(no subject)
Who Is My Neighbor? (Images of San Juan, pt. 3)
*Walking down the main avenue between the San Cristobal and El Morro forts of Old San Juan, I glimpse for the first time La Perla, an impoverished shantytown. It is rumored that the police will not go into La Perla, but I've heard those rumors from the old money of Miramar and bourgeoisie of Ocean Park. There is a steep drop from the tourist filled street to the rusty shacks, and beyond is the Atlantic Ocean.
In the midst of the salt-crusted tin roofs is a glittering basketball court coated in tropical colors, surrounded by sturdy new stands. A billboard over the court announces that Banco Popular has raised more than $30,000 for development in the La Perla neighborhood. Three kids sit around a basketball, enjoying cherry piraguas and admiring the graffiti covering the sign towering above them. A teenage girl ascends the long staircase up to the street, pink flip-flops slapping the concrete in a strange mixture of restless energy and resignation. She avoids all eye contact.
A block down the avenue, I spy the Museum of Modern Art on the opposite side of the street. Another Banco Popular billboard flanking the entrance announces that $1.2 million has been raised to enhance the museum's procurement of fine art.
*On the far side of the museum is a beautiful pillared courtyard encircling a bubbling fountain. Two sets of stairs lead up to an obelisk that appears to be made of Taíno Indian potsherds. Sweaty teenagers grind the stair railings, rollerblades showering the concrete steps with flecks of fresh green paint.
Tourists snap pictures, ignoring the graffiti that covers every inch of stairs and wall in the courtyard. Most of it is obscene, some of it is violent, but all of it screams out for the recognition of an entire culture being buried in obscurity underneath tourist dollars. The frantic scribbling silently screams, "We're here! We matter!" It falls on blind American eyes dazzled by statues and refurbished cathedrals.
*Turning the corner reveals the majestic statue of a former Spanish governor. Despite the pigeons perched on his head and shoulders, the tarnished statue remains undefiled. The statue is marked only by the bold Spanish word etched crudely in black into the glittering marble base--GENOCIDA.
*Walking down the main avenue between the San Cristobal and El Morro forts of Old San Juan, I glimpse for the first time La Perla, an impoverished shantytown. It is rumored that the police will not go into La Perla, but I've heard those rumors from the old money of Miramar and bourgeoisie of Ocean Park. There is a steep drop from the tourist filled street to the rusty shacks, and beyond is the Atlantic Ocean.
In the midst of the salt-crusted tin roofs is a glittering basketball court coated in tropical colors, surrounded by sturdy new stands. A billboard over the court announces that Banco Popular has raised more than $30,000 for development in the La Perla neighborhood. Three kids sit around a basketball, enjoying cherry piraguas and admiring the graffiti covering the sign towering above them. A teenage girl ascends the long staircase up to the street, pink flip-flops slapping the concrete in a strange mixture of restless energy and resignation. She avoids all eye contact.
A block down the avenue, I spy the Museum of Modern Art on the opposite side of the street. Another Banco Popular billboard flanking the entrance announces that $1.2 million has been raised to enhance the museum's procurement of fine art.
*On the far side of the museum is a beautiful pillared courtyard encircling a bubbling fountain. Two sets of stairs lead up to an obelisk that appears to be made of Taíno Indian potsherds. Sweaty teenagers grind the stair railings, rollerblades showering the concrete steps with flecks of fresh green paint.
Tourists snap pictures, ignoring the graffiti that covers every inch of stairs and wall in the courtyard. Most of it is obscene, some of it is violent, but all of it screams out for the recognition of an entire culture being buried in obscurity underneath tourist dollars. The frantic scribbling silently screams, "We're here! We matter!" It falls on blind American eyes dazzled by statues and refurbished cathedrals.
*Turning the corner reveals the majestic statue of a former Spanish governor. Despite the pigeons perched on his head and shoulders, the tarnished statue remains undefiled. The statue is marked only by the bold Spanish word etched crudely in black into the glittering marble base--GENOCIDA.