Sense of
Place
Nov 30 2013
The small bungalow
on a modest cul-de-sac
abuts, back-to-back
The small bungalow
on a modest cul-de-sac
abuts, back-to-back
with another pleasant
street,
the planned community
of 1954.
Where soldiers, returned from the war
Where soldiers, returned from the war
would marry their
sweethearts
raise 3.5 kids.
Living the dream,
while sweat-soaked terror
stalked their sleep.
stalked their sleep.
The dividend of peace,
was a one-car garage
roughed-in basement
unfenced yard.
A few scrawny trees
strapped to poles
on bull-dozed lots.
Cities accrete
in archaeological layers.
On ancient ruins.
On urban renewal.
On the demolition
of wrecking balls, conquest
was a one-car garage
roughed-in basement
unfenced yard.
A few scrawny trees
strapped to poles
on bull-dozed lots.
Cities accrete
in archaeological layers.
On ancient ruins.
On urban renewal.
On the demolition
of wrecking balls, conquest
neglect,
the resurrection
of the tenderloin, and derelict.
of the tenderloin, and derelict.
Where the artifacts
of disposable life are buried
of disposable life are buried
in compacted city soil.
Where you hit
Where you hit
a strata of ash
no matter where you dig,
the last remains
of The Great Fire.
But the only history here
is my elderly parents
in their empty-nest.
But the only history here
is my elderly parents
in their empty-nest.
Which could use some work.
The family home
renovated in the 1960s,
when the future was
plastic, and sleek,
deep shag, burnt orange
the height of chic.
And where the cul-de-sac
is lifeless,
no kids taking slapshots
until well after dark,
the dogs are all buried
in quiet backyards.
Without a car
the Arcadian ideal of suburban life
has become a comfortable prison,
lit up
at Christmas, Thanksgiving
by visits from downtown,
the prodigal children
with kids of their own.
Who love the city,
its history
and sense of place.
And this home
which will be sold
when the folks are gone.
If anyone's buying houses, then
that far out.
in quiet backyards.
Without a car
the Arcadian ideal of suburban life
has become a comfortable prison,
lit up
at Christmas, Thanksgiving
by visits from downtown,
the prodigal children
with kids of their own.
Who love the city,
its history
and sense of place.
And this home
which will be sold
when the folks are gone.
If anyone's buying houses, then
that far out.
There was a terrific article called Out of Eden Africa , and will then
follow in the footsteps of human migration (7 years, 21,000 miles, 4
continents!) Among numerous beautifully written passages, this one stuck:
"Humanity remakes the world in an accelerating cycle of change that strips away our stories as well as the topsoil. Our era's breathtaking changes collapse collective memory, blur precedence, sever lines of responsibility. (What disconcerts us about suburbia? Not just its sameness, but its absence of time. We crave a past in our landscapes.)"
From the ancient dusty landscape of the Afar Triangle, the idea of a landscape with a past has great resonance.
I've been reading quite a bit about the new urbanization; and how lifestyle, demographics, and the necessities of energy economics as well as climate change will hollow out the traditional suburb. The quintessential North American suburb -- a place that, to me, has always existed as the basic template of how one lives -- may ultimately end up as a minor unremembered blip of human history from the second half of the 20th century. Despite its promise of healthy living away from congested downtowns, and its ideal of the wholesome nuclear family, suburbia is betrayed by its essential homogeneity and geography: a spread-out landscape that isolates people; an unwalkable locale where you're left stranded without a car; and -- as per Salopek -- a spiritually empty location with no sense of place or history.
Of all the practical criticisms of suburban life, I really like this idea that it lacks a "sense of place"; and how the rootedness and identity conferred by a sense of place is a big part of human happiness. So if suburbia does end up a relic, a curiosity, a strange innovation rooted in a particular time and place, perhaps this poem can stand as its ambivalent eulogy.
Although in a way, the poem refutes Salopek's contention. Because as individuals, our personal history can become deeply and intimately entwined with a brand new landscape. In a single generation (in this case, the self-absorbed and self-referential Baby Boomers, of which I'm one), an unlikely place can acquire unexpected weight.
(Although I hasten to add -- once again -- that this poem is not
autobiographical. I don't have kids. I don't customarily go home at Christmas
or Thanksgiving. I grew up in a big back-split on a ravine, not a bungalow on a
cul-de-sac. Where I live it's more rural than suburban (or even exurban), and I
would find city life quite unpleasant. There was no "Great Fire" in "Humanity remakes the world in an accelerating cycle of change that strips away our stories as well as the topsoil. Our era's breathtaking changes collapse collective memory, blur precedence, sever lines of responsibility. (What disconcerts us about suburbia? Not just its sameness, but its absence of time. We crave a past in our landscapes.)"
From the ancient dusty landscape of the Afar Triangle, the idea of a landscape with a past has great resonance.
I've been reading quite a bit about the new urbanization; and how lifestyle, demographics, and the necessities of energy economics as well as climate change will hollow out the traditional suburb. The quintessential North American suburb -- a place that, to me, has always existed as the basic template of how one lives -- may ultimately end up as a minor unremembered blip of human history from the second half of the 20th century. Despite its promise of healthy living away from congested downtowns, and its ideal of the wholesome nuclear family, suburbia is betrayed by its essential homogeneity and geography: a spread-out landscape that isolates people; an unwalkable locale where you're left stranded without a car; and -- as per Salopek -- a spiritually empty location with no sense of place or history.
Of all the practical criticisms of suburban life, I really like this idea that it lacks a "sense of place"; and how the rootedness and identity conferred by a sense of place is a big part of human happiness. So if suburbia does end up a relic, a curiosity, a strange innovation rooted in a particular time and place, perhaps this poem can stand as its ambivalent eulogy.
Although in a way, the poem refutes Salopek's contention. Because as individuals, our personal history can become deeply and intimately entwined with a brand new landscape. In a single generation (in this case, the self-absorbed and self-referential Baby Boomers, of which I'm one), an unlikely place can acquire unexpected weight.
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