A few weeks ago, upon my return from a spring break in sunny Mexico, I was driving through Detroit on a crisp, sunny day with my window down bumping “Respiration” by Black Star, taking in all the sights that my city has to offer, and I was motivated to write this here column. More importantly, it gives me an opportunity to address a lingering issue that reared its ugly, confused little head back in the beginning of my freshman year … .

Paul Wong
Dustin J. Seibert

What’s the deal with all these clowns shittin’ on Tha D like they do? Every time I turn in another direction, someone else is blasting my city. After some deliberation, I have broken the haters down into three specific categories:

There is your average, sheltered, suburbanite whose experience with inner city black folks has probably only been limited to Chris Tucker movies. People in this category make quick and often unfounded conclusions about a city that they have never set foot in. A few years ago, I told a girl from St. Clair Shores that I was from Detroit. Her first response? “Umm, so, like, uhh, do you, like, y’know, umm, live in the part where people get, like, killed a lot and stuff?” It’s like her big brother ventured to Greektown once and came home with a “comprehensive” report of the violent areas in the city or something.

Next, there are your New York/Chicago/ L.A. natives who won’t waste a hot second to tell you how wack Detroit is compared to their hometowns. They have a really bad superiority complex (particularly some of these goddamn New Yorkers), and they like to spend time bitching about how they can’t find the clubs, music or restaurants that they have at home. If you have complaints about Michigan, then stay your sorry play-going, latt

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