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- Story Listed as: True Life For Teens
- Theme: Survival / Success
- Subject: Memorial / Tribute
- Published: 03/07/2011
Chinatown
Born 1982, M, from Apple Valley, CA, United StatesIt was late afternoon when we arrived. All of the cars were moving because it cost too much to park. The streetlights flickered and burned a while before the sun’s final surviving rays played macabre shadows on the walls of the buildings and were snuffed out by the oppressive lukewarm temperature and darkness. The streetlights burned and offered outposts for the coy and the lonely in their warming glow. We had appreciated the afternoon. The shops exploded with locals and tourists, each making ghastly attempts to out- or under spend everyone else. There were tea sets and dragons and sparkle-pop signs, each with its price tag, each promising something miraculous.
The music was coming from somewhere. It radiated through us something wonderful, something we could not place and did not want to. Examination objectifies beauty. The Buddhas came in every pose and the dragons promised to watch over. The flightless balsawood airplanes circled above us with rubber band propellers and fishing line. The goddess of fertility promised conception and the ornamental fans kept us cool.
Outside in the fountain and wishing well a red koi jumped out of the pond to flutter its shimmering fins and then it fell, broke through the water’s surface in the faux plaster pool and made its way to the murky bottom where the rusted pennies were.
The magic had been tragically misleading.
The darkness was oppressing. We watched the cracks in the pavement, being sure not to step on a single one. Her arm brushed against mine occasionally when one of our strides coursed slightly diagonal. But we were lonely. The pedestrian traffic swirled around us making us the center of a whirlpool of emptiness. We did not speak. It was beautiful in a Hiroshima sort of way. Even the stars were heavy. We dared not speak.
We walked side by side on the wide and dirty pavement, observing, and interpreting. The lens through which each of us saw was different, but we were both seeing the same things. There were words written on the walls. The language was foreign to me. I knew I would never understand what they said but I could read in the paint what they meant. They were beautiful and at the same time horrific. They told stories of ruined lives, withheld dreams, and painted landscapes of unhappy endings and unhappier beginnings. They were the words of our impending social suicide. I loved every one.
The faces of fellow pedestrians were cast straight forward or down at the ground. Their eyes were as narrow as they had allowed their lives to become. An old man finished work for the day and padlocked his handmade wares to sleep. He stood with a hunch and walked with a limp. His face was the face of defeat. He stared at us longingly as he hobbled past and up the littered street. The other shops had also begun to close, and we simply observed and interpreted. The floods of finite faces filled the sidewalk on which we had been so alone, and were still alone. Their staring eyes lay ahead of them, north to the future, backs to the past. Another day was forever and wistfully lost, and many more were sure to follow. The bitterness in the air changed the taste. We were only biased observers, visually writing a history that no one would read.
The air was thick as rancid milk. The street lamps created a strobe effect on the pavement, giving the cars parked at the meters a false glow and the forlorn pedestrians an eeriness that allowed them to walk in jerky motions and disappear around corners unseen. They all stared. We were infidels to them. But we were also the money they lived off of. We were unwelcome, but despondently necessary. The icy stares and glances of the shop owners and locals alike encouraged us to watch our feet and our backs simultaneously. We felt in some way ashamed but unsure why we had to be.
It was not a night for weak stomachs or made up minds. Everywhere was Monet. Every sigh of anyone who walked the same street as us resounded like thunder, shaking the ground and creating another small crack in the sidewalk. The simplicity of such a shrewd feeling of utter helplessness cut me to the core. I had always thought of myself as a careful critic. There is no critiquing the dead. Was this empathy? Was it fear? There was an engulfing sadness that seemed to consume us and our surroundings. We were all slaves to it. We did not have to live it; visiting was condemnation. We had entered a sphere of influence, a sphere of hopelessness. It infected everyone who came here after sunset. Any romantic ideas we had entertained about this seedy side of Los Angeles were overshadowed by a darkness we could feel. We were suddenly helpless and very much alone.
The oppressed and the oppressing, one in the same; the lives of a society long forgotten, living vicariously through the sale of plastic imitations of what had once been genuine representations of high culture. Sold to people like me. I felt somehow directly responsible for their misfortune. The shame was as profound as the guilt that came with it. The American flags fluttered lightly in the innocent breeze and reminded us all that everything was as it should be. Business as usual would continue the following day and the blinding façade of Chinatown would once again entice visitors.
The sidewalks would fill with oblivious pedestrians, the airplanes and fans would licentiously attract attention, the cash registers would all be turned on, and the storeowners would greet the world with beautiful, practiced smiles. The ceramic charms would continue to be sold; the Arizona® tea would continue to be drunk; the survivors would continue to survive, raping the past to ensure the future.
