Parks in Bushwick

The parks in Bushwick are a lie.

There are several "parks" near my apartment in East-Williamsburg-Bushwick, none of which, as far as I can tell have more in common with a playground than they do with a parking lot.

In Bushwick, "park" is code for an empty lot paved over with asphalt, demarcated by a chain-link fence, and hung with a sign commemorating some historically important ethnic minority. That, my friends, is not a park. It is a lie.

Living in NY is something of a lesson in socio-economic disparities in America. The parks, in my opinion, are the perfect manifestation of the inexcusable disparity between rich white New Yorkers and poor Black and Latino ones.

There are also several parks by my work in Cobble Hill. Cobble Hill is home to some of the first low income housing in New York. These walk-up Brownstones were built in the mid-nineteenth century, where rooms were let for mere dollars a week. Today, the same Brownstones go for 4 mil. The parks in Cobble Hill, needless to say, are very very nice.

Maybe some day the low income housing that surrounds my Bushwick apartment will be declared historic. Maybe someday the parks board will decide to tear up the asphalt lots and plant grass. Maybe.

But by that time all of the black and latino residents will be long gone and rich white women with 3,000 dollar strollers will be taking their kids to play at Rosa Parks Playground.

Somedays in the Park

Every morning for the past month and a half, I have taken the train to work. Yesterday, I took it to Central Park. Working seven days a week is not difficult, it isn't exhausting, if anything it is strangely hypnotic. A person, without any free time, is more of an automaton than a human being. You are a worker, a commuter, an eater, a sleeper; a machine with many capabilities simply churning out the daily quota.

A person in central park on her first day off in a month and a half, however, is all flesh and blood. The park, in case any of you didn't know, is beautiful. It is meticulously designed and obsessively maintained in order that New Yorkers might forgive the oppressive concrete forest that is the rest of the city. And it works.

The park is the city's playground. People feel free to climb, jump, run, don a batman costume and breakdance--in short, they do what they want. There are trees and winding paths and big rocks. There are ponds posing (almost convincingly) as lakes. Dogs. Jugglers. Roller-discos. It's awesome.

The libertine attitude fostered by the park's sheer openess was reinforced this past Sunday by the presence of, what my sources tell me is the best Fall New York has seen in 75 years. The leaves having turned brilliant shades of yellow, orange, and red. The beautiful people of the upper east side sporting their best Burberry attire in honor of the dazzling sunshine and crisp Autumn air.

This is all very cliché, I know. Fall in Central Park is beautiful--it's pretty much like saying Micheal Jordan is athletic. And my jaded, post-everything self should resist buying into cliché because that's just what I do. But today, I am resisting the temptation to inject bitter skepticism into everything. Today I am saying, I love central park.

Tomorrow, we'll talk about the parks in Bushwick.