Hug a Tree

Just returned from my training at the NYC Deparment of Parks and Recreation to become a Tree Census Taker. The three-hour training was held at the Park's headquarters, The Arsenal, a gorgeous, stately mansion, located within (but built before) Central Park. Chandeliers, sweeping twin staircases to the second floor balcony, lacquered mahogany desks greet you in the main entrance, but a trip to the women's bathroom revealed piles of rusty furniture, stacked boxes and an upright Yamaha I played a few notes on. It reminded me of the random chaos and inexplicability of Jacobi (except for the pretty stuff) that plagues all city agencies.

As I wandered around looking for the training, I saw that countless young, hip, white people (not Williamsburg hip, more Murray Hill / Chelsea) worked there. I'm not sure what I expected, maybe more dowdy looking city employee-types, but then again my co-workers and I in the Bronx were all hot, young, trendy abortionists. The security guard directed me to a gallery on the 3rd floor, which was empty despite a full sign-in sheet at her desk. None of the hot-shot parks department kids had any idea where to go, but eventually I was lead to the right place, a small, well-appointed conference room and handed a folder with my assigned census area, a hand-held tree and leaf identification guide and a tape measure that measured diameter.

The man leading the training, young, brainy with a hint of an accent (Russian?) peppered his lecture with tired jokes and puns, which I alone laughed at because I laugh at everything and have a sick, perverse need to please. The power-point presentation flicked along slowly and thoroughly detailing the most important task, how to fill out the 8x14 tree census form covered in smudged, black, 8-point type. But the good stuff was coming.

I learned how to identify Norway, Red and Silver Maples, Horsechestnuts, Sweet Gum and London Planetree; the difference between Honey and Black Locust, that we missed the high season for the Callery Pears, and how to pacify and apprehend the Asian Long-horned beetle, but not the most burning question in my mind, whether Adrian Benepe is a man or woman. I also never asked, because I'm painfully shy when sober, what to do when a resident of my census area, Brownsville, Brooklyn, asks me what I'm doing to that tree or to tell Bloomberg that the payphone on the corner is broken and their kid has asthma or calls me snowflake, which happened a lot on my way to work in the Bronx. I looked around at the other people in the group, all white, mostly young, upper east side types and tried to imagine them in the outer boroughs, but didn't have to. All their questions pertained to their blocks on the Upper East, Upper West and Soho.

Why did I want to volunteer for this? What do I hope to do for the city? Why is the city letting a bunch of untrained but well-meaning people with too much free time on their hands do this? No clue. More questions, from other people in my group: "Whay do you call 'um London Planetree, theyure called Sycamores dahn south." (From a blonde girl who came in two hours late; answer: different trees, from the same family). "Should we use the yellow side of the tape measure?" (both sides were yellow). "Do we count trees in the downstairs entrance of brownstones like the ones in mine?" (go to hell). I wanted to ask, "If a tree falls in the woods and there's no one to hear it..." but decided against it.

At the break, I asked the woman assisting Henny Youngman how to get to my area, since no subway stations were listed on the map.
"Oh no, single, white woman, you're not going to Brownsville."

"But I want to." My white guilt, love of a challenge and general stupidity reared up.

"Don't be an idiot." She handed me a new assignment, in Little Italy. I recalibrated my fantasy, imagining myself wandering past cliched Italian restaurants and luxury shoe boutiques, maybe popping in to Bistro Margot for a perrier in the back garden, clipboard in hand, looking tired but official. Maybe it was for the best.

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Going to a reading of Amy Hempel tonight, one of my favorite writers, for the bellevue literary journal. Bellevue is a frightening place filled with derranged people, but the reading is in the lobby, so no big danger. When I worked at a city hospital in the bronx I occasionally had to go to Bellevue to work on a project with this friendly albino girl named Stephanie, who was perfectly nice and normal, but the overall experience was not pleasant. We were tucked away in a windowless office in the maternity ward, but even that wasn't safe. It was a large administrative office where several people worked; the woman closest to the bathroom would dart in there and lock the door any time she saw you coming towards it. Everyone else was relatively normal, or kept their psychoses to themselves. The maternity ward itself was a strange labyrinth of hallways and rooms and metal doors. Security guards were posted by the elevators, but I can't imagine how anyone who tried to steal a newborn could ever find their way out. Jacobi, where I worked, was no prettier, but most of the people were nice. It was a public tuberculosis sanitarium in the fifties and still had that institutional feel.

went to a birthday party at d.o.c. wine bar last night for my librarian friend, sherri. good cheese.

Is this the point of a blog, to write down all the random, boring thoughts that pass through your head instead of just thinking about them? Apparently.