STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON
STRESSLA LYNN JOHNSON
PSU BLACK STUDIES, WINTER 2024
NARRATIVE: THE PARK.
No matter what the event — a holiday, a picnic, or just gathering for the sake of gathering it was always deep-rooted in the spirit of love and festivity. It did not seem to matter if you would gathered on a holiday: Memorial Day; the Fourth of July; or sometime just a family member's birthday, the spirit of the gathering always seemed to stay the same, with these unspoken connections with the people in the park.
Peninsula Park nestled in the heart of North Portland, with its lush green lawns served the Albina neighborhood as a gathering place. Maple —or maybe they were Oak, and Pine trees, majestically distributed throughout the park, standing like giant sentries watching over us all. Some days you would smell fresh cut grass or the subtle aroma of the Rose Garden. The Rose Garden circled a large water fountain — that somedays served as your spur-of-the-moment swimming pool.
A huge wooden gable hung over the picnic area's asphalt surface-providing shelter and protection in case of rain; strategically placed electrical outlets and waterspouts sprang from the asphalt; industrial green painted picnic tables-that would soon be covered with multicolor table cloths, the benches attached to both sides of the tables appeared as if they were floating on air.
Peninsula Park's MVP (Most Visible Prize): its Gazebo. The brick and wooden octagon shaped structure stood, almost dead-center in the park; the four multi-shades of red brick risers, circle the Gazebo as if they were compass points. Rising from the field of lush green grass, the Gazebo overlooked the Rose Garden and Fountain. The slanted angles of the roof, topped by ornate corbels of a circular-spire-ring appeared to be wearing a jeweled crown. The Gazebo would often times serve as music central for the festivities. Four-foot tower speakers, turntable, Pioneer amplifiers, reel-to-reel tape player-for extended play; orange-creates of albums that would keep the atmosphere vibrating in harmony with the soulful laughter.
Often times multi-families gathered together around the Gazebo and under the picnic shelter. Families not necessarily related by blood-always interrelated in the Essence of Black Loved. The smell of charcoal starter fluid mixed in with the aromatic scent of the pine trees, as the orange flames dance across the BBQ-grills.
You would see the elders being acknowledged and loved on, as they chill out in one of the multi- colored aluminum framed beach chairs. Positioned in a way that seemed to tell a story without a word being spoken. You would hear all sorts of stories and tales: stories about fishing trips-how big the one- was-that-got-away; stories about back home in the Deep South; stories about Guilds Lake, Vanport, Albina and the likes; stories about the best ever heavyweight fights.
Children running around, playing on the slides and swings, or wading in the pool, all under the watchful eyes of every adult in the park. And the pre-adult, you know the ones, those young ladies that had the unscripted duty to pay close attention to what the women were doing. Because this is one of their classrooms for when they would be the caretaker of these gatherings.
NARRATIVE: THE CORNER STORE.
I have fond memories of going to Maxie's store (Now Going Street Market), as a child. Clara Mae, my mother, imposed physical travel restrictions on me based on my age, not fictional or imaginary boundaries, they were real and served a purpose. As a young child we lived in the 400 block of N. Blandena, between Haight and Commercial, however, my designated range of travel stopped at North Albina, North Killingsworth, North Vancouver, and N. Skidmore. If you are not from Portland these street names have no meaning this was the center of the African-American neighborhood, the Albina District. While these boundaries served multiple purposes, the main one was safety, mom'ma did not want me crossing a busy street unescorted. The risk of being struck by a car was real. So, between 5-9-years-old, I had already been escorted to this side of North Vancouver.
Maxie's was within walking distance from my Auntie's house, she lived on the corner of North Vancouver & Going. Maxie's took up the opposite corner on Williams & Going- a two-story wooden square building, with double doors that welcomed you into a kid friendly space. Geneva's Barber Shop occupied the North end of the building. There was a side door that led up to an apartment on top of the store.
I don't remember ever going to Maxie's by myself. As kids we seemed to travel in packs — four or five of us excited to go spend our change. It did no good to have a list or spend a lot of time thinking about what to buy. We knew, the minute we crossed that old wooden threshold of them double-doors, Mrs. Maxie would have us all in her loving and caring sights. And would certainly be ready to help you decide what you wanted. Now, this was not like being forced to spend my money on candy that I didn't want, it was more of a lesson on being prepared when you came into the store. One thing I look back on now with appreciation, is the fact that all of the candy was situated in a way that was convenient for kids. The candy was arranged in a panoramic view, that allowed my eyes to be full, as I scanned the multiple ways to spend my $0.47 -Now or Later, Charms, Jolly Ranchers, Tootsie-Rolls, Bazooka Bubble-Gum; Pixie-Sticks- and a host of others sweet-thangs. The sweetest thing about this adventure is picking out what I wanted.
