in the backyard the low plants have leaves that are bigger than my face, deep green, refreshed. walking through bedstuy, i notice that trees don’t crouch, but they do lean. height and dignity are not mutually exclusive, contrary to a lifetime of invitations to shrink. attention isn’t necessarily invasive, but it can feel that way.
hattie carthan, the namesake of the garden where i’ve been spending some afternoons, facilitated over 1,500 trees being planted in bedstuy in the 60s and 70s. she was a black activist and environmentalist who advocated for block associations, urban green space, and taught young people to steward trees and gardens.
farmer yon — who runs hattie carthan garden — asked me the other day if i was in my body. she said i wouldn’t be banging the wheelbarrow like that if i was (lol). what a question. insistent presence and care. the possibility of being rooted.
in charlottesville, virginia, lower tree density corresponds exactly to red-lined neighborhoods,1 as in shade and oxygen are for white people. in san francisco, california, planting more trees reduced traffic accidents.2 our relationships are shaped by the politics of people and trees.3
and trees might invite me into a different shape, too. their heights and their presence. sturdy and breathing. quiet and reaching. covering those close to me.
hattie carthan transitioned in 1984. decades later, the trees keep on soothing, sheltering, oxygenating. if more of us understood this love story. what then.
and here. down each block. they’re eating light. dropping what has died back to the earth. offering refuge from harsh day.
like this. gather yourself.