You have a right to be here

“The Desiderata” by Max Ehrmann, Interrupted

Chuckie’s Grave

The bones of my childhood goldfish are within the Montebello Water Filtration Plant. Chuckie lived to age 5 and was the size of a grown man’s palm when he died. We had gone to the beach for a week and left Chuckie’s care to the Taylors, a kind but apparently heavy-handed elderly couple who lived on Kennewick Road for decades. To give Chuckie a proper Doran burial, we had to intern him where so many family walks and so many have-a-catches and so many dog zoomies had taken place in mine and Aubrey’s young lives: the field across the street. A place that exists now only in our memories, a smattering of old photos, and a few choppy home movie clips. 

There used to be two Kennewick Roads. Ours is a long two-sided block of post-war row homes that may have started out as identical but 75 years of personalities and contractors and DIYs have left as distant cousins of the same size. It was a great street to grow up on–-lots of kids and rarely a car on the alley, mudpies and baseball, rollerblades and hide and seek. The other Kennewick was double the length of our own, housed no people and bisected two sides of the water filtration plant. The other Kennewick connected the large three-laned Hillen Road to our neighborhood, Ednor Gardens Lakeside, not by the side of the lake. Along the other Kennewick there was a large grassy plot, maybe a football field and a half. Grass and clovers (once a four-leaf) and buttercups and dandelions and, along the easternmost edge, there was a sparse grove of mature trees. 

Growing up the field was where we walked Nike and then Duffy, ran around, giggled and played and took for granted the strangeness of an open, concrete-lined reservoir of turquoise water that was just another Northeast Baltimore City Neighbor. 

In the home movies, I have bangs that begin near the back of my scalp and Aubrey’s silky pigtails are loose. We are running around, our tiger-striped dog Nike chases a ball thrown by my young dad who’s wearing mid-thigh cutoffs men wore back then. My mom has a long braid down her spine and tanned runner’s legs. We are a family, at a place that’s essentially an extension of our home: that field. 

On September 11, 2001, like many American schoolchildren, we came home early. The other Kennewick would be soon closed to traffic out of fear that the Taliban may poison the City’s water supply. Within a few weeks, jersey walls lined the western edge of the field but we could scoot past for our rituals and use it as we always had. 

At some point after I moved out without my knowledge or consent, the field was surrounded by gates and the field of our youth became enveloped into the filtration plant as a whole. And like so many things of youth, it exists only in our memories. What was our flat, accidental playground has become hills and digging space and is possibly underwater now–and so just maybe Chuckie got the burial he would have wanted all along.