On loving Frederick, part five.
Me at the inauguration of President Barack Obama; The National Mall, Washington, DC. Photo by William Dixon, January 20, 2009.
On July 23, 2011, I recited these design stories at the Boston Globe for my friends at Ink, stories inspired by the work of Frederick Law Olmsted and the impact his legacy has had on my life in particular, and three American cities – Seattle, DC, and Baltimore – in general. Each story takes place in a natural urban setting influenced or designed by Frederick Law Olmsted. This is the fifth essay in a collection of eight.
December, 2008. Kurt Cobain screamed in my ears and it felt good. I turned the volume louder once I got onto the street. Angry. Frustrated. Really pissed off. I took it out on Chinatown.
Pound. Pound. Left. Right. Harder. Faster.
We moved all the way across the country for this? Two weeks after moving into our Baltimore rowhouse and only 18 months after we moved across the country so Will could take his dream job, he gets a pink slip from the energy tech startup we moved to this hellhole for. Because as far as I was concerned, the entire East Coast was a hellhole.
Aggressive. Rude. Stuffy suits and ties. Who the hell are these people and where did they learn how to drive?
Without good stories, there is no sense of place. I hated the entire East Coast. Mountains? There were none, as far as the eye could see. What? What about the Alleghenies, you ask? The Adirondacks or Appalachia? No. NO. I’m sorry, but those aren’t mountains where I come from. Those are just foothills. All my Seattle friends just avatars on a Facebook page.
Driving south on 95 to DC, the sun broke and I instinctively looked westward to see the mountains. Clouds. Flat. Nothing. Sting. You’re not in Colorado anymore. Or Washington state. There exist no snow-capped peaks, alpine streams, or fluttering aspens. You’re nowhere near the wild, climactic, poetic West.
Pound. Pound. Left. Right. Harder. Faster.
Down 7th Avenue through Chinatown and its crappy food. Did I mention that? The food here sucks, too. All the way to the Capitol Grounds. Columns, marble, subway jazz. Intricate hardwoods sparse gray, it’s cold outside.
My breathe proceeds me as an elongated humectant cloud, leading me southeast on the National Mall. Running hard all the way from NPR to the Lincoln Memorial. Stop. Gaze. Reflecting pond and the Great Emancipator.
Steps, marble, fifty states. In two months, I will stand on this same grass, watching history unfold. Watching a black man move into a white house will be one of my own beautiful stories.