Exiting the store, leaving the smell of fresh-baked bread and the sugary aroma of mixed produce, you could always count on some kind words from both Mr. & Mrs. Maxie and the inquiry about how's your mother and family were doing. Maxie's Market, was the corner store that was an integral part of the community's heartbeat.
NARRATIVE: THE SPOT — FISHING WITH LOVE
Swan Island, located in North Portland's industrial area, is part of the Willamette slough. An integral part of Oregon's contribution to the ship building for America's war machine in the 1930s-40s. Which also increased the African American population in the Portland Albina District. Our fishing spot was also home to a decommissioned navy submarine, that reeked with the smell of diesel fuel and other industrial chemicals. An old dirty-stained floating buoy snaked around the submarine to contain the diesel and oil that oozes from it. The sun illuminated oily shimmering rainbows floating on the surface of water.
Swan Island holds some special memories-as a fishing spot. It was also a spot that my step-dad, Clarence, would take "the boys' ' on an impromptu fishing trek. Clarence, affectionate called "Pops'' by me and my brothers living at home, was a stout Black man with a wide smile that exposed a gold crowned tooth, he always smelled of Óld Spice Cologne; clean shaven, with a square box haircut, he spoke with a slight Alabama inflection, with a laugh that put you at ease. It was on these fishing excursions that Pops would impart his words of wisdom and life experiences.
Those adventures to Swan Island have two distinct memories and characteristics. Being a fishing hole, it was within walking distance from my house in North Portland. It was also a place that as kids we found a sense of independence and freedom. Being allowed to walk to this place, without any adults, was quite liberating. It also demonstrated that our parent trusted that we would look out for each other when we were away from their eye-sight.
Going to Swan Island with my step-dad was a different vibe altogether. These trips were more about having conversations that were full of life lessons and resiliency. I remember that each of these fishing adventures would start off with a trip to Maxie's or Leonard's store(s), to buy crackers, sardines, baloney or some other lunch meat, and soda-pops. I don't remember catching a lot of fish at Swan Island for the time spent there. However, I do remember being around my friends and step-dad.
It was more about building these family and community connection and memories. Memories that I am now able to call upon to bring joy into the grieving process. It was not always about catching fish.
BEING IN / AT THAT PARK ...
The smell of the fresh cut grass, dancing with the B-B-Q
Smoke.
The roar on a cloud of laughter after one of Uncle Billy's wild
Jokes.
Hearing the different conversations about life's joys &
pains.
Everybody relieved that our gathering wasn't spoiled by
rain.
Seeing the genuine smiles formed across the faces of old
friends.
As they greet each other with that ol' familiar inquiry: How have you
been?
Old friends and family that haven't gathered since last
year.
Getting caught up on life's changes over a nice cold
beer.
The parks of my youth: Peninsula, Unthank, Irvington, Alberta and
Pier.
Looming large in my heart-soul memories of places I hold Near and
Dear
PENNY CANDY … GONE STREET MARKET. (III)
Crossing the wooden threshold, you are greeted with
the warm welcoming smiles on Mr. & Mrs. Maxie
accented by the aromas of fresh bread, mixed in with
the smells of fruits and vegetables ...
Your eyes drawn to the panoramic view of penny —
candy arranged with kids in mind... kids that seemed
to always arrive in groups... Even now the memories
of the assortments of sweets makes the mouth water.
I hear the store is not the same ...
An old white lady stands behind the counter and don't even know the smiling kids' names ... That she has been suspiciously watching. ever since their little feet crossed
the wooden threshold ...
The black security bars imply the distrust of the strangers —
gentrification-occupying the neighborhood, strangers without a care for kindness
— just a made-up empty smile. A smile that read - why are you in my store...?
There is no more penny candy spread out for the kids
to pick from ... I imagine a lot of things
are gone from the corner stores, especially the
people that loved the Black Community.
THE WHITE BOARD’S VOICED THIS …
I was standing still,
My imagination inspired
By the smell of barbeque chicken and Voodoo doughnuts ...
a social gathering in the Black Community
I watched the elders getting loved on ...
mothers crying tears of joy because of the way
Everybody took care of one another,
Even with the history of generational trauma, poverty
lack of economic stimulation, and suppression of hope ...
The Park ... The Gazebo ... The Sheltered Picnic Area,
provides a living-breathing-hopeful configuration for this community.
I was standing still, watching, listening —
appreciating the multiethnicity, as the spirit and soul of the ancestors danced, among the laughter and aroma of Aunt Ida's Collard greens.
The gazebo-unyielding situated like an urban asgard.
I was still standing waiting for the developmental maturation for healing by means of A Love Supreme.
A manifest destiny and empowerment will spring from these community gatherings...Capturing the rhythmic ancestral
spirit-oscillating vibrations on the Cosmic melodic waves of now ... | SLJ