The other day I spoke with a group of black students at Michigan State University, many of whom were to take the short trek down I-96 toward their homes in Detroit for a weekend break.
“Remember to fill your tanks before you leave so you do not have to stop in Howell,” one of the students said.
This was a similar refrain I heard as a student at Central Michigan University. Gas up in Mt. Pleasant or East Lansing. Make sure you make it through the Devil’s triangle of Howell.
They will mob you because you are black. They will be rude to you because you are not like them.
I used to nod my head in agreement and promised not to get trapped in Howell for fear the town folks would gather and do away with me.
I did not remain silent this time when the MSU students repeated a warning I’ve heard for decades. Don’t stop in Howell. The Klan will get you. I told the group that I did not fear Howell.
I don’t fear the town. I don’t fear the people. I don’t fear its racist past that caused many to skip this quiet, delightful town that I’ve grown to know the past four years. What happens periodically is the Klan and skin heads gather some place in Howell for a rally. They believe they have support from the community.
They don’t.
They believe people in the community will join them in spreading hate.
They won’t.
Howell gets a bad reputation because the general public knows about the Klan rallies. What doesn’t get reported is that the town rebels against these people and tell them not to return.
Here is how we generally live our lives. We make assumptions about people we never meet. We don't like places we never visit. And we go by hearsay on what a town is really like.
I eat in Howell. I shop in Howell. I write stories about Howell’s football and girls basketball teams.
A few years ago I walked the downtown streets Howell in fear of some bigot calling me a name. It never happened.
I enjoyed lunch at Cleary’s Pub and 2 Fog’s Pub waiting for someone to ask what I was doing there. It never happened.
I walked into Burgs on Main, half expecting some clerk to follow me throughout the store because they were fearful of me shop lifting. It has happened a number of times in other cities. Instead, when I stepped into the shop I heard a cheery voice ask how my day was going and did I want to glance at their men’s collection.
The woman did not follow me in the store. Instead, she led me through the store to peak at men’s shirts and a possible birthday gift for the wife. We chatted and laughed and mostly talked about our grown children.
My friends say people are nice to me in places like Howell or Brighton only because of my journalism career in radio and The Detroit News. The lady at Burgs on Main did not know who I was.
The young women at Good Sense Coffee don’t know who I am. They simply saw a new customer struggling with a mug of hot tea and offered me a few ice cubes to cool it down.
The Howell coaches are aware of my career at 97.1 The Ticket and the Detroit News. Their athletes are not.
My advice to black students at Michigan State and CMU is it is safe to stop for gas in Howell, especially if it is Mugg and Bopps because they got what you forgot.