Before I moved here, my first exposure to an authentic Flint was through the electric prose of Ben Hamper, the most eloquent "
Rivethead" I've ever had the pleasure to read. He wrote a memoir of his life on the line from 1977 to 1988, when Flint was free-falling into the emblem of economic and social pockmark we know today. Here is a passage, about a celebrated fistfight among some of his fellow workers, that made me want to know more closely this city-as-a-metaphor:
Flint, glorious Flint. I think I understood their grief and what it was that attracted them so to this ridiculous mayhem. They certainly weren't here as spectators of sport, for this 'Toughman Contest' could hardly qualify as anything more than organized barbarism. I believed they were all here to commit some kind of weird personal exorcism. The toughmen were just convenient foils for the true meat-grinders of the world: the landlords, the foremen, the cops, the judges, the nagging spouse, the fools in charge. Violence as one glorious teething ring for the benumbed and trampled masses.
Flint, with all of its automotive start-ups and shutdowns. All the uncertainty and paranoia and idle tension. It wasn't so strange. It was a real wonder we weren't all being fitted for loinclothes and nose bones. Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio, our lonely ratpack wants to KICK YOUR SAGGIN', COFFEE-BREWIN' ASS!
I was never going to know this Flint, if it still exists. If it ever existed. I am in this piece, but I schmooze with "the cops, the judges," and I'll soon be "the nagging spouse." I think I got flavors of Hamper's world from the people I met here, but they were glimpses into a place I'll never understand, and it's not what I'll remember about my time in Flint. And if, in the future, I too see Flint as a metaphor, it won't be of barbarism. Maybe, approximately, it will be of community. Of independence, at the same time. I will remember a small group of dedicated people trying to carve out a functioning city on their own terms.