As part of our collaboration, reading across borders, Rachel “discovered” Genevieve Graham’s Bluebird, set in Windsor Ontario, and I found a copy of Ibi Zoboi’s American Street, set in Detroit, at the local library.

Neither of us chose for the other, but we shared our picks in advance and each of us thought the other had chosen well. I couldn’t say how Windsor-y Graham’s novel would feel, but she tells a good love story. (Rachel, herself, had written about American Street previously but somehow I missed it.)

Last year, Ibi Zoboi won The Coretta Scott King Award for Nigeria Jones (2023), which some might have predicted based on her debut novel’s shortlisting for the National Book Award in 2017. (Previously she published short stories in anthologies like Haiti Noir—I love the Noir series, each revolving around a major city.) American Street is one of those high-profile teen reads that has gained readers with cross-category marketing (The Hate U Give was published the same year.)

Like Fabiola in American Street, the novelist also came to the United States from Haiti, without her mother but to a Brooklyn neighbourhood in the ‘80s, whereas Fabiola’s story unfolds in Detroit today. (Somewhere online I read that Zoboi didn’t think today’s Brooklyn would reflect the same experiences she had growing up, so she chose to set her novel in Detroit instead.)

Fabiola’s mother imagined a life for the two of them, living with her sister (Fabiola’s aunt), and her sister’s daughters (Fabiola’s cousins). But her mother is detained by authorities when the two of them arrive in the United States, and Fabiola must complete her journey alone and adjust to life in America without her mother’s support.

Mostly she notices just the kinds of details that you’d expect from a teenager in that situation, where her “cousins’ voices are the background music to the broken Detroit streets”, along with “the easy and boring teachers and schoolwork, the trips to McDonald’s and pizza spots ,and the endless seconds, minutes, hours without my mother.”

The oldest of those daughters describes the sense of belonging to both Haiti and America like this: “Creole and Haiti stick to my insides like glue—it’s like my bones and muscles. But American is my skin, my eyes, and my breath. According to my papers, I’m not even supposed to be here.” Zoboi makes it clear that there are many different ways to be new to America. On arrival, Fabiola’s paperwork was sufficient, but her mother’s provoked a detainment order (and the family remains unsure as to her whereabouts), and not everyone even has paperwork.

Fabiola’s connection to Haitian culture is fresher than her cousins; she even believes she sees Papa Legba in the figure of a man in the neighbourhood who seems constantly present and occasionally is singing:

“And who is Papa Legba?”
“He is the Iwa of crossroads. When there’s no way, Papa Legba will make a way. He opens doors and unlocks gates,” I say. “I have to pray to him so he can help my mother come to this side.”

That seems clear to Fabiola, but she has a harder time understanding the relationships between powerful figures in the community and the way that ordinary people must navigate those power channels. Like about Uncle Q, who is actually Dray’s uncle—and only Dray’s uncle, even though absolutely everyone calls him ‘uncle’—and is responsible for the death of Fabiola’s uncle. (This isn’t a spoiler, it’s just not something everyone admits aloud.)

Our Detroit Reads, Rachel’s and mine.

The family home is at 8800 American Street, and it was originally occupied by a young Polish couple who came from New York City, to work at Ford River Rouge. (The house’s history reminded me of Rachel’s experience with The Turner House.) Fabiola has trouble imagining what their life was like in the past, and her own future seems just as unclear. Nothing feels familiar, little seems possible. Her sense of uncertainty is relatable:

“I let my mind wander as I stare out the window. I notice how much wider the skies are in Detroit. There are no hills or mountains or valleys. In Haiti, behind the mountains are more mountains, But here, at the end of every road are more roads.”

As is Fabiola’s craving to belong. In the author’s note, Zoboi writes: “We fold our immigrant selves into this veneer of what we think is African American girlhood. The result is more jagged than smooth.” Identity is complicated and Zoboi’s story highlights the enduring appeal of this complicated scenario. Her characters exhibit the kind of resilience that Rachel also observed in her reading about Detroit.

The grit of Zoboi’s story appeals to me and the characters feel believable to me; I longed for just a little more detail, but I understand that the very detail I craved might not suit a teen audience. I actually want to know what they loved most to order from McDonalds (not only that they eat there), and the kinds of cars that are parked in the neighbourhood, even when “a thin white sheet of snow covers the burned-out houses and buildings.” (For Zoboi, the cars wouldn’t’ve been a Thing in Brooklyn, so I can see why she’s overlooked that… but I do wish that American Street felt just a little more Detroit-y. It sounds like Rachel’s Detroit selection might have felt more that way.)

Thanks for reading along, for checking out Rachel’s thoughts on her cross-border reading, and thanks to you, too, Rachel, for your enthusiasm about such a wide variety of stories and media.

Feel free to take up the idea for yourselves, find a border you can across via your reading, with or without a travelling/reading companion. I’ll definitely continue to Read Detroit, because I found a few other very interesting options along the way, and I’ll also be looking for other borders to read across.