The Broken Window

When I was little, I dreamed of having the freedom to take off, to run.

Downtown, I would watch those people pass me by and it felt like it would be an eternity before I could walk like them — independently, alone, and with some kind of purpose. The yearning to let go of my guardian’s hand and take off fearlessly to cross those busy streets and explore always found its way to me.

In October 2010, I couldn’t help but remember that crazy yearning I always had in me to just let go, to explore whatever was out there, even if it meant getting lost. But now, some might say that I am more of an adult than a child, and that crazy desire to run is still there…was still there in October when I took to the dirty streets with a camera strapped around my neck and under one arm.

When you say “downtown” I think of poverty, of people in ragged clothes walking along ancient brick walls that will likely never be restored to the smoothness they once were so long ago. I see graffiti everywhere. I see the a big building with its newly painted mural on the east-facing wall, next to a fire escape ladder that is almost too rusted and old to trust. As I walk by I wonder how many feet have actually used its steps.

Keep walking down the busy street, find the Fox theater. No one talks about it, because of the alleged waste of taxpayers’ dollars it took to restore it…and all for nothing. For though it is attractive on the outside (and oh, a beautiful sight at night when surrounded by hundreds of flashy lights), few people actually care enough to wander into its large doors. It’s kind of a grave marker that’s been beautified — a kind of whitewashed tomb that represents a failed downtown district.

I keep walking, unable to hear my own footsteps for the sound of the rushing traffic and the loudly speaking voices of native people who know this territory so much better than I. Keep walking, past the worn down bus stops where tired people sit, regardless of whether they’re waiting for the bus or not. Keep walking, and there’s Superior  Court. Whenever I pass it, I can never help but think to myself, “If walls could talk.” Maybe I’m just too visionary, if such a thing exists…though I doubt it does. We need all the imagination, all the vision we can conjure in order to get through this life and through this world.

All these thoughts pummel my mind as I turn north and reach out to touch the white outer wall that loosely encloses the courthouse. I think of the story I was told last time I went there, of a woman’s trial for killing a boy as she drove drunk. I touch the warm wall. Somewhere inside, ten years ago, a boy’s father stood up and yelled, “She killed my boy!” causing many loud whispers and an immediate mistrial. Somewhere inside, the word “guilty” has been said so many times. Somewhere inside, so many  lies have been told. Somewhere inside, a person has had the opportunity to come face to face with their loved one’s killer. Suddenly, the warmth of the textured wall disappears from my hand, and the courthouse is behind me.

And then, I stop. And I know, this is exactly what I’ve been looking for. I’ve walked these streets looking for art, looking for inspiration, but not knowing exactly where I’ll  find it. As I approach the blank wall and see the spray cans lined up along the ground, this is most definitely it. As I look at the tall man standing there, his back turned against me and a a tool in his hand, this is most definitely the place. And as I look up at the old, nearly dilapidated wall I smile at the word inexpertly painted there. Yes, this is exactly why I’m here.