"No sticks and stones."
The woman was sitting on a bench, plump rear firmly pressed into her seat. A weeping willow draped over her head, and for a minute she reminded me of a garden gnome. Squat, fat, and tucked away under the shadow of a tree.
When we looked at her with confused expressions, she added "... in the water."
Assuming she was a little nuts, me and my friend just nodded our heads and turned our backs on her. "What the hell was she talking about?" I asked my friend through gritted teeth. He kind of shrugged and started to laugh. "Who knows, but I'm trying really hard not to be a smart ass." While I giggled, my friend called out over his shoulder, "We won't throw anything into the water!"
The two of us carefully picked our way through the garden, staring around us in amazement. I found out the 'water' the gnome was referring to was a dingy fish pond, complete with dead fish at the bottom, gleaming gold and orange. Flowers brimmed against the sides of the pond, rimmed with bricks taken from somewhere in the city.
Mardi gras beads hung from bushes and wooden stakes, sparkling purple in the sun. Dirt -- actual country dirt, moist and smelling like rain -- lined the curving path around the garden, meandering around flowers and city trees. Glass spikes of different shapes and sizes lined the chain link fence around the perimeter of this patch of green, little dagger teeth with artistic bite.
I felt like I was Alice and had just dropped into Wonderland. This park, I thought, would be a wonderful place for a tea party. Even the Cheshire cat was there, big, fat and orange, rolling around in a patch of sunlight. When the garden gnome informed me that he was tame and "very friendly," I strolled over and the cat immediately began to purr and stretch out, rubbing his head against my hands.
"That," I said, "is one helluva friendly cat."
My friend and I tossed around a few jokes about it being on Ecstasy. It was impossible not to, since he was rolling around like he had just discovered how wonderful life is stretched out in the middle of a sunbeam.
After we left the neighborhood's oasis (only the size of a corner lot), my friend and I wondered aloud about the place. Who knew that Avenue C would have so many community gardens along it? The two of us passed park after park, strange fairylands tucked into the nooks between concrete apartment buildings.
Some were rundown, while others bloomed in riots of strange colors and sights. Most were padlocked, unfriendly and clearly unwelcoming. One parcel of trees had a rusty saw leaning against the fence around it, a clear reminder not to try to climb over onto the property.
It was my first real venture into Alphabet City. I had always heard how sketchy the place was, how people got mugged there, how far away it is from the subway. Which, I suppose, is all true. It is a long walk from the nearest subway stop, and I can agree that Avenue D is not the most inspiring place in terms of feeling safe. But ... Avenue C. Avenue B. Avenue A. I liked the trio of streets, the funny buildings dotting their length.
It bothered me though, the way all these beautiful gardens were blocked off from the world. I had the luck of getting into the only one that was open to strangers, and it was a wonderful experience. The three Avenues all seemed gentrified, and the people strolling along them did not look like they were going to go hungry anytime soon. Kids on expensive bikes roamed around, parents in tow. 'Bohemians' pretending to be cutting edge and avant garde were everywhere, all white skinned with their lifestyles intact thanks to daddy's trust fund.
Avenue D, I decided, would benefit from some of these places. There things changed suddenly, and me and my friend stuck out like a sore thumb with our pale faces and the digital camera we were carrying around. Here, instead of parks, there were basketball courts. Instead of expensive apartments there were tall, Soviet style buildings. These monoliths are what every public housing project in the city probably aspires to be. Kids on Avenue D seem older, grittier, wiser than their Avenue C neighbors, and none of the parents I saw could have been much older than 24 or 25.
New York City is, without a doubt, an amazing place. In the span of a minute, you can walk from the most beautiful streets to areas of poverty and unhappiness. I suppose you get used to it after a time. I know that I already am. But, (and this is a big one) -- but, I think it's a little frightening, this acceptance of poverty in the midst of wealth. It doesn't seem fair to hoard beauty for yourself, while denying your neighbors a chance to have it as well.
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