A Peace Rose Grows in Truxton Circle

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This is just a quick acknowledgement to the owner of the lime green house between “R” Street, NW and “Q” Street, NW on New Jersey Avenue, NW. After all this time, I have failed to remember the actual number of your home, but you know the one. The grass is wild and hasn’t been cut since summer began.

In all honestly, the house looks like it may be empty, but the owner left one telling legacy: a Peace rose that grows just inside the iron fence between the house and the sidewalk. It’s immediately recognizable to anyone who’s ever seen one – the perfect mix of delicate pink and creamy yellow blossoms that smell of sweet, but not cloying, perfume. Each summer day since I’ve been running in this neighborhood, I’ve taken the time to stop and smell whatever flower might be blooming there.

I know it’s terribly cliché to stop and smell the roses, but I do so because I think it’s part of a larger metaphor. This rose bush is mature and has been around for a very long time. I may be fooling myself, but I like to think it’s been in this same spot since the 1960s. And because it’s a Peace rose, I like to think that the owner of this home planted this bush here for a reason, as a message to the residents of this neighborhood that we should all observe and protect the peace here.

It wasn’t that far from Truxton Circle where Washington burned during the riots that occurred after Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination in 1968, and I see this flower as the reminder of what terrible things happened in our capital and how we should hope never to revisit those times again.

I’ve never seen anyone come out of this house before, but if someone does live there, I want to thank him for allowing me to smell the roses and for the sentiment that goes with them.

Bryan

"R" is for "Rainbow"

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Okay, so I mentioned in an earlier blog that I would write about the changing make-up of Truxton Circle. Here goes…

It seems Truxton Circle has sent a Bat Signal to those in the gay community who are either tired of Dupont or are more adventurous than the residents of Logan Circle.

I have noticed over my three-year stint up and back on New Jersey Avenue that it’s become repopulated with more white folks. For a while, it was notable that I actually saw a white person in the neighborhood, but these days, I have been dissecting that recognition a bit. Yes, I have seen a young white couple with a couple of kids move in, but what I find more interesting is the fact that gays are forging new ground here.

Who woulda thunk it?

Now, for years, I’ve passed my favorite neighborhood lesbian on my way up New Jersey Avenue. She’s your typical butch girl with a do-it-yourself cropped hairdo and the proud owner of a rather staid-looking brownstone, newly painted white. There’s nothing remarkable about it really. What is notable is that she has placed a folding chair outside her abode in her makeshift “garden” with her own brightly colored personal umbrella attached to the back of the chair and a spray water bottle that sits nicely within reach on the outside stairs to her house. There for a while, she was outside every single time I ran by between the hours of 12:00 PM and 3:00PM. Never once has she ever said a word to me. Instead, she just watches me run past while she gently spritzes herself to tame the DC heat. We’ve seen each other so much in fact that at one point we decided to politely acknowledge each other. No words, just a nod or a wave. Most recently, however, she’s been AWOL, and for more than just a day or two at a time. I had gone for weeks without seeing her; the only evidence that she still lived there was her empty chair and that lonely bottle on the stairs. It surprised myself at just how much it affected me. Well, I finally saw her again today. It’s been months. But did either of us stop to say an actual, “hello.” Of course not.

I did have another encounter that really blew me away though.

One extremely hot weekday a few weeks ago, I had gotten to “R” Street, NW and turned around (it’s my halfway mark). As I started back down on the other side of New Jersey Avenue, I saw a guy crouched down by his iron fence that fronts the sidewalk on which I run. I took note of him at first simply because he was white (I’ll have to start shaking that notion if many others move in.). I took note of the landscaping in front of his home, thinking to myself that it was particularly well done for the neighborhood. As I passed him, he looked up just in time for our eyes to meet. We didn’t say anything, and I moved on, but I couldn’t help shake the idea I knew him. I searched the rolodex of my brain and about two blocks later realized it was my old friend, Rob.

I had to run back to see if he was still there, and sure enough he was.

I said, “Rob?” and he looked up and said, “Bryan?”

Ten years previous, Rob and a friend of ours had come all the way from DC to Oklahoma to witness the wedding of my wife and me. In all honesty, he was initially a friend of my wife’s, but he grew to embrace me as well. Shortly after we were married, my wife and I lost track of he and his boyfriend, Curtis.

In the span of about five minutes, I found out Rob and Curtis were still together (going on 11 years for them) and they had purchased their row house in the neighborhood six months earlier. They’ve painted it lavender with eggplant accents and proudly fly their rainbow flag. By way of reference, it is in the same block as my favorite lesbian’s home.

