A friend forwarded an email a while back, the daily come-and-click pitch from the other newspaper in town, touting a front-page feature on one of the two Boblo boats, the Ste. Claire, losing its National Historic Landmark designation.  

“SINK THE BOBLO BOAT,” he wrote, adding a knife emoji so I wouldn’t miss his point.  

I didn’t. He’s a millennial and I’m a boomer, but we’re in agreement on this one. Sink the Boblo boat. Drive the last muscle cars off a cliff. Stop playing Motown everywhere, all the time. Tear Detroit’s eyes away from the rearview mirror, and try looking through the windshield.  

Nostalgia is a poison, and we need a good detox.  

Our Maurice salads are killing us

It’s a Rust Belt thing, not confined to Detroit, but I’d argue we have the worst case of nostalgia poisoning I’ve yet seen. It’s understandable, given the city’s last 70 years of history, but that doesn’t make it right. There’s honoring history, and being mired by it. Sometimes a sharp break with the past is absolutely what the doctor ordered. Our Maurice salads, literal and figurative, are killing us. 

Looking back, and not forward, leads to laughable episodes like 2023’s Growing Michigan Together Council, tasked with finding strategies to reverse the state’s abysmal rate of population growth (49th in the nation) and attract more Gen Z residents. The council’s co-chairs were both septuagenarians. When Gov. Gretchen Whitmer added three youngsters in midsummer, it dropped the council’s average age to … 52.  

Beyond the comedy of those numbers, imagine what it says to those few young people who might be considering settling here, to hear over and over that the good ol’ days are gone for good, that you shoulda been here when the Tigers played at Michigan and Trumbull, when you could see Jack White at the Gold Dollar for five bucks. 

Like most people in Metro Detroit, I live in the suburbs, where you can find people who once lived in Detroit, moved away during the middle-class diaspora, but can’t stop complaining about it. They drive back to the old neighborhoods to scowl and disapprove and mutter, as though merely sneering will somehow shame the city into pulling up its socks and fixing itself.  

Miss Havisham is a character in Charles Dickens’ “Great Expectations.” Jilted at the altar, she spends the rest of her life lurking in her dark mansion in her wedding gown, the cake uneaten and moldering on its table.

She’s a tragic figure; don’t we understand that?  

Sometimes ‘classic’ just means ‘old’

I’m also convinced much of the rancor aimed at boomers is due to our generation’s coining of the term “classic rock,” which kept the genre mired in yesterday, replaying Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones for decades. I like oldies as much as the next girl, but damn, when I was a teenager my parents weren’t constantly playing Benny Goodman and the Andrews Sisters in the house and car, as many of us subjected our own kids to. 

Nostalgia poisoning kept Tiger Stadium standing years past when it should have been imploded to rubble. Other teams manage to move to new fields and not look back; why was Detroit so fixated on an ugly, crumbling pile that grew uglier and crumblier by the year? But-but-but, Ty Cobb! Ernie Harwell! Mark Fidrych! I used to go there with Grampy! The limb had long ago turned gangrenous, but still we resisted amputation.  

I was at the North American International Auto Show the year GM announced it was resuscitating the Chevy Camaro. The concept rolled onto the Cobo floor at the end of a parade of classics from the model’s golden era in the ’60s and ’70s, while a screaming crowd swooned.

A friend, not a Detroiter and unexcited by this news, told me about the last Camaro he owned, a car that didn’t so much wear out as decompose, shedding parts at a standstill in his driveway. It was, he said, a car defeated by gravity. When the roof liner fell gently onto his head one morning, he put it up for sale.  

I thought a lot about what he said, and about the gearheads who lined up to drool over the concept Camaro at the auto show, every one of them at or past AARP’s automatic-membership threshold. Three years later, the Camaro landed in showrooms, a gorgeous car, but I never saw anyone under 50 driving one, if you don’t count Shia LeBoeuf in “Transformers.”  

These days, I’m interested in the future

At this point I have to stop and reassure angry readers that of course I respect history. No one’s advocating we tear down the Penobscot Building. I mourn the lovely old buildings cleared for more parking lots in the central city. If someone offered me a ride in their ‘69 Camaro, I’d say thanks, and get in. Saving Michigan Central Station? A triumph. 

But I’m done with the Dream Cruise. If you insist on playing Motown, it better be deep cuts, or we’re gonna have words. Hudson’s isn’t just gone, department stores in general are on their last legs. The future arrives every day, right on schedule, and that’s what interests me these days.  

And yes, it’s time to give up the Boblo dream. The park’s been closed for 30 years, and that boat isn’t worth saving. Tow it to Lake Erie, push it over Niagara Falls. Then let’s all move on. 

Nancy Derringer is a mostly retired journalist living in Grosse Pointe Woods. Submit a letter to the editor at freep.com/letters.