Welcome to Dearborn — Please Ignore the Man by the Bus Stop

There’s a man at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Schaefer. White. Weathered. His cardboard sign doesn’t even bother with a slogan anymore — just a name, maybe a “God bless.” He’s become part of the scenery, right between the Yemeni coffee shop with the $8 latte and the mosque with the gold dome that photographs beautifully at sunset.

Dearborn drives right past him — literally and spiritually.

A City of Excess and Denial

We like to tell ourselves Dearborn has no homeless people. We have cousins. Cousins who sleep in finished basements. Cousins who “just need to get back on their feet.” Cousins who disappear for a while and reappear at the next wedding looking mysteriously tanned from “vacation.”

In Dearborn, homelessness doesn’t exist — it’s absorbed. It’s hidden under the weight of family reputation, backroom generosity, and the quiet shame of being seen.

So when you spot a man on the corner who isn’t one of us — white, alone, visible — it jars the community narrative. He’s not just a man with a sign. He’s a crack in the façade.

The Numbers We Pretend Don’t Apply to Us

Wayne County’s homelessness rose 8% in the past year, with over 4,000 people experiencing some form of housing instability. Dearborn’s poverty rate hovers around 30%, double the state average.

But those stats don’t make it into our coffee shop debates or mosque sermons. Because “poverty” in Dearborn usually wears a gold bracelet and drives a 2013 BMW.

Ask anyone on Schaefer and they’ll tell you:

“That guy? He’s not from here.”

Translation: We don’t claim him. We don’t want to think he could be us.

A Tale of Two Streets

Michigan Avenue by day: hijabis with matcha lattes, uncles buying lotto tickets at BP, influencers rehearsing their “coffee & Quran” Reels. Michigan Avenue by night: a man in a hoodie huddled under the glow of a shawarma sign, counting loose change.

The city loves to perform “community” — food drives, charity galas, influencer fundraisers with dramatic captions about empathy — but our compassion has a dress code. If you don’t look like our idea of “us,” you don’t exist.

And that’s the Dearborn paradox: we built a cultural empire out of family, faith, and hospitality, yet walk past strangers like they’re made of smoke.

The Arab Safety Net

Let’s be real — Arab Dearborn doesn’t do homelessness the way America does homelessness. Our social safety net isn’t government-funded; it’s cousin-funded.

If you lose your job, you move in with someone. If you can’t pay rent, someone “handles it.” If you’re spiraling, your aunt’s basement becomes rehab, therapy, and halfway house combined.

It’s a system built on shame and survival. It works — until it doesn’t. Because for all our talk about brotherhood, we’ve created a city where vulnerability is hidden, not healed.

Who Gets to Be Visible

There’s a hierarchy of suffering in Dearborn. Syrian refugee? Tragic but noble. Single mom? Strong but discreet. Homeless white guy by the bus stop? An eyesore.

He breaks the illusion of control — a reminder that safety, culture, and faith don’t immunize us from collapse. So we pretend he’s imported, temporary, not a reflection of our own fragility.

Maybe that’s why he stays. He’s our unintended mirror.

The Real American Dream

Dearborn has mastered the art of selective visibility. We brand our success — halal brunches, mosque expansions, Teslas parked at hookah lounges — but our empathy? That’s on private mode.

We donate to Yemen, Gaza, and Lebanon, but cross the street to avoid the man with the sign. Because giving online feels righteous. Looking him in the eye feels dangerous.

Maybe that’s the real Dearborn sermon: We’ve built a city so busy proving itself American, it forgot how to be human.

A Final Scene

Next time you drive past the man by the bus stop, notice how he blends in. How his presence says more about Dearborn than any city mural or politician ever could.

He’s not ruining the view — he is the view. The one we built but refuse to see.

Welcome to Dearborn. Please ignore the man by the bus stop. He’s only holding up a mirror.

The Unseen Struggles

Understanding Our Blind Spots

Let’s dig deeper. Why do we ignore the man with the sign? Is it because he disrupts our carefully curated narrative? We love to showcase our successes, our thriving businesses, and our family gatherings. But the truth? It’s messier.

We’re all just one job loss away from being that man. One bad decision away from a cardboard sign. Yet, we act like we’re immune. Like we’ve got it all figured out.

The Cost of Denial

Denying the existence of homelessness in Dearborn comes with a price. It costs us our humanity. We lose the ability to empathize. We forget that everyone has a story. Everyone has struggles.

When we ignore the man at the corner, we ignore the collective pain of our community. We become complicit in the silence. And that silence? It’s deafening.

Revisiting Our Values

So, what do we value? Is it wealth? Status? Or is it the very essence of community? The ability to lift each other up? To acknowledge our flaws and support one another?

Let’s face it: we need to revisit our values. We need to redefine what it means to be a community. It’s not just about family gatherings and shared meals. It’s about being there for each other in times of need.

A Call to Action

Let’s challenge ourselves. Next time you see someone in need, don’t look away. Engage. Offer a smile. A kind word. A helping hand.

Let’s break the cycle of denial. Let’s embrace our shared humanity. Because at the end of the day, we’re all in this together.

Yours truly,

Habib