“Trump is not the disease of our politics—he’s just the worst symptom,” Abdul El-Sayed tells Detroit is Different, and from that line he builds a whole Michigan-rooted case for why progressives can’t just run against villains—they’ve got to run for people. In this deep, story-rich conversation, Abdul traces his Detroit foundation from an Egyptian father who “literally studied into existence the life I got to live” to a multiracial Michigan family that forced him to “explain myself to people my whole life,” and he connects that lived truth to organizing: the courage to face the bully, because “once you let them take your lunch money once you’re never going to eat lunch.” He breaks down public health as moral politics—“15 hours or 15 minutes” can mean a ten-year life expectancy gap—and calls out a system where CEOs get rich “while denying healthcare to people who they know need it.” From rebuilding Detroit’s health department (glasses vans outside schools) to refusing corporate money, Abdul lays out a liberal, progressive, activist spirit that echoes Michigan’s long tradition of labor, civil rights, and community-led power: “It’s not enough to say what you’re against—you got to say what you’re for.”

“You don’t get a blueprint in Detroit—you just have to be good and consistent.” Spoken word artist, poet, experience creator, and filmmaker Natasha T. Miller joins Detroit is Different for a deeply grounded conversation on what artistry means when it’s rooted in family, responsibility, and legacy Black culture. With humor and honesty, she reflects on being “300 cousins deep,” tracing her lineage back to Highland Park and a 14-bedroom family home that survived without lights or water—proof that Detroit creativity has always been born from endurance. T. Miller opens up about grief, raising her nephew after the loss of her brother, and how those life shifts reshaped her art: “It wasn’t a burden—it was what I was supposed to be doing.” She challenges the myth of the starving artist, insisting that sustainability is part of integrity: “If you’re making a decision to be a professional poet, you need to make money in that decision.” From the explosive era of Detroit’s spoken-word movement to her current work archiving grief, parenting, and memory through film and performance, this episode connects past and future. It’s a testament to Detroit’s experimental spirit—where art feeds community, accountability fuels creativity, and legacy is something you actively build.

“I wanted a red brick house in Detroit. That’s all I wanted.” In this Detroit is Different studio sit-down, Misha Stallworth West—Senior Program Officer at the Ralph C. Wilson, Jr. Foundation—traces a five-generation arc from Selma to Detroit and family full of community organizers. She remembers a “stoic” grandfather, and a grandmother Alma Stallworth nicknamed “the Rep,” whose fierce love for children helped shape the Northwest Activity Center, Beaubien Junior High, and the Black Caucus Foundation of Michigan’s drug, tobacco, and violence prevention work. Misha explains how growing up in meetings made her “a well-trained introvert,” and why she’s “never asked herself if I’m allowed to speak in any space—ever.” From Grant Park Chicago IL on election night of Barack Obama, to part of Detroit’s first school board after emergency management, she connects Legacy Black Detroit’s political education to today’s care economy. Her current focus is caregivers of older adults: “every time you go get a box for my auntie house, I’m talking about you,” and “you can’t pour from an empty cup.” This episode is a blueprint for how Detroit’s past-built institutions can power our next future. and how we honor elders.

“My life will be better if everybody else’s life gets better”—that’s the heartbeat of this Detroit is Different conversation with musician and lifelong activist Bill Meyer, where jazz isn’t just sound, it’s a human-rights practice. Bill takes us from his family’s Depression-era move from Canada to Detroit, to learning piano out of pure little-brother defiance—“the only way I could stop him was if I went and sat on the piano bench”—and into the moment he first saw racism up close as a child and knew something was deeply wrong. He breaks down how he didn’t understand “the politics” of jazz until college, when Vietnam-era organizing radicalized him, and he started naming the truth: “Jazz is black music,” and too often “the black people created it…and the white people made all the money.” From producing a 1987 Detroit tribute to Paul Robeson to building a 24-year jam-session institution at Bert’s, Bill calls community-building “a political project”—using music to cross lines, support Black business, and push peace and justice. This episode connects past movements to future ones with a simple charge: “Music is love…bring people together.”