Walk One: 5/26/07 Reflection

I took to the streets on Saturday the 26th. Was actually pretty nervous about the whole thing... It being my first time out there were a lot of unknowns. My default was - prepare for the journey in the folding and building and prepping of the suitcase innards. I thought the hard part would be the carrying - the exhaustion. I ended up discovering that yes, that was hard, but there were also other hard learnings that needed to happen.

I hadn't tested the suitcase carrying at all before heading out. Packed up the bags pretty heavy thinking 'I'm strong. I can do it. Heavy's the point.' Or maybe I didn't think twice at all. Had just come to a conclusion that I'd have seed pots, extra water, extra dirt in the bags, and carry them. My roommate asked me if I'd be using gloves. I (kind of proudly) said no, that I'd be fine.

I jumped to it. Had actually never taking the number 1 bus from Harvard before so the exact loop it takes in the beginning was unfamiliar to me at first. (My route was Central Square to Dudley...) I started and the process went along as such:

start: Crossed street to Harvard yard. Bags felt heavy right away. Made me a little nervous, but I set my jaw, looked straight ahead, and took small steps. Moving.

next: Circled the yard. Must have been only 4 blocks when I had to stop, stretch my arms, rest, and switch hands. I had to give myself a talking to. It already felt long - and I needed lots of pepping already to keep myself going.

next: Came upon an opening in the gates across from the Fog. Started to think about the pain I was already feeling. Thought about the gallon of water I had in one bag. For drinking, for watering seeds, but also for dead weight. 5 blocks in and I snuck around in to a grassy area by the gate and poured out all the water. I had bought the water. I kept the container. I felt more conspicuous doing that than walking with suitcases. I felt week, a bit, for having to pour it out so soon. My arms also hurt.

next: Switching hands a lot. By the time I got to Mass Ave, I was feeling hot spots on my hands. One suitcase had a spongy pleather handle; the other had a plastic handle. Both were rubbing my hands quite a bit. Muscles ached a bit, but my main concern was my hands. I walked slow, tried not to rest. Lots of people passed -- I remember a big group with a baby carriage. I started to hope (or maybe dare) some of these folks to pass. I couldn't tell if I was conspicuous or not...

next: Arrow St. and Mass Ave. My jaw is set and I'm not exactly having fun. Not not having fun, but feeling more determined than anything. A cab driver, possibly Haitian -- African -- stops and asks if I need a ride. I say "No thanks." I remember thinking that he looked kind of concerned, but still drove away. I thought I should have given him a seed packet. But he was on the road and on the clock. And I didn't really think of it soon enough.

next: Dana St. and Mass Ave. Hands burning like somethin' else at this point. A black man with a stroller walks. Still moving he smiles and says to me as he strolls by: "those look heavy."

"They are."

I think about how he just kept on moving. I didn't know how to stop him. I worried about not engaging both these people in any sort of conversation. I started to feel anxious that what I was doing was not spectacle enough. Switched hands. Definitely burning. Muscles felt sore... Made a commitment to make it as far as the hardware store in Central Square so I could buy gardening gloves to protect my hands.

Kept setting mini-goals: I'll make it to that bus stop and then rest. I'll make it to the YMCA and then rest. Some of these were even too ambitious. I'd set goals, and then I'd give myself permission to stop if I needed. Kept up a constant inner banter which was mostly a mantra giving myself permission to stop if I needed. I still didn't feel great stopping. I also wasn't doing a lot of smiling.

next: Hardware store. I had to cross the street to get to it. I pondered lots of sets of gloves. Looked at ones with sticky plastic on the palms thinking this would help. A young white man behind the counter gave me some tips. He was very nice. Asked me what I was doing -- if I was going on a trip. I felt relieved that he asked and I said something along the lines of "I'm walking to Dudley Square." He didn't ask why. I wondered why. I didn't say why. I was glad he urged me to get the most expensive gloves. He wished me luck.

next: Prospect St.: A white woman passes me from the front. She looks over and says: "Heavy, huh?" with a sympathetic smile. I say "Yeah." I keep walking. I think that next time I need to challenge myself to engage some of these casual comments more. Not sure how. I find I don't really want to do it but promise myself I'll try.

next: Right by the Central Square bus stop. Gloves help my hands, but do not completely take away the pain. I start to feel muscle exhaustion and bad pain in my elbows and wrists. At this point I'm thinking a lot about pain, about why I've set this up to involve pain, about how much is worth it, and about whether I am on the road to serious injury and whether it's worth it. I notice a woman look at me strangely and feel more conspicuous with the gloves.

next: I pass a restaurant in Central Square. I know the chef. He's standing outside. He says to me - "Those look heavy". "They are" I reply. I take it as a chance to push the comment more. I say "I'm going to Dudley Square" and actually feel weird and wilted about how I said it. It felt strange and false - like I was forcing further commentary. "Good luck" he says. I walk off, not feeing great about the interaction.

next: I pass teenagers outside All Asia. I didn't know it turned into a hang out for teens during the day. A fun discovery. I'm definitely tired and worried about the pain in my elbows. I don't stop in front of them.

next: In front of a Salvation Army. A Latino man passes in front of me and says "Have a great trip!" smiling. I say "I'm not flying. I'm walking -- to Dudley Square". He doesn't hear me so I say it again. He says something like "Alright honey. Have a good trip." And keeps walking. I feel weird about the interaction again. Like I'm baiting help. Like no one really is ready to speak beyond the short comments. I'm not frustrated with anyone else but myself.

