Water is the equivalent of the allure of the proverbial sirens. Finding my way to water is a compelling obesseive draw. There’s something in my DNA that always lures me back to the water. A river, an ocean. I get happy about a glass of water.
It’s Jamaica, it’s the Caribbean you know. Clear blue blue water surrounding an island. Can’t shake my roots. Don’t want to.
I also think of the cottonmouth water moccasin in me. I know: cottonmouths are in the South not the cold wintry waters of Pittsburgh rivers. Doesn’t matter. WATER.
I drove for more than hour on the edges of the SouthSide Works in Pittsburgh getting so close to the water but still so far. I could almost visualize the steel works from the past with a clear path to the river now dotted with modern-day REIs and Urban Outfitters. One hundred lefts into dead-ends with no access to the Mongahela River did not stop me. I was stymied too many times by smooth railroad tracks blocking my way to the murky river. I thought to jump the tracks landing on my feet close to the river’s edge but remembered that third rail is a killer:
Billie Joel’s “All for Leyna” from the Glass Houses CD was playing in my head: “She stood in the tracks, waving her arms, leading me to that third rails shock . . .” I wound my way to West Homestead but still no water. Hills. Curves. Houses clinging to hillsides. That’s Pittsburgh. Not to be deterred. Still trying to find the water; I could not quite make my goal. And finally: Waterfront. Who would have thought the divining rod inside my head in search of water would land me behind a TGIF by the river?
Pittsburgh is an old soul. It feels like an ancient city in the Roman Empire. A city colonized. By the steel. By chain restaurants and stores. Past. Present. Invisibly one. The water, the steel, the hills are officially stuck under my fingernails.
I would even love the the deep dark blue of the (Wide) Sargasso Sea, real or imagined. The Three Rivers of Pittsburgh come close.
Photo by Dianne Glave
African Americans and the Environment 