Centennial Olympic Park
Maybe it’s because this was an Olympic year and I just introduced my daughter to the joys of binge watching the best gymnasts in the world blow everyone’s minds. Maybe it’s because it was the twenty year anniversary of the night Keri Strug wowed us all with her stellar commitment to herself and her team. Maybe it’s just because I like parks…
My favorite part of Atlanta – the city, not the trip – was Centennial Olympic Park. I had to walk through it every day to get to the Vendor’s Hall for Dragon Con; and I am so glad I did.
Atlanta as a whole had a wild, unkempt feel to me, sporadically blasted with moments of finely controlled beauty. I’d walk from Joseph E. Boone, where the grass I think, had never been cut, to stepping into the symbol of perfection itself: Centennial Olympic Park.
Honestly, I enjoyed the contrast. As an environmentally friendly foraging hippie, I loved that the lawns were more like meadows. I found joy in poking along overgrown sidewalks with the opportunity to inspect local wildflowers. I even found a luna moth one morning, something I had never seen in person before.
But as a lover of community parks, I also found myself drawn to the twenty-eight million dollar completed project. City cleaners sweep, scrub, and constantly pick up trash, keeping the park immaculate. The statues seem to gleam, both from their artistic beauty and the city’s over all effort to maintain “curb appeal.” I found myself wondering what was there before 1996 and learned that it was a city block of old industrial buildings, some abandoned. The difference to Atlanta citizens when the park was first erected must have been startling.
I stopped to take pictures of some of the statues when I was there. I got some curious looks before people started stopping and taking pictures too. “Sheep” my friend called them, but I think it just takes someone noticing something beautiful before others stop and look up. And the monuments there are very beautiful.
Each morning I would cut across a paved walkway made of engraved stones to get to John Portman Blvd. During the park’s construction a donation of $35 got you a stone and a message. When I return to Atlanta, because I plan to, I’d like to pay more attention to those engravings. There are stories there, I think.
The weather was gorgeous. People (Yankees! Haha) kept talking about how hot it was. I was wearing a sweater most days, not the afternoons, but definitely in the mornings. My morning walks were the most refreshing parts of my day. I meant to stop and eat breakfast at the Waffle House right outside the park, but never managed to wake up early enough – or if I did, I found myself dawdling in the park instead. So, I spoiled myself and got coffee at the Starbucks in the AmericasMart. I kept looking for a local Non-Starbucks coffeehouse, but didn’t find one; again, next trip.
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My trip to Atlanta was exhilarating. I navigated two airports, a train system, and bus routes – all things I have not done in a long, long time. I learned about five square miles of a city I’d never been to by walking. Sometimes on purpose, and sometimes because I was hopelessly lost. Traveling with a flip phone in a smart phone society is a whole different ball game than traveling an unknown city in the days of payphones and paper maps. People saw me holding a real map and not utilizing GPS and there was much commentary, and confusion by others on how to read it as it doesn’t flip itself around and identify your location for you. Even now, the word processor is telling me that the word payphone can not be pluralized. (When did that become a thing?) But I’m fairly certain there’s no other way to describe more than one.
My Pet Rock. I patted it every day on my walk to the AmericasMart.
I was pretty excited about the MARTA rail system. I’ve missed riding the rail since I moved from Dallas. Public transportation, once the stop points are identified and times committed to memory, are so much more relaxing than driving. I like being able to read on daily commutes, I like the safety of not risking car crashes. I like knowing that if I begin my journey at such-n-such time I am guaranteed to arrive at my destination at another specific time – down to the minute. Atlanta excels at this. The bus route, however, is a whole other ballgame that got me pretty flustered. The buses sort of arrive when they feel like it, the stops are relative, and the entire route based on the driver’s mood.
Everyone is very polite, though, even when they are offering you drugs. I thought, as a Texan, that I understood southern hospitality. When it comes to Good Mornings, sweet smiles, and a general attitude of helpfulness – we’ve got nothing on Georgia. Any half puzzled look on your face will immediately result in someone stopping to help. Stand at a stop too long and someone will inevitably ask you which bus you’re trying to catch and inform you, “Oh sometimes that driver likes to stop on that side of the street, be sure you check over there too or you might miss it.” Smiles abound, even in the early morning pre-coffee grog.
I went to Atlanta to work the Wordfire Press booth at DragonCon. Convention people are exactly what I expected, after doing Comicpalooza and OwlCon in Houston, it’s pretty much the same routine, just bigger and takes up the whole downtown area instead of one convention center. But outside the realm of the Con, everything was incredibly foreign. I felt like I had stepped into how I imagine the 1950’s in a lot of ways, and once three blocks away from the convention hotels and gathering areas, I’ve never been reminded so often of how white I am. Politely, but with bafflement.
Houston is a melting pot. Our segregation occurs on the socioeconomic level, rather than a race level. Latinos, Blacks, and Rednecks all live next to each other as long as they belong in the same tax bracket. I didn’t see a lot of Atlanta, but I got the sense that things aren’t that way there. So many times I was asked, “What’s a white girl doing on this street? You lost?” Or, the most bizarre, “Why you so comfortable talking to a black man? Is your husband black?” At that question I retorted, “Should I be scared of you?” “No, but these other niggers around here are cut-throat. You need to watch yourself.” I felt like a child being reprimanded for not knowing the rules, especially when literally everyone I talked to was so very kind. Yet, there I was a block the other side of Five Points, getting questioning glances from people who thought I was too pale to tread on their turf. “You lost, baby? You don’t belong here.” Or when I went to The Underground below the wrong CVS: “No, honey, you shouldn’t be down here, go up and get back to Peachtree as quick as you can, that’s where your people are,” before I even mentioned I was trying to meet anyone.
