Where I Used to Live

“It’s nice here. I like sitting looking at the pond, the Cathedral across the way, the pigeons. That’s one thing about this city, the parks are wonderful. Someone had the foresight to envision that amongst all the madness that we accept as modernism, progress, we would need a place to go to remember.”

We would often go to the park and just sit. Every once in a while, something would change, but that was rare. Most of the time what you could count on, and the reason we pursued that place, was that things didn’t change.  Change is the most difficult to accept, because it leaves your memories in a place that no longer exists. Time has the ability to change things whether you want them too or not, even memories.

When we were boys things were different. Yes, the park was here, as well as the avenue. The avenue that leads through the heart of the city, the vein carrying need and want from the stores to the shifting city that spreads like a rash, engaging everything it touches. Lyrics proclaiming, “Nothing is ever good enough.” The rebutted whisper, “There must be something better than possessions.”

“Things have always been this way, no matter the generation,” the needle trapped in a groove, repeating itself.  Ethnicity gathered around a center, most times the church, one brand or another, finding safety in a promise. Something about being with your own kind, the understanding it provides, the believable lies it tells. Not simply the language, mores, but the customs, that bring memories to life, explode in the imagination of a time. 

If you travel the avenue towards the river, as we did so many times, you begin to understand what the goal was, is, what the game was, is, and how it was, is, played. Segregation, nothing new, today or yesterday. It has festered between clans since time immemorial, remaining the same. And yet when asked to forget old grievances for God’s sake, bury the hatchet as they suggest, it takes on new meaning.  What it now asks us to do is forget what was, what is, and remember only what we are told, it could be.

“Do you remember the island?”

“Yes, how could I forget the island.”

“It isn’t really an island, you know.”

“Yes, it is. The river splits and goes around it. If you care to recall, there are two bridges. The only way on and off, unless you care to swim, which I wouldn’t advise. The river has taken on a color and smell that reminds me too much of the slaughter houses that once flanked the town. Now long gone of course, as it affected the sensitivity of the more gentile folk who propagated the notion, that food fell from the heavens. 

If you follow the street car rails that remain imbedded in the paving bricks of a hundred years ago, to their end, you can still see where the old city ends and the new one begins.”

He was right of course, the beauty of the city changed from a promise, to the blood, sweat, and tears, of those who gave so much, so that the march would continue, wishing only in return that progress spread, touch everyone. And it did for a time, like small pox leaving its mark on the faces of those who watched skeptical of what they saw. Rewards, or spoils were more evenly shared at one time. One man, did not run off with the bank leaving others to fight over the contents of the empty safe.

The continuous struggle, changes people. Not because anyone wins, or loses, but because it coerces the belief necessary to build a community that is fortified against progress that serves only the few at the expense of the many.

Callused minds and hearts stepping aside afterwards, allowing a new set of enemies to begin the never-ending social dance. Differing customs, different values, but the same fight for superiority at first, then acceptance, that everyone loses, when no one wins. The evolution of cultures, acceptance of a resurrected vision of equality.

I remember the island, then, now.  The other side of the proverbial tracks, as far as most were concerned. A place where you were able to satisfy your need with want.  Convince yourself that enough was enough, you could relax, but only when you knew there was someone to take your place in the game, keep a look out, report back. Too much change at once appears sacrilegious to those not used to watching the game being played.

The river was the place that served as that border separating those that continued to strive for their needs, and those who had given up on their wants. The island became a place to go to forget. You, like them, were left with your own, drowning your inherited sorrows with cheap wine and what little comfort there was in the doorways of the abandoned shops. 

I remember those who walked over the bridge to find this different world, not remembering where they had come from. Their poverty, no less egregious than those who stumbled about in shelter clothes and called the streets home. Those that came across the river, explorers in search of indigenous people, having forgotten that evolution had occurred when they were not looking.

They threw coins, anything, everything they had, onto the street and watched smiling at those who scrambled for their next chance to forget. The lust for superiority caused the explorers to abandon decency and their own histories, to prove to themselves what had been and what is, and only a bridge keeping the two apart.

Then as you left the other river and once again found yourself following the tracks, you arrived once again where you had begun. A park with a pavilion, spirituality being created by aboriginal musicians wishing to fulfill a promise they had made to themselves. And all, for the meager price of sitting and hearing. There was no silence to hide the anger and disgust, as the horns and violins had chased them away. We were left with nothing but nostalgia, and the will to forgive and forget. Leave what we never had, behind, and search for something new that we did not believe existed, because no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t find a way to forget our memories of want and need. 

“Do you remember those nights of blankets on the warm grass, the smell of popped corn wafting in the due laden air, the sounds escaping into the trees that seemed to understand, no doubt having gone through the revolution themselves. We prayed it would never end, but of course it did, it had to. We needed time to pack our things, our customs, our values, and leave the place to the next generation who are waiting for our time to die, so they can take our place.”

“I have never forgotten the sounds of the coins hitting the concrete. They will never be forgotten, as they reminded me at the time, that perhaps one of us should remain behind to make sure the transfer was equitable and just.   Although they had as much right to anoint a new batch of newcomers with fault, as those that came before us, someone needed to remind them of the difference between revolution and evolution.

We were left with the knowledge that life flows in both directions. Finding yourself going, has slightly less consolation than finding you have left. If not for the fortuitous entertainment we provide ourselves, our memories at the end, we must remember, are all we have.