There Is Nowhere For Us To Go

by Amy Wall (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find USA

I am trudging through Haight-Ashbury and I am freezing. Sunny California be damned. The brightly coloured houses seem to be fighting against the grey blanket of sea mist for recognition. The city’s hippie enclave, and the centre stage for the 1960’s summer of love stretched out before me. The streets are as drenched in history as they are in precipitation. In my mind I smell joss sticks and patchouli. In reality, I smell rain and marijuana. ‘All the hippies are still there.’ I had been told. ‘it’s just now their hair is grey and thinning.’ And there they are, working in old thrift shops and floating in and out of shiny, new vegan cafes. An old man stands outside the whole foods market, gesticulating passionately to his companion, his silver beard tucked into his worn suede jacket. Like the vivid colours of Haight itself against the gloomy weather, his aging complexion and rainbow attire appear to wage a war on each other. My destination is Golden Gate Park. ‘There are tea gardens! A gallery! And wild bison!’ My mother, Judith, recites from the guidebook with an excitement that is quickly dulled by our inability to navigate. We had vaguely planned to visit The Grove, a memorial dedicated to the millions of Americans who have been affected both directly and indirectly by AIDS. But with our heads laden with jet lag, it is almost by accident we stumble on its entrance. Standing amongst the rhododendrons and redwoods, the area feels timeless. As if my present and the prehistoric were for a moment calmly fused together. I smell green. There are boulders scattered around the tree trunks: hunched shapes of different sizes, reminiscent of misshapen tombstones in an old churchyard. But this is not a graveyard. Children climb over the rocks, their laughter surfing the wind. Birds intermittently chirp from the treetops and ground squirrels scuttle in the bushes. Here, peace is adorned with life. The centrepiece of the memorial is a large, stone circle of names. Donors of the grove, those who have died and those who loved them. The names of the famous and the ‘ordinary’ all bleed together. Judith softly circles them, tracing her own sphere of grief. When she begins to cry, I think she is surprised by her own emotion. She cries for her lost friend. A figure from her past, a world I was not a part of. The sun begins to break through the clouds, and fragments of light fight their way past. Judith picks a flower and places it at the commemoration stone. We stand together, our own moment of silence, broken only by the approach of a smartly dressed man. His name is John Cunningham, one of the directors of the memorial. Of course we did not know that yet. At first he was just a man standing too close to me. He asks us where we are from, and introduces himself. Judith’s grief hangs between us and our new acquaintance like a void. John puts his arms around her, closing the gap with a certain tenderness that can only be shared between strangers. Her voice shakes and she thanks him. ‘There is nowhere for us to go, not really’ she whispers. For a while we walk in silence to find the Bison and I ask Judith to tell me about her friend. Her memories disperse behind us into the green fields of the park. Past physical commemoration, sometimes all that is left to do is listen. Through an icy, wire fence we watch them. Distant, ghostly shapes amongst the grass, creatures who, like cows apparently lie down when it is raining. We cover the entire distance of the park, finishing our pilgrimage at Sunset Boulevard, San Francisco’s gateway to the Pacific ocean. The horizon is obscured by cloud, and rough, relentless waves pound against the shore. Fresh salty air whips at our legs. I feel as though I have walked through history. Through the remainder of the summer of love, a commemoration of the AIDS crisis and the bison of the Wild West. America. The constant rhythm of the ocean beats in front of us like an eternal heart.