MacArthur Park, Los Angeles. January 13, 2006.
I sat here, beneath still palm trees and bathed in sunlight. Rufus Wainwright’s lazy swoon filled my ears and a travel writer’s scattershot ramblings on Hong Kong held my gaze. A short way across from me, a group of men and women played cards at a worn wooden table, occasionally singing or laughing merrily. At that moment, the splendor of this small green space in roaring Los Angeles, on a warm winter’s afternoon, felt like a new spring against my skin. Even more so when compared to the fierce cold of Washington from which I was taking temporary leave.
To my right, three young men in athletic-wear were kicking around a soccer ball as pretty women strolled by in low-slung jeans, laughing sweetly amongst themselves. Across from the small pathway in front of me, a middle-aged woman sat carefully, ankles closed together, fully engaged by the man whom she had sat down next to. He appeared to be either telling an epic life story or propounding upon his eternal love for her, or perhaps both, waving his arms deliberately and staring intensely into her guarded eyes. From my perch, I appeared to be the only non-Hispanic in the park; that is, barring the Korean man sitting underneath a parasol who earlier on had allowed me to take his picture with my companion stuffed bear, El-P.
In short, a perfectly pleasant scene and a perfectly pleasant way for me to bide away my time, waiting for a friend’s call and, most importantly, her car. Los Angeles, a famously difficult city to navigate sans automobile, appeared to be smiling down upon my wandering self.
A short while later, I looked up from my book, to find that the scene had suddenly changed. The same ten card players were still at their table, only this time they were all standing in a line. Their hands were all placed atop their heads. Two uniformed and two plain-clothed police officers were patting them down, their police cars parked off of the paths close by.
One of the recently accosted women caught my eye. Surrounded by a swath of men in jeans, button-down shirts and athletic jerseys, one could easily be forgiven for subconsciously allowing her to fade into the background. But there was something notable about this lady—a hint of defiance in her stance, the lack of submission in her body language—which gripped me. The sole female officer, hair in a tight blonde bun, in her cold, dark navy uniform, took several items from the woman’s hands. I couldn’t make out what they were, but one of them looked like a purse. The officer then firmly placed the woman’s hands back together, resting her own hands on top authoritatively. A minute later, she stuck out her backside slightly comically and called to a fellow officer, who pulled out a pair of handcuffs from her protruding holster belt. The still woman was promptly handcuffed.
On the bench beside me, an old Hispanic woman observed the arrests wearily, wiping away slow tears. A young man in his twenties sat next to her, one leg over the side of the bench, tapping his hand patiently against the cool concrete. Occasionally, they would comment on the unfolding scene softly in Spanish.
A man in a pale blue cowboy hat and suit, after talking with the police, put his papers away in his briefcase. A third police car arrives and two Hispanic-looking officers join the scene. They speak to the small group, hands firmly on hips, buzzcuts toward thick fades. It’s not apparent what the reason for the arrests is: having recently taken a course on American immigration policy, illegal entry jumps to mind. But how could the police possibly know the status of this particular group?
Before long, one patrol car drove away, its back seat now filled.
An older man and his grandson walk past me. The young boy is wearing baggy shorts, Nike basketball shoes and socks with “USA” stitched into them. He carries a slight spring in his quick step. They talk briefly with the two beside me, animated and tinged with lament. I longed to remember my high school Spanish, if only to eavesdrop.
The man and boy return later from the 99 Cent store, hands now occupied by white shopping bags, and the conversation resumes.
The group of young soccer players continue to kick their ball around, having moved a small distance further away from the arrests. Children cry for mothers, couples kiss, the benches empty, the police drive slowly away in three separate directions. The park remains as lively as before, but for the sudden absence of a handful.
A man with long, black hair sits down with his Pepsi, one bench away from where the arrest occurred (I don’t think he knew of what had just passed). The woman beside me, head against cheek, stares out over MacArthur Park, the giant, stately “Westlake Theatre” sign gaping over her, the shuffle of traffic never stopping. I gather my Japanese camera, my Panda, and head to West Hollywood.
Later on during my brief stay in California, I was told that MacArthur Park is known to be a location popular for drug dealing. I would guess that to be the probable motive for arrest. But part of me almost preferred my traveler ignorance to the tidy “that’s-to-be-expected” presumptions of insider knowledge. There’s a purity and challenge to decontextualized urban exploration—liberated from the increasingly tight woven lines of race, class, gentrification and stigma, the traveler’s mind becomes childlike in its curiosity. Cosmopolitanism has been astutely defined as the experience of Otherness. And so, as difficult and vulnerable as such placement can be—perusing Echo Park at midnight would have been far less wise—and as inherently exclusive as such journeying is, I am appreciatively reminded above all else of the commonalities I share with my fellow beings when placed together with them in such unsullied ontological situation.