Chinatown(Jeremy McCool)
It was late afternoon when we arrived. All of the cars were moving because it cost too much to park. The streetlights flickered and burned a while before the sun’s final surviving rays played macabre shadows on the walls of the buildings and were snuffed out by the oppressive lukewarm temperature and darkness. The streetlights burned and offered outposts for the coy and the lonely in their warming glow. We had appreciated the afternoon. The shops exploded with locals and tourists, each making ghastly attempts to out- or under spend everyone else. There were tea sets and dragons and sparkle-pop signs, each with its price tag, each promising something miraculous.
The music was coming from somewhere. It radiated through us something wonderful, something we could not place and did not want to. Examination objectifies beauty. The Buddhas came in every pose and the dragons promised to watch over. The flightless balsawood airplanes circled above us with rubber band propellers and fishing line. The goddess of fertility promised conception and the ornamental fans kept us cool.
Outside in the fountain and wishing well a red koi jumped out of the pond to flutter its shimmering fins and then it fell, broke through the water’s surface in the faux plaster pool and made its way to the murky bottom where the rusted pennies were.
The magic had been tragically misleading.
The darkness was oppressing. We watched the cracks in the pavement, being sure not to step on a single one. Her arm brushed against mine occasionally when one of our strides coursed slightly diagonal. But we were lonely. The pedestrian traffic swirled around us making us the center of a whirlpool of emptiness. We did not speak. It was beautiful in a Hiroshima sort of way. Even the stars were heavy. We dared not speak.
We walked side by side on the wide and dirty pavement, observing, and interpreting. The lens through which each of us saw was different, but we were both seeing the same things. There were words written on the walls. The language was foreign to me. I knew I would never understand what they said but I could read in the paint what they meant. They were beautiful and at the same time horrific. They told stories of ruined lives, withheld dreams, and painted landscapes of unhappy endings and unhappier beginnings. They were the words of our impending social suicide. I loved every one.
The faces of fellow pedestrians were cast straight forward or down at the ground. Their eyes were as narrow as they had allowed their lives to become. An old man finished work for the day and padlocked his handmade wares to sleep. He stood with a hunch and walked with a limp. His face was the face of defeat. He stared at us longingly as he hobbled past and up the littered street. The other shops had also begun to close, and we simply observed and interpreted. The floods of finite faces filled the sidewalk on which we had been so alone, and were still alone. Their staring eyes lay ahead of them, north to the future, backs to the past. Another day was forever and wistfully lost, and many more were sure to follow. The bitterness in the air changed the taste. We were only biased observers, visually writing a history that no one would read.
The air was thick as rancid milk. The street lamps created a strobe effect on the pavement, giving the cars parked at the meters a false glow and the forlorn pedestrians an eeriness that allowed them to walk in jerky motions and disappear around corners unseen. They all stared. We were infidels to them. But we were also the money they lived off of. We were unwelcome, but despondently necessary. The icy stares and glances of the shop owners and locals alike encouraged us to watch our feet and our backs simultaneously. We felt in some way ashamed but unsure why we had to be.
It was not a night for weak stomachs or made up minds. Everywhere was Monet. Every sigh of anyone who walked the same street as us resounded like thunder, shaking the ground and creating another small crack in the sidewalk. The simplicity of such a shrewd feeling of utter helplessness cut me to the core. I had always thought of myself as a careful critic. There is no critiquing the dead. Was this empathy? Was it fear? There was an engulfing sadness that seemed to consume us and our surroundings. We were all slaves to it. We did not have to live it; visiting was condemnation. We had entered a sphere of influence, a sphere of hopelessness. It infected everyone who came here after sunset. Any romantic ideas we had entertained about this seedy side of Los Angeles were overshadowed by a darkness we could feel. We were suddenly helpless and very much alone.
The oppressed and the oppressing, one in the same; the lives of a society long forgotten, living vicariously through the sale of plastic imitations of what had once been genuine representations of high culture. Sold to people like me. I felt somehow directly responsible for their misfortune. The shame was as profound as the guilt that came with it. The American flags fluttered lightly in the innocent breeze and reminded us all that everything was as it should be. Business as usual would continue the following day and the blinding façade of Chinatown would once again entice visitors.
The sidewalks would fill with oblivious pedestrians, the airplanes and fans would licentiously attract attention, the cash registers would all be turned on, and the storeowners would greet the world with beautiful, practiced smiles. The ceramic charms would continue to be sold; the Arizona® tea would continue to be drunk; the survivors would continue to survive, raping the past to ensure the future.
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