Thanks

Midway through the walk from Allison Park to the George Washington Bridge there is a pair of benches that overlook the Hudson River, one facing South to the city, the other towards the Bronx. They are usually occupied, but on a recent Saturday during a gentle rain I found them free and decided to stop. That’s when I discovered that a graffiti artist had been there before me.

I’ve never cared for graffiti in nature. But on graffiti in general my thoughts have run the gamut over the years from detesting it to a desire to understand it to outright appreciation in some cases. Was that “Thanks” written on the lower right corner of the Bronx bench? No, on closer inspection it was an indecipherable word.

I continued my walk, the graffiti taking me on another walk in my mind. Years ago, I met a graffiti artist when he was painting a mural on a bridge in my neighborhood. At the time, I was writing a column called “Meet Your Neighbor” for DC North, a community paper in Washington, DC. I asked Luis if we could talk.

Luis’s family fled Nicaragua during the Contra war and eventually made their way to DC where, in the early-90s, a different sort of violence was taking place. Addicts, dealers, and gangs were prevalent in Luis’s neighborhood. When we met, he had resisted the pressure to join a gang and personally knew eight people who had been killed that year. At the same time, Luis was being pulled more deeply into art. A teacher recognized his talent and got him into the Corcoran School of Art. Less than a mile from where he lived, he told me he found a whole world he never knew existed. A mentor there encouraged him. Now a successful artist with his own family, he is active in his community and teaches young artists.

We each have so much power. With it comes opportunities to sow hope, foster growth, possibly change the trajectory of a life. Reflecting on Luis’s story, I remembered some of the people who altered my path, including the man who gave me the column that allowed me to interview Luis.

I thought about circling back to take a picture of the Bronx bench so I could decipher that word in the corner, but I decided it was better to remember my first impression. And when I got home, I took a lipstick that doesn’t get much play these days and scrawled my own graffiti across the bathroom mirror: “Thanks”.