I sat here, beneath still palm trees and bathed in sunlight. Rufus Wainwright’s lazy swoon filled my ears and a travel writer’s scattershot ramblings on Hong Kong held my gaze. A short way across from me, a group of men and women played cards at a worn wooden table, occasionally singing or laughing merrily. At that moment, the splendor of this small green space in roaring Los Angeles, on a warm winter’s afternoon, felt like a new spring against my skin. Even more so when compared to the fierce cold of Washington from which I was taking temporary leave.
To my right, three young men in athletic-wear were kicking around a soccer ball as pretty women strolled by in low-slung jeans, laughing sweetly amongst themselves. Across from the small pathway in front of me, a middle-aged woman sat carefully, ankles closed together, fully engaged by the man whom she had sat down next to. He appeared to be either telling an epic life story or propounding upon his eternal love for her, or perhaps both, waving his arms deliberately and staring intensely into her guarded eyes. From my perch, I appeared to be the only non-Hispanic in the park; that is, barring the Korean man sitting underneath a parasol who earlier on had allowed me to take his picture with my companion stuffed bear, El-P.
In short, a perfectly pleasant scene and a perfectly pleasant way for me to bide away my time, waiting for a friend’s call and, most importantly, her car. Los Angeles, a famously difficult city to navigate sans automobile, appeared to be smiling down upon my wandering self.
A short while later, I looked up from my book, to find that the scene had suddenly changed. The same ten card players were still at their table, only this time they were all standing in a line. Their hands were all placed atop their heads. Two uniformed and two plain-clothed police officers were patting them down, their police cars parked off of the paths close by.
One of the recently accosted women caught my eye. Surrounded by a swath of men in jeans, button-down shirts and athletic jerseys, one could easily be forgiven for subconsciously allowing her to fade into the background. But there was something notable about this lady—a hint of defiance in her stance, the lack of submission in her body language—which gripped me. The sole female officer, hair in a tight blonde bun, in her cold, dark navy uniform, took several items from the woman’s hands. I couldn’t make out what they were, but one of them looked like a purse. The officer then firmly placed the woman’s hands back together, resting her own hands on top authoritatively. A minute later, she stuck out her backside slightly comically and called to a fellow officer, who pulled out a pair of handcuffs from her protruding holster belt. The still woman was promptly handcuffed.
On the bench beside me, an old Hispanic woman observed the arrests wearily, wiping away slow tears. A young man in his twenties sat next to her, one leg over the side of the bench, tapping his hand patiently against the cool concrete. Occasionally, they would comment on the unfolding scene softly in Spanish.
A man in a pale blue cowboy hat and suit, after talking with the police, put his papers away in his briefcase. A third police car arrives and two Hispanic-looking officers join the scene. They speak to the small group, hands firmly on hips, buzzcuts toward thick fades. It’s not apparent what the reason for the arrests is: having recently taken a course on American immigration policy, illegal entry jumps to mind. But how could the police possibly know the status of this particular group?
Before long, one patrol car drove away, its back seat now filled.
An older man and his grandson walk past me. The young boy is wearing baggy shorts, Nike basketball shoes and socks with “USA” stitched into them. He carries a slight spring in his quick step. They talk briefly with the two beside me, animated and tinged with lament. I longed to remember my high school Spanish, if only to eavesdrop.
The man and boy return later from the 99 Cent store, hands now occupied by white shopping bags, and the conversation resumes.
The group of young soccer players continue to kick their ball around, having moved a small distance further away from the arrests. Children cry for mothers, couples kiss, the benches empty, the police drive slowly away in three separate directions. The park remains as lively as before, but for the sudden absence of a handful.
A man with long, black hair sits down with his Pepsi, one bench away from where the arrest occurred (I don’t think he knew of what had just passed). The woman beside me, head against cheek, stares out over MacArthur Park, the giant, stately “Westlake Theatre” sign gaping over her, the shuffle of traffic never stopping. I gather my Japanese camera, my Panda, and head to West Hollywood.
Later on during my brief stay in California, I was told that MacArthur Park is known to be a location popular for drug dealing. I would guess that to be the probable motive for arrest. But part of me almost preferred my traveler ignorance to the tidy “that’s-to-be-expected” presumptions of insider knowledge. There’s a purity and challenge to decontextualized urban exploration—liberated from the increasingly tight woven lines of race, class, gentrification and stigma, the traveler’s mind becomes childlike in its curiosity. Cosmopolitanism has been astutely defined as the experience of Otherness. And so, as difficult and vulnerable as such placement can be—perusing Echo Park at midnight would have been far less wise—and as inherently exclusive as such journeying is, I am appreciatively reminded above all else of the commonalities I share with my fellow beings when placed together with them in such unsullied ontological situation.
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