It's been a quiet day--so quiet that I thought back to Saturday, and appreciated the quietness even more.
My Saturday afternoon and evening were punctuated by pounding bass. Something violent and repetitive that was poorly masquerading as music--and amplified--was coming from the park across the street. From inside my home, after hours of enduring it, I was happy to hear some guy announce (albeit loudly), "We 'bout to roll up out of here...We really waitin' for the po' po' to
throw us outta here...God Bless. Good night. One love."
And then, all of the party-ers in the park commenced to wobbling. Of course they did. Isn't that the official way to close an event?
In
my mind, I envision a beautiful, Wolftrap-like amphitheater on the
grounds of the park that is bordered by the sprawling, now closed, Patricia Roberts Harris Educational Center, and South Capitol, First, and Atlantic Streets.
Perhaps the flooding problem on the land wouldn't accommodate such a structure, but one can dream. Maybe if there were a beautiful, architecturally stunning, professionally run venue on the land, there would be a little more care taken about the quality of sounds that emanate from the park, and blanket the neighborhood.
I was reminded of an episode of Dennis The Menace, where he made a home movie of his town, for a class assignment. "This is our park", he read, as the film was shown, "where people go to rest and walk quietly among the trees."
Again, one can only dream.
I'm not sure who was being remembered or celebrated, but, from the other
side of my closed windows, I could clearly hear that there are plans to make it an annual affair.
The guy on
the mike kept going-- after I was sure he'd announced that the party was over:
"Last call for
the pictures!", he yelled. "We 'bout to get up out of here. It's getting dark, and you
know how they are with niggas in the park after dark".
I could hear every word as if I were outside.
Maybe he didn't know his voice was bouncing off of the walls of
every house, apartment, and business establishment within a 5 mile
radius.
No one, who took the mike, bothered to censor themselves.
Perhaps it's the sticky area of having a private party in a public place. Does one consider one's surroundings? When police cruisers didn't show up when expected, the guy on the mike insinuated that an "after
party" was about to commence.
I was praying, "Please, God. Please make it rain real rain--the watery kind".
The headache-inducing, surround-sound intrusion, that
occasionally descends upon the residents of far SE/SW, demonstrates a lack of consideration that goes along with a group's arrogant assertion of their rights to use a public space.
Yes. People have a right to party in the park.
What about the responsibilities to the neighborhood's residents that accompany that right, though?
Maybe the people who choose to use
the park for their events don't see all of the houses and apartments.
Maybe it never occurs to them that there are families-- PEOPLE--who might just want to hear themselves think, or sleep, or enjoy the comfort
of their own homes on a Saturday afternoon-- without having to don earplugs, or flee.
I actually
LIKE music. I love music.
The junk, however, that rattled the windows all
afternoon was too much.
I wonder if people conclude that, because it's SE/SW, residents are fans of noise and lousy music. Maybe we're supposed to embrace getting soundly cursed out for hours on end.
I wondered if it would have been
tolerated anywhere else in the city.
The DJ's choice of music didn't take into consideration that
there are seniors, and children, and people with working ears living in the neighborhood.
I wondered what was on the minds of
the people whose own children were in attendance --children who probably hadn't anticipated being designated as
trash collectors by the guy with the mike. "Ya'll kids grab some trash
bags!"
What about the musical trash that their impressionable minds
collected all day? (Trash that they will no doubt repeat at school, come September. Adults really shouldn't wonder where children pick up foul language if we're dropping it right in front of them.)
I guess one good thing about it all was that they
weren't litterbugs.
There was live entertainment, too. Some rapper, whose track had issues, opted to free-style, and
nobody thought to stop him as he spewed one curse word and slur after
another. ( After what I heard, I wish someone would say anything else to me about the unfortunate words of a certain southern chef. )
It's not
hard to see why people are so quick to bring up rappers
whenever the "N" word comes up--and there was nothing endearing, hip, or positively cultural about it's
incessant use last Saturday.
Funny thing about music. It really does have power. I felt like my ear drums
had been mauled. I wished I'd had the wherewithal to lock the DJ in a
room with the entire Stevie Wonder catalog. Didn't he have any "Earth, Wind and Fire" or "Maze, featuring Frankie Beverly"? It's true. If the music
had been something I preferred, I probably wouldn't even have cared how
unbelievably loud it was. I may have even opened my windows. Unfortunately, it was just annoying, muffled, and grating. There was no escaping it except to leave home and seek sanctuary in the neighborhood of someone else.
I know that Art is subjective. What I heard all day last Saturday, however, sounded like the
ignorant mumblings of a bunch of profane, angry people who missed way too many
days of school. There was just nothing pleasing about it. Blasting from
outside, the noise was penetrating brick, mortar and glass and not drawing me any closer to post-Sugar Hill Gang rap at all. Somebody, who shouldn't have had one, had a mike,
and someone else was controlling the sound..."Welcome to my hood?"
..."A nigga like me..." "I'm different..." "Have a baby by me..." "Blame
it on the alcohol..." Yep. I know lyrics I wasn't trying to learn. I know. Someone likes it. Different strokes....I know...I know....Sometimes, it seems we're going backward. Sometimes I fear that an entire generation has no idea what good music sounds like.
Yep. It's official. I'm getting old....
The silence was so welcomed on Saturday night, but it didn't last. The post-Fouth of July revelers still had leftover fireworks to explode. ( I do believe they get their supplies from the Pentagon.) Then, to top it all off, I heard that tell-tale
screech...then the sound of impact. Drivers have to learn that "No turn on red" isn't a suggestion. Saturday evening, there was yet another accident at the same spot where a pedestrian was killed in April. Sirens then overshadowed the sound of the fireworks, but any sounds were better than that music.
I really, really appreciated the calm of today, and I concede: Bellevue isn't always a noisy place...: )