Since then, I’ve seen two other gay couples move into Truxton Circle. It seems a cliché, but you can tell which homes they live in. They are the ones that are completely renovated or in the process. They each have lovely garden landscaping in the front and most have their own security systems.

I have to say, I’m proud of the co-existence going on in Truxton Circle. Who’d have thought it would be possible? Not me.

Bryan

P.S. You’ll notice I have found a grand total of no change on Friday or today. I guess that’s just the natural order of things considering my other windfalls of previous week.

Free Furniture Fridays

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If you’re the type who can’t wait to get up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday just so you can troll the streets for great garage sale bargains, now there’s no reason to lose that sleep.
In Truxton Circle, it seems that Fridays are the best time to find free furniture! That’s right, need a couch, circa 1972, with only a few small stains and a slit cushion here and there? Looking for a gently used mattress? Or how about a fantastic wood-laminate computer desk with only one castor missing?

I don’t know what it is about Fridays in Truxton Circle, but each week on that day it seems I find newly discarded furniture at the curb along my path. Maybe Saturday is the designated “special pickup” day by the DC Waste Disposal Service? Not sure.

There’s something a little disturbing about seeing upended couches along the side of the road. One home I passed had so many things out front I was concerned someone had been evicted. But it never fails, come Monday, it’s all been hauled away. By whom, I’m not sure.

I have to mention that I have seen a double-size mattress hanging out in front of one multi-family walk-up for nearly a month now. Perhaps it’s not been picked up simply because it’s technically not at the curb. It’s been pushed up against the chain-link fence that resides between the house and the sidewalk. Most recently, a determined black walnut tree has sprouted near the end of the mattress and curled itself up and through part of the showing spring inside the bed. Every time I pass it, I am determined to take an artful photograph and call it “Mattress with Black Walnut,” but I always forget to come back and do so. Now that I’ve actually written here about it, maybe that will be my incentive to do so.

But for those diehard garage sale warriors out there, just a little heads up that you might find a jewel among the discarded ruins…

Bryan

P.S. I'll be gone next week on vacation, so all my fans out there will just have to re-read my initial postings to get their fix. Have a great week!

Pot and Presumption

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So each day, I struggle to focus on one solid thought for this blog.

Why? Because so many different thoughts occur to me during my hourly jog, but I don’t want to overwhelm you.

So yesterday, I saw something that I thought was pretty random, and so decided I’d focus on the structural elements and the challenges residents face from them instead of this random incident.

But then, today, I noticed yet another seemingly random incident that tied nicely into what I saw only the day before. So now I really have no choice but to run with it.

Yesterday, I was on the last quarter of my run, just about to exit Truxton Circle and re-enter what is more the urban office oasis that is south of Massachusetts Avenue on Capitol Hill, when I saw this lovely bohemian girl sitting on the sidewalk very near the traffic passing through on Mass Avenue. As I got to and passed her sitting Indian style on the brick pavement, I realized she was looking intently into a small, hinged plastic box. I couldn’t figure out what was so interesting until I got right on her.

She was seeding pot.

Yes, you read that right…seeding pot on the sidewalk of one of the busiest streets in the neighborhood. Frankly, I passed her so quickly I couldn’t really tell if she was high or not, but I figured it really wasn’t that important.

Now, I’m no prude, but I was a little taken aback that she would do this out in the open without a care in the world. But then again, maybe I’m a product of my upbringing. Everyone I ever knew who did this type of thing did it appropriately in the back of a house trailer with the shades drawn. They’d never be so bold as to do it in plain sight, let alone on a street packed with commuters.

I had to smile at her disregard for her own preservation. Talk about ballsy. But I guess, sometimes, you just have a “fuck-it” moment and tell yourself you’ll take your own chances.

Thinking it such an oddity, I figured I’d tuck it away in my brain as a random act I might recall another time in a different context. But then today, I saw something just as bold.

I was, again, on the back half of my run with the Capitol in sight in the distance and maybe ten minutes from being firmly ensconced in my office when I saw two high-school-aged boys walking in front of me. The first sported these amazing braids and skin the color of charcoal; the other was non-descript except for the fact that he wore no shirt and had on a pair of long denim shorts that were at least three sizes too big, hence, they hung precariously from his pelvic bones as if they might hit his ankles with one misstep. They were at the bottom of a hill that I had just topped, so I saw them for some time before actually catching up to them.

The boy with the braids had his hands up to his mouth, but because his back was to me, I couldn’t really tell what he was doing. It first looked as if he were licking a lollipop or a popsicle, but as I approached them, I realized he was actually rolling what I thought was a cigarette. I remember thinking to myself, “Boy, I haven’t seen someone actually roll their own in twenty years.” But just as the thought left me, the air was suddenly full of a familiar, earthy smell. Pot.

