Rosettes and Revolution

Not living near a park is making me cranky.

I love parks.  As someone who doesn’t hike or camp or any of those other nature-y things (remember, I’m scared of bears), parks are my haven.  Trees and lakes and ducks and nature, but well-lit and well-populated and sans dangerous wildlife.  Perfect.

The beautiful parks are one of my favorite things about Portland.  Wherever you are in Portland, you’re near a park.  Cathedral Park in St. Johns is my favorite, as I’ve mentioned before, but I’ve wiled away many a sunny afternoon in Laurelhurst Park, Irving Park, and Forest Park.  And many more.

My beloved Cathedral Park (from atlasobscura.com)

I’ve lived within walking distance of a park–or several parks–since moving to Portland.  And those parks have played an important part in my life and memories of Portland.  Sneaking beers into Laurelhurst at 3:00 (Witching Time, amirite?)(don’t arrest me).  Sitting under a tree in Couch Park and reading Jane Eyre and bawling my eyes when Jane returns to Mr. Rochester, even though I’ve read the book 900  million times (yes, literally).  Walking through Pier Park with Dusty on my 29th birthday, wearing the cutest sundress ever.

As much as I love going to parks with friends, going alone is even better.  There’s something so bittersweet about a park.  When it’s a beautiful day and I’m alone with a book and a delicious sandwich, I’m filled with a sense of peace and contentment tinged with melancholy.  It’s not happiness, exactly–it’s somehow better than happiness.  And I watch the other people who are there alone and wonder what took them out to the park alone on a sunny day.  Did they need to get away from something?  Are they hoping to meet someone?  Are they lonely?  Are they at peace?  Do they feel what I feel?

And, depending on my living situation at the time, different parks have felt like my park.  I felt pride showing them to visitors, or bragging to locals that I lived near Laurelhurst/Jamison/Cathedral.  I felt a sense of ownership over it.  The park belonged to the community but also to me.

So it sucks giant monkey balls that I don’t have a park anymore.

I know.  First World Problems, right?

Whatever.  It’s my blog and I can complain if I want to.

Since leaving the inner sanctum of close-in Portland for the godforsaken suburbs (it’s not that bad)(sometimes it is) a year ago, I have been bereft of park.   Now.  As luck would have it, there actually is a park within walking distance of me.  And it’s a pretty cute little park, too.  When I moved in, I was stoked that there was such a cute little park right around the corner.  I pictured walking under the shady trees and napping in the sunny lawn.  Spring and summer days spent reading and people watching.

But this park can’t be my park, because I can’t go there alone.

I’ve tried going to the park alone four times, and each time I was accosted by a stranger and bothered and forced into conversation.  The first time was from a very nice young gentlemen kindly offering me drugs, who must’ve translated “no thanks” to “please, talk to me all day.”  Most recently, I took myself to the park with a cookie and a play to read and study.  A middle-aged man interrupted me by bringing his dog over to me and encouraging it to get in my lap (I like dogs and all but seriously WHAT THE FUCK).  He then talked at me for almost 40 minutes about his ex wife and his friend and some other damn thing.

Now.  I’d like to think that I’m at a place where I could directly but politely say “I’d like to get back to my book, please” or “I’d rather be alone today” and carry on with Existing While Female.  But here’s the other damn thing about this park–not as well-populated as city parks.  I’ve inhaled the breath to say “please leave me alone.”  And then I’ve looked around and seen how there is no one in the near vicinity.  Maybe I’ll see some teens hanging out at the other end of the park and try to caluclate if they’d hear me if I needed to scream for help.  No?  Ok.  Better keep silent and smile at this asshole until I can think of an excuse to leave.  I don’t want to make him angry because he could hurt me and no one is around to help.

I could go back to this park.  Nothing is stopping me.  It is my choice to avoid it.  But is it a fair choice?  The park can’t be a place of peace or sanctuary for me, because if I’m not being accosted, I’m worried about getting accosted.  These are the choices that women have to make every day.  Choices like this are so common in my life, and so automatic, that it took me an actual month to realize that it’s kind of fucked up.  I just walked home after the last encounter and thought “ok, I won’t go back there again.”  But shouldn’t I get to go to a public place of recreation on my own?  Expect polite smiles and maybe a “how you doin’” from the occasional passerby, but without feeling cornered and forced to make nice to some dude I don’t know and have zero interest in?  Shouldn’t I be able to say “please leave me alone” without being a bitch or a cunt–without being afraid for my safety?

The loss of this park is not a devastating loss.  My adorable house (perk of suburban living: affordable housing that is really awesome) has a fenced yard that’s pleasant and private.  I’m in Portland proper every day and can usually find an hour to spend in one of my many favorite parks.  Life goes on.

But every time I drive past that damn park, I feel angry that street harassment keeps me from enjoying it.

And ashamed that I let it.

Tags: parks, street harassment