Flint is, but I know it's never what I expect.