Both boys were passing it back and forth, but that wasn’t the thing that struck me as bold so much as it was how they walked. Their steps were strong, bordering on arrogant. It wasn’t enough that they were smoking a joint in public. Their mannerisms showed that they wanted people to know.

They didn’t realize anyone was behind them until I was actually passing them.

Thankfully, the boy with the braids jumped and ducked appropriately before resuming his cocky stance. At least it meant something to me that their boldness was born more from a dare than from just a blatant disregard for authority.

Even in this crazy neighborhood where most societal rules don’t seem to be relevant, the overarching rule of duck and run thankfully still applies.

Bryan

The Bajan Connection

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Okay, now this is bordering on the ridiculous.

I found twenty-nine cents today. I know, it sounds too good to be true. And, technically, it is.

You see, I was in the changing room at the gym in my building, taking off my work clothes and donning my running clothes, when I bent down to pick up my running shoes. At my feet – literally in between them – was a shiny quarter. Now, I know that most of you are thinking, “Bryan, that quarter is not yours. You should have left it.” And I say to you, “If it’s on the floor and no one has claimed it, it’s mine!”

Okay, okay, I feel badly about it, but not terrible.

Then on my run, I found four pennies – all in different places. Now, even four pennies is unbelievably rare. But then again, I believe I found them for a reason. So I’ll hold onto them until I figure out what that reason is.

So, my wife and I recently returned from attending a wedding in Barbados. Our friends are older and decided to throw caution to the wind and have a destination wedding. They had about 12 people there, and it was absolutely beautiful and serene.

While we were there, an island guide told me something interesting about Bajan property owners. On an excursion into town, I noticed nearly all homes have an entry porch of sorts, large enough to accommodate a couple of chairs or a loveseat. These porches were typically painted cheerful island colors – orange, turquoise, yellow. However, the rest of these houses were left completely unpainted, their coral and cement walls turning from white to gray in the constant exposure to the salt water and wind that surrounds them.

I asked our guide why residents don’t just paint everything, and what I learned surprised me. Apparently, if you paint your entire residence, the Bajan government officially recognizes your property’s worth and charges you a hefty sum in taxes. Go figure!

Today, this notion came to my mind while running in Truxton Circle. The area is full of multi-level brownstone homes mainly built around the turn of the century. Some have seen facelifts to varying degrees (and I plan to address who’s making them in the near future), but most are in some state of disrepair, running the gamut from peeling paint to shifting foundations. I began to associate the Bajan theory of taxation to Truxton Circle.

It’s probably wishful thinking, but I sort of like the idea that the reason the residents of Truxton Circle decide not to address the exterior of their homes is because they do not want the city to tax them at a higher rate. More likely, it’s because the residents are either too old, too infirm, or simply don’t have enough money to make necessary repairs.

I just think it’s somehow easier to think of it in these terms rather than any other reality that might get in the way.

Bryan

The Eyes Have It

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What is it about not looking at each other in this town?

I mean, in general: We get on an elevator and divert our eyes from any others we might meet. We pass each other in countless office hallways and never say a word. Did someone somewhere deem long ago that this was somehow the professional thing to do?

I wonder.
It’s bad enough in my own skyscraper office building (well, honestly, there are no skyscrapers in Washington, DC, but you get the idea), but when it comes to passing people on the street – especially in Truxton Circle – it has been elevated to an art.

Is it because I’m white? Because I’m a stranger? An interloper?

On my run today, as in many other days previously, I encountered people. Mostly regular neighborhood folks. A lady carrying clean laundry from her car to her home, a wild-eyed man who looked like he was strung out on something. At this time of year, it’s mostly kids out of school for the summer and wandering about. But the thing they all have in common is that none of them look at me. Well, that’s not quite true. They all see me from a distance, but as I approach them, none even acknowledge me.

You might think this is just the way of things, but to me, it makes me wonder. It frustrates me. Why? Have I hit on a larger social concept?

Because when a person diverts his eyes, it makes it extremely difficult to engage him, even to say a brief “hello,” and move on.

As a stranger in this strange land, I’m not looking to carry on an in-depth conversation about the meaning of life. I just believe that saying hello is the first step in getting to know another person, to tell them they mean something to you, to make an acquaintance.

When a person passes me without acknowledgement, it makes me feel like I’m not accepted, not wanted, and generally regarded with derision. And, maybe in this instance, that’s exactly the message being communicated to me. I am an intruder of sorts. I don’t live in this neighborhood, so why should I be here? Is it me, or is it what I represent? Is it just my presence that is so distasteful to the locals?

