hole down which everything kept getting stranger. As with my previous remarks about neologisms, the plethora of sexual identities, foreign-American affiliations, and hyphenates in general had grown exponentially in recent memory and kept getting larger. Technically, I was a former-New-York-woman-Jew-thirtysomething-divorcée-restaurateur- bananaphile. How many defining qualities would be elevated to nom-de-guerre prominence before the language buckled from the weight?
Or my menu, I thought. I couldn’t imagine having to list, as part of the name of each dish, every ingredient to which someone might be allergic or intolerant, along with the calorie count and, oh yeah, the name. That was when all of life would become like those fast-spoken qualifiers in TV ads for pharmaceuticals.
It was a moonless, overcast night, which meant that the glow of the computer screen would make us anything but stealthy. Banko suggested we go right to the spot where the flyers had been posted to see what he and the computer picked up.
I got off the interstate and drove toward the park. I had taken a little time to read up on the history of the place, and I understood why the hate group had picked it to post its signs. The thirty-four acres used to belong to the John L. Hadley plantation. In 1912 Nashville bought the property, and it became the first public park created especially for African-Americans. What seems, through a modern lens, to be overtly segregationist was considered quite forward-thinking at the time.
We parked on Alameda Street, where there were several other cars. I grabbed a windbreaker I had in the backseat and slipped it on, and put my cell phone in my pocket. We walked along the western rim of the park, toward Tennessee State University. It had begun to drizzle, and hunched against the rain, Banko held the stuffed pillowcase over the computer.
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“To the corner of John A. Merritt Boulevard,” I told him. “That’s where Mapquest showed the trees to be.”
I hadn’t wanted to park right on top of them in case anyone was there . . . or watching. The rain actually felt good, like cool, misty kisses on my still-groggy forehead. Also, my throat felt better with my face turned upward, the skin extended. The bandage had pinched a little as I drove. Not now.
I saw the trees through the drizzle. “There they are.”
Banko squinted ahead. “I can set up anywhere—let’s go to the bench by the tennis courts.”
The courts were between us and the trees. We stayed on the sidewalk. The courts passed to my right like freighters moving by a skiff—big, monolithic, impersonal. It struck me that many places required people to acquire a personality. Even monuments. When I worked on Wall Street, I often had lunch in Battery Park and sat facing the Statue of Liberty. In my brain, I always saw it with returning troop carriers after World War Two, with boatloads of immigrants passing en route to nearby Ellis Island, of fireworks on the Fourth of July. It was never just the big, green statue. If it were, I would remember which foot was forward, whether her feet were bare, how long her sleeves were.
The tennis courts were behind us as we turned the corner. There was a dreamy haze under the streetlamp. We went to a new metal bench that faced the trees. Banko used the pillowcase to wipe the dampness from the seat, then spread the clear shower curtain over us like it was a snowy-day Jets game. The computer glowed brightly, ethereally under the shroud. While my companion tapped buttons, I looked out at the university. Was it possible that students had put the flyers up? And if so, was it some kind of provocative hazing ritual or in earnest? Campuses weren’t just about political correctness. They were about free speech and self-expression. For all I knew. they had some kind of totally legitimate historical or socio-political club called When We Were White or The Ideals of the Confederacy. The perps
Or my menu, I thought. I couldn’t imagine having to list, as part of the name of each dish, every ingredient to which someone might be allergic or intolerant, along with the calorie count and, oh yeah, the name. That was when all of life would become like those fast-spoken qualifiers in TV ads for pharmaceuticals.
It was a moonless, overcast night, which meant that the glow of the computer screen would make us anything but stealthy. Banko suggested we go right to the spot where the flyers had been posted to see what he and the computer picked up.
I got off the interstate and drove toward the park. I had taken a little time to read up on the history of the place, and I understood why the hate group had picked it to post its signs. The thirty-four acres used to belong to the John L. Hadley plantation. In 1912 Nashville bought the property, and it became the first public park created especially for African-Americans. What seems, through a modern lens, to be overtly segregationist was considered quite forward-thinking at the time.
We parked on Alameda Street, where there were several other cars. I grabbed a windbreaker I had in the backseat and slipped it on, and put my cell phone in my pocket. We walked along the western rim of the park, toward Tennessee State University. It had begun to drizzle, and hunched against the rain, Banko held the stuffed pillowcase over the computer.
“Where are we headed?” he asked.
“To the corner of John A. Merritt Boulevard,” I told him. “That’s where Mapquest showed the trees to be.”
I hadn’t wanted to park right on top of them in case anyone was there . . . or watching. The rain actually felt good, like cool, misty kisses on my still-groggy forehead. Also, my throat felt better with my face turned upward, the skin extended. The bandage had pinched a little as I drove. Not now.
I saw the trees through the drizzle. “There they are.”
Banko squinted ahead. “I can set up anywhere—let’s go to the bench by the tennis courts.”
The courts were between us and the trees. We stayed on the sidewalk. The courts passed to my right like freighters moving by a skiff—big, monolithic, impersonal. It struck me that many places required people to acquire a personality. Even monuments. When I worked on Wall Street, I often had lunch in Battery Park and sat facing the Statue of Liberty. In my brain, I always saw it with returning troop carriers after World War Two, with boatloads of immigrants passing en route to nearby Ellis Island, of fireworks on the Fourth of July. It was never just the big, green statue. If it were, I would remember which foot was forward, whether her feet were bare, how long her sleeves were.
The tennis courts were behind us as we turned the corner. There was a dreamy haze under the streetlamp. We went to a new metal bench that faced the trees. Banko used the pillowcase to wipe the dampness from the seat, then spread the clear shower curtain over us like it was a snowy-day Jets game. The computer glowed brightly, ethereally under the shroud. While my companion tapped buttons, I looked out at the university. Was it possible that students had put the flyers up? And if so, was it some kind of provocative hazing ritual or in earnest? Campuses weren’t just about political correctness. They were about free speech and self-expression. For all I knew. they had some kind of totally legitimate historical or socio-political club called When We Were White or The Ideals of the Confederacy. The perps
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