I Hate Washington Square Park

But it doesn't hate me back

I want to like Washington Square Park. I really do. I know it has been an important part of New York life for decades. I know Beat Poets congregated here before heading to Reggio or San Remo or Kettle of Fish. I know citizens banded together to clean it up in the late 1970s, they marveled when Francis Hines wrapped the arch in hopes to bring attention to the vandalism that appeared each week on the monument. I know that thousands of bodies lay under the octagonal cement tiles,  beneath the grassy knolls and the manicured gardens of daffodils, left over from the days when the area was mostly populated by freed slaves and the square was a potter’s field. I try to imagine how Fifth Avenue swung right through the park, past the fountain and emptied out next to NYU. Instead, all I see is chaos. Filth. Harassment. Am I a Bad New Yorker?

Washington Square Park in an unusual state of calm, by Logan Hicks

Sure, I’ve had serene times here, quietly sitting in the balding grass while a violinist plays perfect notes that float over to me from somewhere out of view. I’ve sat on a bench, entirely engrossed in a book, only to look down just as a baby mouse was taking refuge on the toe of my boot. I sat and read chapters while it napped, until my leg started to fall asleep itself. 

But the imminent chaos of the park puts me on edge as soon as I enter, I become hyper alert as soon as I cross under the arch. I kick into New York mode; vigilant and aware, but aloof in appearance. It’s a tactic that most New Yorkers have when a threat, or chaos, is near. Our headphones are out (or off), our body stiff and controlled, arms to our sides. We set our gaze to shoulder height, so we are still able to take in the details of our surroundings while giving the appearance that we are not paying attention, a super power that lets us move undetected, pushing through crowds without being consistently pushed to the side- or interacted with. Protective mode. 

I don’t love that I have to be this, this sort of numb and cold non-person, nor that this defense mechanism now comes as second nature. It has served me well in the past, allowed me to successfully avoid all sorts of trouble and instigation. But it still feels wrong, an affront to my extroverted nature, to my penchant for talking to New York strangers, and hearing their stories. To belonging. I try to tone it down, to lower the proverbial walls, which feels risky in this particular park. But lately I am trying to not only be in the moment, but to appreciate it- my current attempt at a coping mechanism to cope with, well, everything.

I sit here now under the shade of a flowering tree in an arc of benches currently occupied by the elderly- a “safe” part of the park. The park chaos that I avoid is just across the aisle from me. A man dressed in a Party City quality Dracula costume is making the rounds,  breaking the quiet contemplation of visitors reading books with his demand to give him “a dollar or two, or else”! I have discovered the “else” is he will strum his guitar in their faces until they fork over his requested payment, a ploy that seems to work as I watch him stuff dollars and loose change into his jeans pocket beneath his polyester cape.  A group of young Hare Krishnas are setting up their blankets and drums just to my left, decked in bright orange socks with matching caps and lighter orange long gowns. Soon they will be belting out Hare Krishna Hare Rama over and over, mostly white boys from the suburbs who for some reason joined this cult about 50 years out of fashion.  

The kids perpetually selling gummy fruits (why are they ALWAYS gummy fruits??)  are circulating. They may be the only ones I actually give money to, I mean they’re kids after all, right? Teens who look exactly as my friends and I did in the 90s swarm, screaming at each other while sharing a single can of White Claw that they pass  between them proudly.  You know you’re older than you think when you see a teen dressed like you did in tenth grade, fashion has cycled back and soon you’ll find the words “when I was a kid people thought we were freaks when we dyed our hair purple!” fall out of your mouth before you can help but embarrass yourself. It’s always best to quickly walk away before they do the math and realize you are their parents’ age.

I came here today intending to write about how dirty the park was. How the pigeons give zero fucks and will shit right on your shoulder, then linger in front of you after, admiring their poop work. How the "hippies” (or whatever you call them) with their devil sticks and hula hoops make a cloud of patchouli that can invade your senses without warning, how the skaters nearly give me a heart attack as they scrape by me, missing my shoulder by what feels like 3 centimeters.  How I avoid eye contact with virtually any male, who will take my accidental glance as an invitation to talk at me and disrupt the indulgent solitude I came here for. How the stench of urine and stale beer permeates most of the benches, but the desire to sit down has superseded our collective sense of smell. How I avoid the walkway on the north west side of the park because that’s where I usually see men cleaning out their crack pipes, and then I have to admit that that actually scares me, and that I’m not the tough New Yorker I thought I was. 

As I made a mental list of all that is wrong about Washington Square Park, a young Hare Krishna making his rounds landed on me. His approach was the usual song and dance, handing me a copy of the Bhagavad Gita with a promise it will change my life, for just five dollars. I explain that I’ve read it, that growing up in the 90s, Krishnas were a part of Buffalo hardcore, that I had seen Shelter and 108 play a bunch of times, that I’ve been to temples and eaten their vegetarian fare, that I read the books and that they just weren’t for me, that living my life intentionally for Krishna felt false, that I was committed to my own mind. Expecting a hard sell on Krishnaism, his response surprises me. He says that he respects that, adding that I was lucky to not need something to believe in, but that he did, that it brought him peace and purpose. He tells me I hope I find happiness, and I wish him the same as he walks away. He turns and yells “How cool to have seen Shelter!” and runs back to the group to join in their chanting.

I find myself smiling, pleased with my surprisingly pleasant random conversation. Perhaps I am being a bit harsh. Perhaps Washington Square Park is not only the pandemonium I dread. Perhaps there is something real here, amongst the weed stands and competing buskers, the droves of rowdy teens and the men shooting up in plain sight, unaware and unconcerned. (They know and I know that the cops who hover at the entryways are completely blind to them, fixated only on the goings-on of the young people).  

I take another look around, and decide to walk the aisles before I head to Reggio for a coffee. A young man in an antiquated three piece suit tap dances on a square of plywood he has brought into the park. Two dogs chase each other in the fountain, causing a wave of smiles from onlookers. The Living Statue is back from hiatus, perched on a pedestal and painted white to echo the arch behind him.  A group of young children line up to play chess with the aging masters who offer tips and strategies for a dollar. A fantastic three piece band plays Gerswhin’s Summertime.  This is New York.

The young Krishna waves and smiles as I turn to leave the park. I wave back.