Out Looking In/ In Looking Out
The paradisaical paradox of city living. Where is secret and wild and green?
I. The iron has turned a dark red, rusted and rough to the touch. I trail my fingers down the ridge to the gate, where I pause and breathe in heavily. The yard is enclosed; it is not for passerby. The fence itself says nothing, but the overgrowth of vegetation does. Substantially lush green vines crawl and encompass the metal, choking and reaching outwards onto the sidewalks. The smell of dirt seeps towards me, breaking part the dry concrete and sweat of people that make the city. There little to see between the small spaces where plant and metal have not merged. Morning glories dip over the gate, a darker pink than the small sign that instructs PUT MAIL PKGS ON PORCH; not even the mail man has been invited to this secluded paradise. I am envious of this fence, securing a small green space. The privacy is something I crave, as if I want to sit in grass I must travel to the nearest public park, which is not nearly as lush and green as this yard. I fantasize a moment, about the hanging vines swept aside by my hand to kneel under a tree, collecting damp shade as respite from the baking sun. A sharp honk from a passing trunk reminds me this space is not mine, I am not to be welcomed home here. I take my hand back from resting on the gate. My fingers come away darkened and I wipe them on my pants.
II. This is what the aftermath of the end of the world will look like. That’s what I think to myself as I lean against the chain link fence, forehead pressed to the cold metal. I can feel the imprints of rounded diamonds beginning on my skin. The fence is grimly barricading a giant slab of concrete ground. It feels like a wasteland, a forgotten promise of progress. The sign says NO TRESPASSERS and like any other kid with too much reckless energy, I want to finagle my way into the vacant lot and trespass actively. I don’t, mainly because it’s late afternoon and there is steady traffic behind me. Also, I’m on my way to the grocery store. But the lot holds more intrigue than the fluorescent lights of the store, so I stare through the fence for another moment. Wild vines scramble for grasps in between links, dark green remnants of life inside. Empty bottles and half ripped cigarette cartons sit just on the other side, resting in crevices in the concrete. Stickers from taggers of various drawings stick to the wider poles. Another vacant lot in the city, fencing in nothing but grey man-made stone. What is this fence still protecting? What was it ever protecting? The wind carries a waft of river water and stale garbage directly into my face, musing fading fast. The fence rattles slightly when I pull away, forehead bright red, and continue on to the grocery store.
III. My preferred public park is fifteen minutes of walking away. There I am oft overrun by reckless children chasing each other, distracted by the Sunday afternoon kickball games, and rest my stomach on dry dirt instead of too-long grass. I am on the inside of this fence, made of black bars that rise up to my shoulders, spaced precisely six inches apart. The tops form a dull point, arrows that guide our gazes nowhere. Hedges are placed just in front, the illusion of discretion. Passerby peer over with ease, becoming an audience for the park goers, a public for the public. Privacy is not granted here. The gate is never locked, but the latch seems to squeal across the neighborhood only after dark. The purpose here is definite; to keep stray children in boundary, to mark off what is public or belongs to the city, to differentiate between the local yards and the park. It is a border, nothing more nothing less. But borders are complicated, heavy with implications and tarnished meanings. How often do we tear them down, to rebuild and redefine something that never existed in the first place? I am in, of my own decision, choosing to sit within this boundary and utilize this space, to recognize it based on a fence.