next: 3 blocks up I decide to dump out the bag of dirt that was dead weight in one of the suitcases. I dump it out under some bushes by a parking lot near Vassar St. and MIT. I have to give myself a talking to in order to feel okay about lightening the load. I'm thinking a lot about pain, about injury, and about why I've set the walk up to involve this. About how much is necessary, how much is too much. I'm stopping twice per block at this point.

next: I give myself permission to stop more. I find that putting my bag between one arm right under the elbow helps with some of the pain. The lightened load helps for the other side, but my elbows and hands feel so delicate that even the light suitcase spark more 'bad' pain. Very worried about injury.

next: Nearning the Mass Ave bridge and the Charles River. Stopping a lot.

next: Once on the bridge, I set new goals: go to a lamp post. stop. stretch. walk to another lamp post. These are only about 15 feet apart. After resting, I pick up the bags and they feel okay. 5 steps in they're heavy. By about 5 feet before the next light I'm swearing under my breath. Something along the lines of "Jesus fucking-a christ".

next: At the middle of the bridge a couple passes me. A few feet ahead they stop and turn around. The man says "do you need help with that? At least to the end of the bridge". The told me they'd seen me struggling along Mass Ave. I gratefully accept! I ask him where he's from. "Obviously not here because I'm helping you"

He's from France. The woman he is with has been in Boston for a year. She commented to him about the unfriendly street culture and he's seen it when he visits. We spoke a little bit about it - he said: Bostonians don't help. A car pulls up along side the sidewalk on the bridge.

next: A woman sticks her head out and asks me where I'm going. "I'm from Boston, and I can help". She says she heard the French guy say that Bostonians aren’t' helpful and wanted to prove him wrong. She'd also seen me struggling. Before she puts my bags in the trunk I ask the French couple if I can give them something. They say yes and I pot a squash seed for them. I refer them to the blog for planting instructions and say goodbye.

next: I'm nervous -- I'm in a car. I'd told myself I would walk the whole way. I hadn't expected this at all and don't know how to react. The woman in the car (white, young -- maybe early thirties) asks me where I'm going. I tell her Dudley Square. She's on her way to Mission Hill. I try saying "drop me off anywhere"... She says she wants to take me where I need to go.

But, she's also in a hurry. We spend some time coordinating -- she calls the people she's meeting in Mission Hill and tells them she'll be late. I try to take this as a chance to let her know that she can drop me off anywhere along Mass Ave. She seems rushed. She says - no, it's fine, I can bring you where you need to go. I'm not sure if I want to go all the way to Dudley Sq. I'm not sure if I'll have really 'done' the piece if I do that. I also feel like that experience still is the piece. I try to urge her to drop me off wherever.

I tell her what I'm doing... say I'm an artist, that it's art, that that's why I can really be dropped off anywhere. She hears the story - and then says something like: "but I still want to take you where you need to go. You need to go to Dudley, I'll drive you there. " So, I need to agree. I wonder about the art. I wonder (as I had been all along) about how different it was than I expected. Wondered how I would document this when I go to Chicago and talk about the experience. I feel pretty disgruntled.

She hears my story - - I worry I blurted it out in such a way as to limit conversation. It was the first time I talked about race and class and my relationship to the bus line. The way it was delivered, it didn't spark further conversation, so she shared her story. She's part of a Christian intentional living community and was on her way to fix up one of the homes. She'd been living in a convent, was a PhD student at MIT in something health and medicine related. This particular community is of people in the health and medical industry who are also Christian.

We get to Dudley - - she's rushed, I don't want to waste her time, and she swings around and drops me off. I pot a seed for her as fast as I can. I can't tell what she thinks about it or me. She puts the seed pot in the passenger seat and drives off. I'm right in front of the bus station.

next: I'm at Dudley, kind of in awe. Glad I'm no longer walking and hurting. Smiling at the turn of events (and how it maybe saved me from injuring myself.) A Jamaican cab driver asks if I need a cab. I say no, but ask if I can give him something in thanks for offering to help. We proceed to have an odd conversation. He's flirting, or at least I think he's flirting. I try to talk more about the concept behind the piece. The artist space in Dudley I work with. My relationship to race and class and the site. I start to feel that the conversation seems driven more by white guilt and an eagerness to be 'taught' by him who lives the experience of otherness. Here I am just passing through. It doesn't help that I can see my cleavage reflected in his sunglasses.

He talks about living in some communities where he's felt like an outsider. Says that sometimes it's nice to be surrounded by people like you. Then he talks about different women he's dated, white women he's dated. The conversation is long and I feel weird about taking his time, about the flirtation thing, about my confusion about how to bring up the concepts that I thought were the groundwork for the piece -- which I thought I knew how I wanted to talk with people about. He asked for my number, offering to get together and talk more about these things. I referred him to the blog and went to the bench of the number one bus to wait for my friend who was helping to take photographs of the whole thing.

Definitely felt full of frustration, self-criticism, and confusion about everything that transpired. Worried about how I'd been treating people on the street like objects to be interacted with or provoked, adversaries almost?, but not subjects, collaborators, or dynamic participants. Wondered about the involvement of pain, risk and injury. Wondered at the fact that I was picked up by a car right at the edge of Boston, the edge of where I thought I'd start having different interactions and experience different communities that were much more unfamiliar to me than Cambridge -- out of my comfort zone. I thought it oddly appropriate (or just intriguing) that this particular thing happened right at the river dividing Boston and Cambridge. It reminded me of my usual way of getting to Dudley and through Roxbury - protected. By car, bus, or bike. Funny how the one time I was trying to be connected, be on foot, and be really about taking a risk and traveling beyond my comfort zone I was picked up and dropped off instead.