On June 1st, I rolled out of bed and opened Twitter. A mutual had reposted a flier for a book launch in Detroit. I’d heard about plenty of dissident art events related to the Dimes Square crowd in New York, and acquaintances had conducted literary salons in DC, but nothing yet here in the Pleasant Peninsula.
Unless you’re an oddball internet addict, you likely don’t know what Dimes Square is and “dissident lit” probably isn’t on your radar. Dimes Square refers to a downtown New York arts and literary scene composed of “post left” women and their hopeful “dissident right” suitors.
The scene formed around 2018 and really took off post-pandemic, centering on Anna Khachiyan and Dasha Nekrasova’s podcast “Red Scare” and Adam Friedland’s “CumTown.” What makes it interesting is not necessarily its devotion to Nietzsche or Camille Paglia, but its disregard for liberal pieties and rebellious attitude that rejects the policing of speech by both left and right. For example, they say “gay” and “retarded” proudly, usually followed by a knowing chuckle.
Whether or not the podcasts are good or the auto-fiction interesting, the fact that it is “dissident” is indicative of a broader cultural shift: people are throwing out the oppressive attitudes of pre-approved opinions. They are starving for something titillating, transgressive, or even truthful.
So far, dissident lit has stayed in New York City. When I heard it was coming to Detroit, I knew I had to be there.
*
The Polka Dot Bar in Hamtramck. The book of the night was a collection of short stories entitled “Lizard Brain,” published by Tragickal. There’s not much information about Tragickal available on their website, just some “totally sick” graphic design and a stubborn refusal to define itself, brave enough in a world dependent on legibility for approval.
Hamtramck isn’t a very hipster part of town. The formerly Polish neighborhood has in recent years become a colony of Dearborn, with shop signs in Arabic and burkas galore. I had no idea what to expect, but I hoped for the best: something interesting.
I arrived at 7:30 p.m. and surveyed the scene. Some people were still setting up the sound system as I made my way to the bar and grabbed a beer. As I perused covers at a merch table in the back, a tall woman with white-blonde hair came up and introduced herself. With a slavic accent, she explained that she was the graphic designer responsible for the covers I was perusing.
“Why was the event in Detroit?” This sort of thing usually happens out on the coasts. She confessed that it was out of convenience since many of their writers were from the Midwest or Canada.
I ventured to the back patio for a smoke. About 15 others stood out back in the light rain, smoking cigarettes and making hesitant small talk. I met two brothers. One in workman’s clothes smoking Marlboro reds. The other was in all black and had a trimmed beard. We struck up a conversation about being from Metro Detroit. They were departed Dutch Christians. I found that out because when I don’t know what to talk about, I talk about Catholicism.
The brother in all black’s “partner” was hosting the event. She used to work for a nonprofit that helped transgender and non-binary writers. I was surprised to find that out, but dissident doesn’t always mean right wing, and in the Midwest it’s still a little edgy to be so socially progressive.
The event was finally getting started, and we were called back inside. But, like a dinner bell deceives, so did their call; the microphones weren’t ready. I found the blonde woman from earlier was now free and asked her about the political and social leanings of the event. She said that they were just interested in honesty and having open and hard conversations. Nobody was excluded, even those whose speech may be deemed offensive. “After all,” she said, “how are we supposed to get anywhere if we refuse to engage in good faith?”
I got another beer and stepped out for another cigarette before things got started. A solitary blond man with torn gray chinos and paper falling out of his pockets lingered outside; his silver pack of American Spirits sitting on the table next to a notepad and pen. He smiled my way and gestured for me to sit with him in the rain while everyone else waited in the stuffy bar.
From Iowa and a writer himself, Evan wasn’t reading tonight. Instead, he made the journey to support his friend Anna Krivolapova. She was the one that had reposted the flier that brought me here, so we chatted about her briefly. She wore a bright blue dress.
