The Vessel
I overheard a conversation, well, more of a well enthused argument I would say, at the Old Soul in Oak Park the other night. It was chilled and a Sunday, a day I reserve for some form of solace; if possible. So I guess it might go without saying the argument was intruding on my well deserved peace of mind. Hopefully, you notice my sense of overbearing irony, but I did wish for some definition of calm. The conversation, however, could not have been better orchestrated as its theme focused on the fate of Oak Park no less. Fitting for the place we were sipping hydrated coffee bean, would you agree? Considering we were...well, you get the point. Anyway, I think you could deduce that the sides were not exactly simpatico, sadly, for they had much more in common than they did opposed. But, no matter, it is arguments like this that need and should be taking place inside of the 40 Acres, and hopefully, other cafes (and beyond) in this the capital city of the Golden State.
I spoke briefly with a young woman who was inquiring about my reading and we soon found ourselves in the “heavy” topic of dealing with death. If you think that is where this story is headed, let me stop you right now, while not averse to the grand theme of our ultimate destiny, I would like to save that for another log. We were cut short promptly after our conversation needed to make room for a video about to be shot for a spoken word poet. So I found myself alone again at a deuce, picking up where I left off with my material, but not before, once again, I was interrupted, not by prying a videographer but by a humbly curious voice. I was struck to find it was half the argument I mentioned before. Undoubtedly the winning side. He was curious about my reading as well, although it decidedly did not take as morbid of a digression as before. Not directly, at least.
He wondered about my life and why it found itself here; as if the story behind it should be remarkable. It either did or did not but how would I know. So I told him I was from the neighborhood and that I had indeed seen much of its merits and defects. One aspect presented by the other half of the discussion, the man I did not meet but heard, was that of view that I have heard much regarding Oak Park and its newly minted title as “extension of Midtown.” This position often cites that “parts of Oak Park” are actually quite nice, even ideal.
But what the man I spoke about (the one I would argue was a better proponent for the neighborhood) and I agreed upon was that this audit of Oak Park's character totally lacked any appreciation of the history of the said neighborhood. The borough has long been a refuge for the poor of Sacramento, the last place they could turn to for affordable housing, it also holds one of the west's oldest schools—Sacramento High—but more than anything it is a living, bleeding, sanctuary for human life, not simply a stigma of gang violence and prostitution. A sentiment which I think is often forgotten when this area is referred to in conversation.
But, one reality I know more than anything, is the undeniable diversity it holds, which outshines so much of the city as well as the state and beyond. People of the Pacific Rim, African Americans, Chicanos and Whites all live together in a small bedlam of knowledge, life and story. And that story, harsh or not, is something that no one can subtract from this microcosm of California. It is a rare jewel indeed. But of course, as common discourse goes on this particular topic, there is indeed the tragic.
In particular, the lack of heroes we often see, or rather, do not. There is of course the obvious, Mayor Kevin Johnson, a man who was not only incubate there but survived, departed, evolved through education then succeeded in professional basketball and, quite selflessly, returned with a mission to salvage what resources that forgotten place still retained. Think what you will of the man and his policies, if you disagree him, but he did do at least this. Which is more I can say for many celebrities in sports or entertainment.
But what I think my caffeine-proponent and I were really encircling was sort of the everyman brothers, sisters and cousins we know in our intimate relationships who have succeeded themselves, and gone on to speak about those milestones. We did indeed did find ourselves on morbid ground once again. I was reminded about a young man who did truly break the barriers set by his immediate world and its lack of assets. He did so with the help of others, likely family, but still in spite of great odds which included poverty, education and position. These faculties are often noted as almost cliché in the public consciousness, mainly as the result of it being cited in so many stories of accomplishment. But that should not, in the slightest, diminish that this one is real and truly so rare for such a young person to succeed in lieu of such high stakes.
This man's name was Rodrigo Rodriguez—I knew his family. I wish I knew him: it is my loss. He excelled in math and garnered many accolades, including full scholarship for college and a seat on former Mayor Heather Fargo's Youth Commission. His accomplishments cannot be exaggerated. He was literally everything we hope for in Oak Park. Someone who came from the same mold but managed, not to break it, but reconfigure it. How do I begin to understand?
I told my new friend at the Old Soul of a book I had read. One that reminded me of the situation we were discussing. The last chapter of the final book within the tome: it was The Once and Future King. A modern era novel about the origin and life (and death, of course) of King Arthur. I remember before his last slog of battle, an aged Arthur charges a young Tom (Mallory, perhaps?) to be witness of his final testament; his last argument of sorts to the world for the positions he took in life. The stances and stands he made—why he tried to change it in a way he thought was more true.
Indeed, why he did not simply enjoy the fruits of his status in the world and just let be. He told young Tom—who was no older than a boy of grammar school—that he would risk mortal fate if he should take this task, to which the young boy, without question, still accepted. He asked the child if he actually understood what he was undertaking, to which, surely, there was no real way of knowing fully. Finally, he asked Tom, something to the effect of: Can you understand that you are a sort of vessel? For truly there are those who carry something...else, within them. The title of the book in this anthology was titled: The Candle in the Wind. We agreed that many other candles had been lit since the death of our young hero, but still, each one burns to its own wick.
