I watered Rob’s garden the other morning. His pint sized
raised garden bed is home to some beautiful Swiss Chard, Bok Choy and Beets.
They are healthy, happy and loved. Their radiance shines through their glossy
leaves and gorgeous colors. “Hello!” they seem to exclaim, “It’s great to be
alive!” The leeks are a little shyer, their sprouts growing more slowly as they
add to their circular depth in private. I initially thought the leeks were
angry but as I contemplated them I realized they are just taking their time to
grow deeper and wider into their beings.
As I glanced around the area that is now designated an,
“urban renewal” space for small plots of agriculture, I noticed the old Indian
School that is pushed back from the intersection that also hosts a small high
rise and some non-descript residential buildings. The light rail train moved
past and my eyes settled onto a vacant lot adjacent to some condos. It was in
that lot that I first remembered Phoenix.
My family traveled through the night in August 1978. I don’t
remember much of the trip. My father carried me to the car from my bed at the
motel in Searchlight, Nevada. My parents must have told me that we were leaving
that little desert town and going to Phoenix to find work because I was not
startled by the midnight change in my sleeping location. We didn’t have enough
gas money to get back to our house in California and I know my parents hoped
for more opportunity in Phoenix. The nighttime travel helped to insure the car
wouldn’t overheat but August nights in the desert are hot and when I woke
midway through our journey, I was thirsty, hot and disoriented. We pulled off
the road and a single streetlight illuminated a closed gas station. We seemed
to be there a long time but perhaps my 5 year-old brain miscalculated the
length of that seemingly fruitless stop.
That’s all I remember.
Then I woke up.
The front bench seat of that Oldsmobile was staring at me. My
sweaty hair was damped to my cheeks. I sat up and looked out the car window to
see a far off yard with many people with white shirts. The people I saw milling
around looked brown and they contrasted against the red brick buildings. The
gate around the yard made me think they might be prisoners. It was early
morning and the sun was casting her warm orange glow over sharp mountains that
seemed to jut abruptly from the earth. I was alone in the car and glanced
around to see where my parents and brother might have gone. I realized I was in
the parking lot of a restaurant but I had no idea what the large milk silos
were that hugged against the building. They looked like rocket ships to me, yet
the restaurant sign displayed a carnation flower, which was confusing given the
spacecraft.
I realized I was in Phoenix.
Prisoners. Sun. Mountains. Rockets.
I went inside.
Just like those rockets were not spacecraft but rather large
storage towers for milk, the, “prisoners” were no prisoners. Well, not
prisoners in the common sense of the word. The Indian School would operate
until the early ‘90’s leaving behind a large urban corner lot adjacent to the
VA hospital.
This is where I stood watering the garden that was ever so
meekly bringing new life into the world. I tearfully wondered at how much had
changed since I first arrived here. Not merely with the city itself but also
within myself. Years had not just brought age to me but rather a plentitude of
experience and hopefully some tendrils of wisdom. I think that empty corner lot
feels the same.
I took one last look at those leeks that have yet to know where
they are springing up and I wondered if they might feel as equally confused as
I did when they awaken and realize they too are in Phoenix.