We went inside and the reading commenced. A lot of it was quite crass. A very large man in a graphic T-shirt read a story about an incel killing and raping a woman and then praising Trump. Maybe ironic? A lanky fellow in his Sunday best read a series of seemingly unrelated tweets. Experimental, I suppose. A woman who looked familiar with airport romances read a very vulgar apocalyptic story about a man that had to kill his girlfriend because she wouldn’t do it herself. It reframed the selfishness of suicide; living was the selfish act.
Anna’s story came near the end: an adopted brother wreaks terror upon a loving family, with no rhyme or reason, gobbling up grace like an insatiable, inexhaustible pig, leaving none for the family’s true daughter. Dark, but digestible.
These stories certainly qualified as dissident—and not only because most would find their crudeness disruptive or offensive. Though certainly not right-wing, the collection wouldn’t be found in mainstream leftist circles either. The inherent messiness of our human condition was the priority here, not identity politics. This ambiguity and disregard for the liberal cultural hegemony is hopeful. Perhaps censorship is on the decline and artists will freely entangle themselves in nasty books, unsavory relationships, and indulge in the canonical edgelord texts.
Sat around a small table, Evan, Anna, a mutual named Jon. Small talk doesn’t last long, maybe due to Gen Z’s short attention span. Certain topics are generally avoided, not for the sake of propriety or politeness, but because they are assumed points of agreement and to agree is boring. But at our small table, things were different: Everything was up for debate.
We agreed that adoption was the result of a moral evil: the abandonment of children. The breakdown of families irrevocably damages those involved. Anna had a more pessimistic view, but I chalked that up to her Russian demeanor. Her family experienced a lot of death in Soviet Russia.
Conversation turned to drugs as Jon began to lay out what he’d researched on CIA experiments and conspiracies. Unfortunately, we were interrupted by a middle-aged Canadian woman with bangles and a bob who was drunk or high… probably both.
She heard “weed” and jumped in to sing Miss Mary Jane’s praises. An “herbal healer” by trade, she began a long-winded diatribe against the medical establishment. But then she kept going. Colonialism and Donald Trump are the greatest evils we have to overcome. “We white people need to apologize and give space to the natives and immigrants.” My friends and I quickly bore of these stale liberal talking points. We’re tired of apologizing, tired of being blamed, tired of being called evil. Guilt trips can only last so long.
“I don’t want to listen to a poorly regurgitated Instagram infographic,” I said. “Also, I’m Mexican, and I think that Donald Trump is the greatest performance artist of our time. And Canada is gay.”
Finally, she left. I could’ve been kinder, but she represents one of my greatest frustrations with libs: They assume everyone agrees with them. It reveals a deracinated moral simplicity. They can’t fathom that good or pleasant people could engage in wrongthink. They think this way because we’ve let them. Dogma declares salvation for those who believe what’s right, not for those who do what’s right.
At such “intellectual events,” a typical pattern is observed. The men find the one woman with interesting opinions and gather round her to simp, while other women gossip about how that one interesting girl is a total b*tch, and then a handful of self-aggrandizing pseudo-intellectuals hold a small audience hostage with their tired “radical” takes.
Amid cigarette smoke and a sea of awkward, internet-like chatter, our table went on to discuss metal music, Orthodoxy, abortion, Russian identity, good books, and homosexuality as a metaphor. Anecdotes were recognized as evidence (it’s usually the best kind), and appeals were made to Natural Law, woman’s intuition, and general vibes. No disrespect, just honest, curious conversation. And I got to learn about some really horrible things that the CIA allegedly did to our people.
On my drive back to the suburbs that night, I thought: that wasn’t “based,” but it was honest. These writers were telling odd stories aimed at truth and unconcerned with agenda. Artists are moving forward from social justice jargon and enforced adherence to political correctness. The dissidents are the source of cultural energy now.
That energy is coursing through Detroit. The city remembers its combative and unapologetic spirit. The Vibe Shift has reached the Midwest. I’m hopeful for art in the provinces, in our great state of Michigan.
Caleb Wallace Holm is a contributing writer for Michigan Enjoyer. Follow him on X @calebwholm and Instagram @calebwallaceholm.
