Stray raindrops left behind by a passing storm dot my page. The recent showers stirred up the dirt which sticks to my shoes and greets my nose, evoking memories of home, digging holes for the tomatoes, pulling weeds, feeling the soil wet and rich in my fingers: good dirt. Yes, this is good dirt.
Sparrows flit about at the edge of the clearing, emerging then disappearing again into the vibrant green of the canopy, starting low then rising up in a dome above me. It all culminates at my tree. It is not my tree, no, of course, but in the moment such a title feels appropriate. It’s a beautiful tree, ancient and solid against my back. A breeze lifts the leaves, sending them quaking above, refracting the limited sunlight in varying shades of green. Homey scents, fresh brewed coffee and stew, waft in, mingling with the good dirt and wet leaves. It’s so easy to forget where I am. So easy to place myself in the isolated thickets I longed for in childhood: “Bambi was born in a thicket surrounded by rabbits and birds . . .” “May I take your photo, please?” And easily I am roused from my private Eden. She’s an older woman, with limp white hair and a phone in her hand; she speaks with a German accent and I wonder how she knew I spoke English (of course it is because she spoke first in German and received no response, as any German spoken here registers same as the twittering birds). “Oh yes, of course.” I return to my journal, a smile lifting the corners of my mouth as the woman snaps photos. Of me. Girl writes beneath tree in shared Eden. And it is a shared Eden. I sit beneath a tree in a community garden and artist colony in the middle of a massive and bustling city. Wanders weave and duck beneath low branches and groves of Aspen, snapping photos. Women sit at folding chairs beneath a tarp, laughing and weaving and occasionally taking bites from steaming plates of food. In a shack down the path a skinny man with grey hair and magnifying glasses gives stick-and-pokes. Two women with wild hair bend down and arrange leaves, rocks, flowers in intricate patterns on the good dirt. Who are these people? White mostly, yes. Some meander through in gortex rain coats wielding expensive cameras, clicking away. Some dress more artistically, in wool and homemade recycled shirts, painting and printing behind tables. These people are more varied. Many are white, some are black. Some are Arab. They all smile modestly at the passing gortex crew. A woman waltzes between stalls in a dress all of curled metal scraps. The artists and art appreciators. Mostly hailing from comfort, a comfort some have abandoned largely minus the privileges of which they will never let go. Amidst paintings and metal works, floral patterns and hearty food, are slogans: “We welcome refugees,” “Solidaritat.” I strain but see no refugees here. Nonetheless. Here is a shared Eden. Beautiful people weave through plots of vegetables and Aspen groves, art installations. I love it. It is an Eden in which I am allowed. An Eden in which I fit so well an old German woman asked to take a picture . . . of me . . . belonging. I love it and belong and hope that anyone can belong but in the back of my mind I can’t help but worry. How does my class standing impact the degree to which I am welcomed? Does any artist belong? What does it require to be an artist? How much must one have in the first place to give up for the sake of creative engagement? I rise from my spot beneath the shared tree. The cool of the ground seeps into the seat of my pants. The leaves quake. Voices flit. Children run. And I know I can be part of this Eden. I only wonder why. Old women work the good dirt on arthritic knees and a breeze rustles poppy heads and sunflowers. I race through on short skinny legs, skinned knees. Dodge the raised beds, skip over the puddle, stop at the raspberries but don’t let anyone see you. The shame which rose to my cheeks when a woman told us off for eating other people’s berries still courses hot. Not hot enough to stop me of course. It is wonderful, being a five-year-old free in a P-patch. Like this German garden through which I now wander, the P-patches of Seattle were havens, special shared spaces for the community. They drew the artistic, the connoisseurs of the organic, the urban liberals. Here is more vibrant, attracting a far more diverse population, yes, but there is a definite similarity. Both the community garden and the P-patch I love. In both I feel welcome. In both I wonder if my sense of belonging stems from my whiteness, my educated middle-class background. I think of the men of Muanana. Would they feel so welcomed in either of these places? Yes, both public gardens foster attitudes celebratory of refugees, but would they celebrate the actual presence of a refugee? These questions, as I breathe in pungent fresh wet vegetables and catch bits of stray German, I ask.
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AuthorStudent at the University of Washington, Sophie Aanerud, will be studying abroad in Berlin, Germany. Here are some of her thoughts . . . Archives
August 2017
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