Sunday in the Park

Line Sidonie Talla Mafotsing

On this mid-November Sunday, Washington Square Park feels like spring. The city is graced with what feels like it may be a final day of warmth.

The two people sitting on the bench to my right are smoking weed, the woody and earthy smell of their joint making its way around this side of the park. Their conversation jumps from one topic to another, with no real coherence. The woman closest to me is admiring the pigeon in front of her.

“It’s such a pretty bird,” she says, fixated. Her burgundy-colored locs fall over her shoulders and are kept away from her face by a blue headband. Her friend, who is trying to light up a new joint, doesn’t respond or react to her observation.

The woman with the locs lifts her head suddenly, looks at her friend, and exclaims, “I’m going to go back to work smelling like a pothead.”

“You’re going to be fine,” her friend says,

They stay silent for a few minutes, then the woman with the locs speaks again. “They’re drowning the supply chain cargo ships in the ocean,” she says.

Her friend looks at her, wide eyed. “What? No way!”

“Yup,” she says nodding. “They’re doing it on purpose. Something about insurance money or whatever.” She never actually says who ‘they’ are, but her focus is now on the trees.

“I can’t believe the leaves are still green,” she comments to herself. She’s right; mid-November and the trees in the park are just turning into their fall colors. She looks up, gazing at the branches. “I’m going to go back to work smelling like a pothead,” she says again.

“You’re going to be fine,” says her friend.

Washington Square Park is the center of its own universe. Surrounded by university buildings, the park not only serves as a central hub for students, but the rest of Lower Manhattan and tourists alike flock to it daily, whether it’s to people-watch, read the latest novel, or sell art to passersby. The park, whether good or bad, is never empty.

This has been a public park in 1827. It is named after George Washington. Over the years, the park has changed and adapted to the needs of its community. Once it was a hub of labor union protests ignited by the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911. Today it is a recognizable staple of film and television.

There’s a certain unpredictability to what happens on a given day in the park that makes it the place to be. During the spring season, most people wait around in anticipation for the fountain to turn on, for the water to flow again, a sure sign that warm days are not too far away. Now, even as the weather drops below 50, the fountain still speaks, not yet ready to hibernate for the winter.

The park is particularly vibrant and energized today. A performance artist sets up her space near the steps where skateboarders like to hang out. Skateboarders weave through pedestrians, trying out new tricks. Children in strollers laugh.

The area around the fountain is more crowded than usual — it looks like a street fair. Artists are selling their art. There are tables arranged across the park where people can buy weed products — joints, edibles. A group of older folks sit in a circle, guitars in hand, singing, as onlookers slowly surround them.

One of the stands is owned by Aissatou Traore, a 21-year-old visual artist from Queens who has been selling her art in the park for about a year. She stands to the side of her workspace and greets potential customers with a warm smile. She’s soft spoken, and people have to get closer in order to hear her. Aissatou was born to Guinean parents and has lived in Queens almost all her life, except for a couple of years in Ohio. When I approach her, she greets me with the same warm smile. There is no way to miss her or her stand; she is wearing a hot pink hooded sweatshirt under a light grey coat. Her art is just as bold and bright.

“I would say my art is very tribal, afro-centric,” she says to me. “I just like to create life forms that I imagine.”

Aisatou started off drawing when she was five years old. She picked up painting when she was in high school and was introduced to it by a teacher. Today she has five large canvas paintings and about a dozen prints for sale, all signed with her artist name, icysoleil. I ask her what inspires her work.

“It’s definitely inspired by my culture, my roots, and where my family is from.” Her work reflects her Guinean roots, from the color choices, to the shapes and the faces she draws. She tells me that she feels like nature communicates with her. She sees faces in the trees, in the sky. When she talks about her work, her voice becomes more animated. You can tell she loves what she does.

As we say our goodbyes, she dives deep into another conversation with someone who has been admiring her work.

I look around me and take in the sounds of this universe, of Washington Square Park. The group of older folks who have been playing folk songs for a while now have garnered a bigger audience. Everyone stands around watching them play together.

The laughter in the air is full of the spring energy that has engulfed this late fall day. The people selling joints and edibles are constantly using different tactics to entice customers. By the arch, tourists are taking photos, standing right in the middle of the archway, with Fifth Avenue lined up right behind them.

In 2015, construction workers discovered a burial vault near Washington Square East. A second vault was found, parallel to the first. Dozens of coffins were unearthed in the vaults. It’s haunting to think of this history right beneath our feet. I was a freshman when the coffins were discovered, and today I think about the skeletons underneath me as I walk towards the southside exit of the park. I think about the different worlds that have existed within this park and how it has changed over the past few months, years, and decades.

I cross the street at Washington Square South, as a couple walks past me, walking into the park. As I move further and further away, I carry with me the laughter of the children in the strollers. I carry the melodies the group of musicians played a little while earlier. I carry the vivid colors of Aissatou’s art. I also carry the incoherent, marijuana-influenced conversation between the lady with the locs and her friend. I carry all of these things as a reminder that this universe, this slice of New York City life, is at my disposal whenever I want to come back to it.