Summer on the Sidewalk

It is remarkable how the people of Brooklyn make use of public space. 

I was going to start this post in a different way, but it sounded too much like dissertationese. Let me try again.

It was a hot afternoon late in August. I padded my way in sneakered feet down the sidewalk, past pleasingly lush trees erupting from the concrete. Everywhere there are people out and about: young, young mothers (who cannot be much older than I am, or perhaps who are my junior) pushing baby carriages down the street. The mothers wear shorts and flip-flops, or sleek body hugging skirts in the manner of orthodox women. Children no taller than my knees play basketball by shooting from the sidewalk to a hoop in their short driveways. Other kids scurry past on skateboards and bicycles, going round and round their neighborhood block.

I couldn't imagine a childhood in Brooklyn, until I witnessed it in motion before my eyes. I grew up in a rural/suburban setting, where summer meant an explosion of green all around you. There were no sidewalks to play on, because the cars were infrequent and they drove slowly. Instead, you could make full use of the street. I would ride my bicycle around the neighborhood until nightfall, or swim in the lake by my house. Then when it became dark out I would go inside and read late into the night, because there were no streetlights. It was an idyllic setting, according to my rosy retrospection.

Summers for Brooklyn kids must be dull, I assumed. I pictured listless young people languishing in front of the TV in stuffy apartments. Maybe they would go out for a brief basketball game with friends, or play video games to pass the time. What else would there be to do in this village?

And yet, as I strolled down these Brooklyn sidewalks, I saw something different. People were always out. They were enjoying themselves in parks, or playing ball in their small yards. Lately I had been making use of a nearby high school track, which I accessed by slipping through a purposefully tampered opening in the chain-link fence.

Here on this plane of synthetic rubber and AstroTurf, it does not matter what class you belong to, how young old you are, or your ethnicity. As long as you can skimmy through a hole in a chain-link fence, you have a space in which to compete. In which to strive for excellence. In which to push yourself just a bit harder, or a lot harder. So, it is here I join others in common athletic pursuit.

There is a middle aged guy in bright red shorts on the track today, doing laps at a steady clip. He might be an immigrant; he looks hispanic, with weathered olive skin and salt and pepper hair. I noticed how steadily he runs, how intent he is on keeping his pace. Is it to improve his football game? To strive for something which he was not getting in his life? Or simply to stay in shape?

I wonder what the story is for any of those dozens of people out on the Brooklyn sidewalks, or for that man doing laps. We come together in this public space to enjoy a summer day, and then retreat to our apartments. We eat dinner with our families, hidden by the curtains which cover our windows--windows which nonetheless sparkle like stars in the night sky. Perhaps this village isn't too different from the one I'm from after all.