Street Scene
I came across a homeless man the other day while I was crossing the park across the street from the White House. After having been here for several days, I now realize that this is no unusual occurrence, and yet I think it affects me just as much each time. On this particular occasion, the man was of African American descent, and he was seated with his back to me on a concrete bench that was part of a table set. He wore a faded long sleeve blue shirt that clung to him by patches of sweat. I never saw his face because his head rested on his left forearm on the table. His entire posture suggested defeat and exhaustion. Even his meager possessions gathered haphazardly in a nearby grocery cart seemed tired and haggard. I distinctly remember the absence of distinguishable color from his wardrobe and belongings.
As I passed him, I couldn't tear my eyes away. He wasn't rattling a cup containing loose change, and he had no cardboard sign. Maybe it was the lack of these that caused my step to falter slightly and my throat's sudden constriction. I was standing on a swept brick pathway bordered by neatly trimmed grass looking at such honest desolation no more than 200 yards from the home of one of the world's most influential leaders. I was struck once again with the contrast in this city between the successful and the downtrodden, and I was filled with the need to do something about it, yet overwhelmed by the vastness of the problem. This whole scene lasted no more than a few seconds and then I was on my way again, back to a life of comforts and what to me has always been a life of enjoyment. How sad that merely my sympathy isn't enough to understand a way of life that the social step ladder will forever keep from me because I was lucky enough to have been born to privilege.
Washington, DC
8/29/02
Bureau of Bureaucracy
This piece amazes me. I can’t seem to take my eyes off of it. It’s a life size wooden bureau complete with various shelves and cabinets. The lines are liquid and seem to flow along the glossy polished exterior, reflecting the lights from the ceiling so as to illuminate every detail. I find it ironic how well its structure mimics the structure of the city. On one cabinet door, there is a painting of several books, two of which are labeled "Humanity" and "Rationality." In the adjacent open cabinet is a miniature model of what looks to be the inside of the Capitol Dome, complete with classic architecture. Anything one chose to keep inside this bureau would have its own specific place just as each nook would serve a specific purpose, much like our government. In addition, the outside is smooth and simple, yet when one opens it up, the many intricacies became apparent. There are many shadows, and places that one cannot see. Perhaps these shadows are where the homeless lurk and the panhandlers mingle while their more affluent counterparts stroll the shiny halls in business suits, in constant motion so as to keep the governmental machine functioning properly. I can almost envision thousands of miniature people moving around inside of this compact yet detailed structure as I watch omnisciently from above. I step back, completely humbled.
Washington, DC
8/30/02
Teddy Roosevelt Island
The world stops here. People walking by interrupt it and make it start again, but soon they are gone and I'm left alone with my thoughts. I sometimes wonder what it is I'm doing here. What's the plan, what's my purpose, where do I fit in to the "bigger picture" we speak so much about in class? I know deep inside that this experience has already affected me more than anything I can remember. The sheer knowledge of the fact that I am seated on a concrete slab inscribed with words spoken by the man immortalized in bronze just a few feet away is a concept my mind is having a hard time grasping. I'm here. I'm in DC, far away from people who have shaped me into who I am and finding a whole new group of people adding more to the mystery that is me. People I've known less than two weeks, people I already care so much for. They've gotten under my skin, as has this city. It's in my lungs, I breathe it in every time I walk out my front door. It's in my eyes every time I'm struck with the beauty and magnificence of the places I visit. It's in my heart every time pride and awe overcome me at what it means to live so freely and the daily effort that goes into making that a possibility.
I've been without an anchor these past four days. I'm confused, I'm discouraged, and I don't have a clue where I'm going to end up, here or a year from now. It's scary, and yet I come to this place where the cicadas serenade me, and the tiny wildlife isn't afraid to survive, and I'm ok with it all. This island is an oasis of peace. There are no angry drivers honking their horns, no homeless vagabonds begging for money, no television reporters talking of an impending war on CNN. I come here, and I can breathe again. The world stops, and I'm left alone with my thoughts.
Washington, DC
9/8/02
America Remembers
Since I left the night lying atop the Capitol in its purple hue, broken by the hundreds of flickering candle lights, I have wanted to pour my emotions out on paper. But now, words just seem inadequate. How do I describe something that reaches into your soul and wraps its fingers around your heart until tears fill your eyes and your vision blurs? I literally could not speak as a chorus of voices floated over the black water of the reflecting pool and sifted into my ears. My eyes found a home in the trees to the left of the Capitol. Absentmindedly, I pressed the fluorescent blue light stick to my lips, a paper flag in one hand reverberating in the chilly wind that had blown out my candle.
