Falling in love with Belle Isle is a Detroit tradition
Nestled in the middle of the Detroit River, Belle Isle represents the best of what parks can provide. And don’t take it from us—take it from the hundreds of Detroiters that wrote love letters to the park.
As a child growing up in Detroit in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, I don’t know if I ever stopped to think about how lucky I was to live in a city with its own massive island park nestled inside a river. All I know is that I loved Belle Isle. On summer weekends, in lieu of sleepaway camp or a Canadian cottage beyond our working-class reach, my mother would pile my cousins and I into her powder blue Buick Riviera. Nary a seatbelt in sight, windows down, hot air rushing at us, she would drive east from our northwest homes, taking the Lodge freeway before cruising along Jefferson Avenue. As soon as we crossed the bridge and passed the boathouse, our delight swelled. We knew we’d arrived.
Mama always brought several rolls of quarters with her; the moment she dropped those gleaming silver coins into our pudgy outstretched hands; we’d raced up the 91 steps that led to the Giant Slide. We’d speed down, hovering above our burlap magic carpets as we hit hump after hump after hump. We repeated this ritual until dusk overtook the park. At that point, Mama would pile us back into the car, and drive right up to the Detroit River, idling alongside the river’s edge.
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Mama would shush us kids, then just sit there behind the wheel, staring silently at the roiling waters as night fell. As a child, it felt as though this imposed quiet went on forever. Finally, she’d shift gears, our cue to start back chattering all at once as she drove us to the park’s majestic fountain, where mesmerizing diamonds of water rose and fell, shining pink, orange, and yellow against the evening sky. Mama would give me and my cousins each one final quarter, which we squeezed in our small hands as we solemnly approached the fountain, closed our eyes, and made a wish. Mama joined us in this ritual, tossing a silver dollar into the fountain for good luck. I don’t remember her closing her eyes, but I assume she made a wish too. I know for sure that she believed in luck. Bodies of water soothed Mama; having migrated north from Nashville, leaving behind its Cumberland River and many lakes, she relied on the Detroit River and its island jewel to ease that longing as she stepped away from her daily demands as a banker in Detroit’s numbers racket. Back then, I thought she came to Belle Isle expressly to give us kids some fun; now I know she also came to give herself some solace.
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In a way, my family was following something of a tradition, one that stretches far beyond our city’s borders. Manhattanites have Central Park; San Franciscans have Golden Gate Park; and indeed, you likely have a park or watering hole or natural space nearby that you go to for solace, for inspiration, for restoration, for joy. Detroiters have Belle Isle, and we’ve been falling in love with it for generations. Recently, photographer Amy Sacka embarked on a passion project to capture in both visuals and words what’s made that space so special for our city. It all started with a notepad in a wooden box that contained a simple prompt: “Write a love letter to Belle Isle.” In just a year, over 700 people took her up on the challenge. Pairing the love letters with photographs made in the park for over a decade, Sacka was able to capture the love that people like Mama, like my cousins and I, have carried for this place for years.
If you ask me, Detroit is unlike any other city, and Belle Isle is unlike any other park. As with the city itself, Belle Isle has thrived, miraculously survived, and thrived again. It exists in defiance of what outsiders think of both Detroit and its people. It’s a sprawling yet also private, if-you-know-you know place. For us. A place ripe for a child’s memory-making, for sure, which lives on in our imagination long after natives like me have left the city. Yet, its most valuable gift is as a respite of illogical beauty for grown folks with grown up demands and fragile dreams. Through it all, Belle Isle holds us. That’s why my love for this one-of-a-kind park remains: Because it gave both succor and serenity to my mother—and a million other mothers and fathers and daughters and sons before her, and after.
Belle Isle gives us all a safe space to just be.
