Haiti - Poetry of the Incomplete

Upon arriving in Haiti, one of the first visual impressions you receive is the national symbol of progress: rebar (concrete reinforcing steel) extending from the top of every structure.

Usually taking the form of  four rods girdled by rings of wire (aka stirrups), these antennae indicate points (or future points) of strength in masonry walls. Sometimes the bars are clearly intended for the future construction, extending from the foundation of a planned wall or from the roof for a second story. Sometimes the extensions have intrinsic practical purpose, such as tying wooden rafters to the walls (as primitive hurricane straps) or serving as anchor points for razor wire. Sometimes, the bars seem to serve no practical purpose at all, seemingly an accepted form of decoration for all construction projects, finished or not.

Unlike the US, there seems to be a universal acceptance in Haiti of the in-process construction site as normal. In the US, when construction pauses more than a few days, the project is assumed to be in an unnatural state of delay or under duress of some kind. One explanation for the contrast is that when someone accumulates some cash in Haiti, however meager the amount, there is tremendous cultural pressure to share that wealth with friends and family until it is gone. Under this pressure, one of the few acceptable ways to actually accumulate wealth is to invest in your building project. Thus, every in-progress construction site is a kind of investment bank and every pile of gravel a deposit.

There is another motivation for the construction to remain in a state of suspended animation. Property taxes are assessed on completed structures, exterior painting being the final sign of completion. Outside of commercial areas, almost nothing is painted.

As an urban environment, this perennially mid-construction state tends toward slow evolution. Familiar viewscapes are modified incrementally in small bursts over long periods of time, giving the viewer time to assimilate the process as memory, not just the usual "before" and "after." This experience feels a little like being inside a giant stop-action animation production of city building.

Ambiguity and mystery and abundant in this landscape of process - are these walls a post-earthquake ruin or mid-construction wealth accumulation or both?

Despite the obvious poverty and struggle for survival, strangely, this peculiar landscape also speaks of hope for the future and the resilience of Haiti's people. These enduring walls are always under construction, albeit at a leisurely pace.

Hanging in the 804...Maybe

Once upon a time, telephone area codes meant something specific about a telephone number: a current place.

[Source: http://www.answering-services-phone-messaging.com]

However, with the loosening of telecom regulations and the widespread use of mobile devices, area codes no longer automatically identify the location of the "other end of the line." 

The list of mobile numbers for the employees of Glave & Holmes, all of whom are currently based in Richmond (804), include area codes for central Indiana (317), Idaho (208), Nashville (615), Shenandoah Valley (540), suburban Detroit (248), Minneapolis (612), Boston (617), St. Louis (314), Chicago (630) and Washington D.C (202). Although a call to or from one of these numbers tells you something about the one-time location of the phone, a call from 617 is no longer necessarily "from Boston." Increasingly, mobile phone users are usually given a phone number from place of the phone's origin and keep that number despite subsequent moves.

Even prefixes (the three digits after the area code) used to mean more. The prefix 232 used to mean a location south of the James river and prompt questions like, "Which part of Southside are you from?" With the advent of greater number portability, my 232 number is now able to (uneasily) coexist with the typically West End prefixes of 282, 285 and 747.

In a related lament for endangered experiences, it has been said that increasingly, we no longer call places, we call people. It is not uncommon for households to cancel landline service in favor of mobile phones. An unintended casualty of this practice is the incidental conversation with the person who answers the "house phone."

Profound observations? Perhaps not. Yet, it seems worthwhile to consider our connections with one another and how our identity with places are linked to conscious and unconscious signs. When you have an incoming call and see an unfamiliar number on your screen, what clues do you have for identifying the caller? What does a 757 area code mean? Maybe less than you think.

Resting In Peace?

Near our office in Shockoe Bottom is the "First Jewish Cemetery in Virginia," also known as the Franklin Street Burial Grounds. I had grown accustomed to seeing the somewhat enigmatic concrete walled enclosure, surrounded by an empty lot used for parking. Suddenly, the cemetery became surrounded on three sides by a five story apartment building, completely changing the presence of the place.

Granted, the cemetery has a decidedly neglected air and apparently has suffered from that condition for many years, interrupted by sporadic consecration and re-consecration ceremonies. This led me to consider how the living and the dead may coexist within urban environments, the former being dynamic forces for change and the latter being, well, static. I confess that my first reaction to the cemetery's engulfment was to recoil from what I perceived to be a lack of respect for sacred ground. However, after reflection, the mere close coexistence of housing for the living and dead may, in fact, be an expected condition for an urban environment. Perhaps there is even value to have the legacy of memory at close hand.

Photo from The Daily Undertaker

I was reminded of the cemeteries of Hong Kong, where the price of real estate is among the highest in the world. These places of burial and remembrance match the urban intensity of their neighboring structures for the living. The grave sites are frequently built with permanent facilities for picnics - tables and benches - where family members may share a meal of ritual memory.

It is probably fair to say that in today's American culture, the rituals of remembrance are largely fleeting and singular in nature. My personal experience with funerals has been marked by the singular ceremony, followed by the internment of the body in a pastoral setting, never to be visited again - a ceremony for forgetting. Is this how it should be? Perhaps ready access to real places of memory, inhabited by the concrete reminders of our personal past, is a healthy part of living. Perhaps I should spend more time in cemeteries and, where it is possible, visit the markers of my own family's history.

So, I find myself growing philosophical about the cohabitation of the living and the dead at the Franklin Street Burial Ground. Perhaps there is value in having one's bedroom window look upon a piece of enigmatic history.

P.s. Somewhere in this train of thought is a city from Italo Calvino.