The surge of humanity gathered here at the foot of this magnificent building, with its flag flying over at half-mast, gripped me. Race did not matter here, age and sex did not matter here, all the petty grievances we occupy ourselves with on a daily basis did not matter here. All that mattered was the common wound inflicted upon us all one year ago today when someone used twenty tons of steel to take away the light that shined in all the people we never knew would mean so much to us; the people whose lights echoed in candle wax all around the pool. I have never been more proud of the nation to which I was born. Our unity, our compassion, our steadfastness. Our courage, our liberty, our sacrifice. The world is full of ugliness. The blackness that threatens is at times overwhelmingly terrifying. But the beauty that radiates from every corner of my country in this darkness that has chased away the setting sun blows me away. Am I proud to be an American? A simple affirmation would never do because the word does not exist that conveys enough emphasis to make one understand my answer to that question. Mere words could never be enough.
Washington, DC
9/11/02
Moo
I know often when I have written I have mentioned homeless people. They are just so much a part of the permanent landscape of Washington. I pass them everyday on my way to work, pieces of forgotten humanity littered around the fountains at Union Station like crumpled up remnants of lives once full of purpose. I understand why people turn cold here. At first, the pleadings of the street urchins tug at my heart. But as each day passes with yet another hand stretched out and yet another saxophonist wailing his notes in my ears, it starts to harden me. I get tired of saying, "No, I'm sorry;" I get tired of glancing their way with a smile of pity; I get tired of the jeers and the watery stares that follow me as I pass. Then one day, I all but ignore them. They have become nothing more than blades of wintered grass that fail to ever draw my attention.
When I first arrived here, I marveled at the stoicism apparent in almost every face that passed. I wondered to which exotic location everyone's joy had hopped a plane and if they were wishing themselves lying on a beach alongside it. Now, however, I too have become part of the herd filing onto the Metro everyday, filing out up the escalators, dispersing like cattle to our various processing plants to be butchered with paperwork and phone calls and run-ins with other cows. One can almost hear us moo.
So yes, I understand the absence of apparent happiness. I almost wonder if the street dwellers do not experience more of it than do the general population. At least they are not contained in 9 to 5 cages. I wish I could hand them all spare change and a smile. I wish the world wasn’t so suspicious a place to say, “Don’t talk to them, you don’t know what they’re capable of.”
Washington, DC
10/6/02
Us and the Animals
I decided to take a stroll through the zoo on my way to the grocery store last weekend. The hot muggy air had finally gone south for the winter allowing fall its bright breezy entrance onto my street. So taking the 'why not' attitude, I detoured right and decided to see what all the fuss was about: something to do with a black and white panda the zookeepers have been unsuccessfully trying to breed for God knows how long. Upon my first steps on the quaint, rather wide brick pathway, I was struck, not with the beautiful exotic animals, but rather the abundant cross section of middle class America. Hordes of young marrieds and baby strollers going every direction imaginable, wrinkled couples holding hands moving markedly more slowly, first loves a bit more attached wearing that wonderful glow of expectation everyone has but seems to lose somewhere along the way, and last but not least, a plethora of ethnicity in the children of all ages running to and fro yelling "mommy" or maybe just yelling for the sake of it. I felt as if I were watching a documentary on the human existence. One is born and dependent, then grows from stroller to waddling feet. Soon the age of loudness and ceaseless energy arrives before approaching aloof adolescence. Still to come are the days of holding hands and falling in love, days when both of you are still beautiful and everything has wonder. The next stage includes a more involved commitment and producing your own dependents to begin the cycle all over again. Before you know it, the two of you are clasping wrinkled hands, remarking at the lovely animals trapped behind their iron bars on a bright and breezy fall day.
I am more amazed by the day at what being in this city is showing me about life. Not just about the world of business suits and determination or the world of politics and theatrics (though there does not seem to be much disparity). I am finding out what it means to live and all the intricacies that entails. It is an invaluable lesson, one that I cannot receive in some of the dull moments I have been seated in a classroom. Ironic how a trip to the zoo can teach me more about humanity than the animal kingdom. Perhaps we are not all that different.
Washington, DC
November 2002