Just as I’m getting more and more frustrated, paying more attention to the fact that I’m not being acknowledged than to my run, I find myself approaching an elderly black man haphazardly carrying a cigarette. I bring myself once more to look up and into his eyes, hoping to catch even a brief glance from him. And, to my amazement, he looks up, meets my gaze, and says, “Hello,” with a near-imperceptible nod.

It was as if I were a child getting the Christmas gift I’d most desperately wanted for years.

I smiled – probably a little too widely – said, “Hello,” and was on my way. Just like that.

It was over in less than a second, but the interaction was moving, and made all the difference in the world. I was euphoric. I’d been accepted. I was important enough to be acknowledged. I was somebody.

Most of all, I was grateful.

Bryan

P.S. Just a note to say that I found a quarter today. Amazing and rare, like basic human kindness.

The High School That Was Is No More

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Today was a truly momentous occasion with regard to my runs.

You may have noticed that after each date notation, there is a dollar amount stated. There should be a proper explanation for this, and today couldn’t be a better time.

As you know, I’ve run the same route for nearly three years now. Very early on in my journey, I kept finding coins on the street. More often than not, the coin I would find would be a lowly penny, hence the title of this blog, One-Cent Day.

Many times, I would pass by that penny thinking, “It’s just a penny. Why stop for that?”

But then one week, I passed that same penny for five days straight. Finally, I thought, “Why not pick it up? No one else has and it seems like some kind of sign. It has been waiting for me.”

Almost every day since, I have come across some kind of coin on my run. Again, more often than not, it’s just a penny, but I take it as a sign that I’m somehow on the right path and that those coins are put in my path for a reason. To this day, I’ve held onto my collection of coins and never spent them.

Now, every once in a great while, I’ll come across something other than penny. Mostly dimes and nickels, but today, you guessed it, the coin awaiting me was a shiny silver quarter. It’s happened before, so I won’t kid you or myself that it somehow means that this blog I’ve started is adding to the greater good of society. But I don’t think I can convey my level of excitement at finding such a sum.

What I think is most interesting is that I find any coins at all in this neighborhood. One would think that every penny counts here – that every last one of them goes to good use. But that has not been my experience. I find this dichotomy particularly relevant to the current state of Dunbar High School, one of the best-known things about Truxton Circle.

According to what information I could find, Dunbar High School (in its original location at First Street, NW, bewteen N and O Streets, NW) was the first black public high school in the country. The original high school was known by a couple of different names -- Preparatory High School for Colored Youth, and later, M Street High School. It was at one point a draw for black youth interested in going to college. In fact, many African-American families moved to the area because of the prestigious nature of the school. It graduated many students who would go on to national recognition, including Sterling Brown, Nannie Helen Burroughs, Charles R. Drew, Charles Hamilton Houston, Robert H. Terrell and Robert C. Weaver. One of its faculty members was Carter G. Woodson, father of National Black History Month. It also graduated Ed Brooke, who would become a US Senator (and whom we now know had an affair with news figure Barbara Walters).

The structure that now exists at the corner of N Street, NW, and New Jersey Avenue, NW, was built in the 1960s after the original school was deconstructed, and it was from there that its reputation for student excellence was transferred to its sports notoriety. Several students have gone on to play college and professional football.

However, as one former student put it, “the school may not be the best academically, but it really helps you find yourself. It teaches how to deal with peer pressure, who you are and how to make wise decisions. You have to find a place for yourself at Dunbar.”

Some parents have said Dunbar is “full of out-of-control teens, bad teachers and a failing infrastructure,” but a more revealing review of the school comes from a recent graduate: “I found the school to be quite exceptional. The curriculum was outstanding and the school has a variety of opportunities to offer teens. Entering, I was considered an out-of-control teen, but upon leaving I was a educated, young, black, teen parent with a vision of what I wanted in the future.”

I look at Dunbar High School only from the outside – a mass of khaki-colored brick, thick cement and peeling sheet metal. It’s an imposing structure that looks more like a prison or detention center than a high school. But if one turns down N Street, NW, and heads to the backside of the school, a different Dunbar emerges. A state-of-the-art track and football field gleam against the seriously downtrodden exterior of the high school. Maybe that’s where those in charge have chosen to pour what little money they receive from the District’s coffers. I have a feeling they understand that the only thing that’s really working for current high school students is their dedication to sports – and the powers that be are feeding what works.

Most recently, the Dunbar staff has added a new adornment to the outside of their building: a banner that proclaims Dunbar as a Blue Ribbon School as designated by the U.S. Department of Education.

I guess looks can be deceiving…

Bryan