The whole experience was eye-opening and disheartening. I enjoyed every conversation I had, even the fellow who offered me crack was very polite and concerned, keeping his distance when addressing me. Is all of Atlanta that way, or just those neighborhoods? Why was everyone so separate?
In my perfect world, I want to notice how much darker your skin is than mine. I want to acknowledge that freckles on you look entirely different than freckles on me. Deep, dark skin catches my eye, as a prisma color artist I am enthralled by skin tones that involve so many undertones of purple. I want to listen to deep, milky voices bellow soul music, and that be ok. I don’t mind you calling me “white girl” but if I describe you as a black man or woman, I would like for you to not be offended. We are different in so many beautiful ways. To say we don’t see color is a disservice to the amazing people God created, like not noticing the difference between a sapphire and an emerald. But we are also both human, we have troubles and trials, we have cultures we sometimes share and sometimes don’t. I’ve never been so grateful to have grown up in Houston, where we all live side by side, work together, grow together, and learn together. Houston has its own problems for sure, but I think we all have a cohesive love for our city and for Texas that keeps us pretty united.
I hope to visit Atlanta again. I hope to branch out farther and see what the city as a whole is truly like, as opposed to the downtown areas I was restricted to for the duration of my stay. It has so many lovely parts and many beautiful people.
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Anakalian Whims 
My Trip to Atlanta – Part One
September 11, 2016 at 5:27 pm (Travel) (Atlanta, Georgia, hospitality, Houston, Joseph E. Boone, MARTA, public transportation, race relations, social commentary, Texas, travel, vacation)
My Pet Rock. I patted it every day on my walk to the AmericasMart.
I was pretty excited about the MARTA rail system. I’ve missed riding the rail since I moved from Dallas. Public transportation, once the stop points are identified and times committed to memory, are so much more relaxing than driving. I like being able to read on daily commutes, I like the safety of not risking car crashes. I like knowing that if I begin my journey at such-n-such time I am guaranteed to arrive at my destination at another specific time – down to the minute. Atlanta excels at this. The bus route, however, is a whole other ballgame that got me pretty flustered. The buses sort of arrive when they feel like it, the stops are relative, and the entire route based on the driver’s mood.
Everyone is very polite, though, even when they are offering you drugs. I thought, as a Texan, that I understood southern hospitality. When it comes to Good Mornings, sweet smiles, and a general attitude of helpfulness – we’ve got nothing on Georgia. Any half puzzled look on your face will immediately result in someone stopping to help. Stand at a stop too long and someone will inevitably ask you which bus you’re trying to catch and inform you, “Oh sometimes that driver likes to stop on that side of the street, be sure you check over there too or you might miss it.” Smiles abound, even in the early morning pre-coffee grog.
I went to Atlanta to work the Wordfire Press booth at DragonCon. Convention people are exactly what I expected, after doing Comicpalooza and OwlCon in Houston, it’s pretty much the same routine, just bigger and takes up the whole downtown area instead of one convention center. But outside the realm of the Con, everything was incredibly foreign. I felt like I had stepped into how I imagine the 1950’s in a lot of ways, and once three blocks away from the convention hotels and gathering areas, I’ve never been reminded so often of how white I am. Politely, but with bafflement.
Houston is a melting pot. Our segregation occurs on the socioeconomic level, rather than a race level. Latinos, Blacks, and Rednecks all live next to each other as long as they belong in the same tax bracket. I didn’t see a lot of Atlanta, but I got the sense that things aren’t that way there. So many times I was asked, “What’s a white girl doing on this street? You lost?” Or, the most bizarre, “Why you so comfortable talking to a black man? Is your husband black?” At that question I retorted, “Should I be scared of you?” “No, but these other niggers around here are cut-throat. You need to watch yourself.” I felt like a child being reprimanded for not knowing the rules, especially when literally everyone I talked to was so very kind. Yet, there I was a block the other side of Five Points, getting questioning glances from people who thought I was too pale to tread on their turf. “You lost, baby? You don’t belong here.” Or when I went to The Underground below the wrong CVS: “No, honey, you shouldn’t be down here, go up and get back to Peachtree as quick as you can, that’s where your people are,” before I even mentioned I was trying to meet anyone.
The whole experience was eye-opening and disheartening. I enjoyed every conversation I had, even the fellow who offered me crack was very polite and concerned, keeping his distance when addressing me. Is all of Atlanta that way, or just those neighborhoods? Why was everyone so separate?
In my perfect world, I want to notice how much darker your skin is than mine. I want to acknowledge that freckles on you look entirely different than freckles on me. Deep, dark skin catches my eye, as a prisma color artist I am enthralled by skin tones that involve so many undertones of purple. I want to listen to deep, milky voices bellow soul music, and that be ok. I don’t mind you calling me “white girl” but if I describe you as a black man or woman, I would like for you to not be offended. We are different in so many beautiful ways. To say we don’t see color is a disservice to the amazing people God created, like not noticing the difference between a sapphire and an emerald. But we are also both human, we have troubles and trials, we have cultures we sometimes share and sometimes don’t. I’ve never been so grateful to have grown up in Houston, where we all live side by side, work together, grow together, and learn together. Houston has its own problems for sure, but I think we all have a cohesive love for our city and for Texas that keeps us pretty united.
I hope to visit Atlanta again. I hope to branch out farther and see what the city as a whole is truly like, as opposed to the downtown areas I was restricted to for the duration of my stay. It has so many lovely parts and many beautiful people.
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