Day 3: Façades

I woke up a little late this morning and expected to walk out my door into more light and noise as people hurried down the streets to work, but it was still dark and silent, at least in our part of town. A slight sprinkle formed puddles along the gutters replacing the snow and ice from days before. The weather has gone up at least 10 degrees (Celsius) since my last walk, making me excited for spring. I walked straight to Main Street this morning wanting to cross over to the other side of town. I quickly passed the pile of cigarette butts in front of my neighbor’s door, the still-shuddered windows, and the burned-out garage. Nothing stood out to me except this crushed Uludag can.

Beyond making me want a Doener Kebap and Uludag for lunch today, the crushed can came to life telling a story of the difficulties of Turkish immigrants living in Germany, their struggle to overcome stereotypes, racism, and the physical violence many continue to endure at the hands of xenophobes. I’m sure similar crushed cans—Latino cans in the United States, African cans in France, and Caucasian (the geographic region not the skin color) cans in Russia—lie all over the world sharing similar stories of their fight to exist as a minority.

All of the shops were still closed this morning except for the bakeries and a little shop to buy lottery tickets.

I guess it’s never too early to purchase false hopes. As I thought of the hopes I have, false and firm, I was startled by the honk of a car’s horn. I wondered what type of person had the gall to honk this early in the morning. What could have been so impeding to the driver to justify waking up the rest of the city?

There were more cars on Main Street and more people in the buses. When I crossed to the Southside of town, I passed an interesting array of people. There were construction workers in coveralls, business men with briefcases in hand, and the occasional student hurrying along on a bike, a worn out backpack to attest for long nights in the library.

As I passed a bakery this morning, the shelves were already full of breads and pastries, filling the block with the smell of home. The first customers were already sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Directly across the street, another woman was making a meat salad in the local butcher shop as she prepared for the day ahead. I wonder whose work brings more satisfaction, the baker or the butcher. The one brings seemingly dead ingredients to life through the life-giving catalyst of yeast. The other cuts, seasons, and packages those once living beings, making death more desirable. Or does each return home with an equal satisfaction having put in an honest day’s work, providing life’s necessities to their neighbors?

Just around the corner, an arts and crafts store held on to last year’s Christmas spirit.

Why is it that Christmas lights, which are so magical in the season, become so tacky and out of place in every other season?

Just passed the Christmas lights I entered a dark alleyway I had never before noticed. There is always an eerie feeling that accompanies dark alleys, but I went down it anyway. On the one side, a home had been suffocated by vines.

I crouched down to take a picture and could hear a subtle creaking in the vines as if they were preparing to strike and swallow their next victim.

The alley turned out to be a dead end, but as I backtracked across the street was another before unknown, but more welcoming alleyway. This sign combined with the early chirping of birds announced that this side of the street contained more life than the last.

The first building to the left, however, made me second guess my first impression. It was a large, brick building, each brick was weathered and worn. It looked like the remnants of a fortress, even the windows were bricked in.

The building’s only visible entrance or exit was these large pipes protruding out of the back wall.

As I made my way home, I spotted a building that has often caught my attention before, but became more fascinating in dawn’s more critical light. It displays an architectural style found throughout our little town made up of a thick, cement façade, which hides the old, decaying farm wood that makes up the side walls.

I wondered how often architecture reflects its inhabitants. How often do we also build up thick façades to disguise the rest of our being? Yet we all wear our cement masks for different reasons. Some of us hide dirty, decaying wood, as this building did. We hide shame and guilt, loneliness and self-doubt. Our façades make us invulnerable. But, as this juxtaposition of buildings suggests,

our façades also make us normal. We conform to the stylistic norm to cover up our uniqueness, resulting in a dulling uniformity. Each building appears the same as the next, different sizes and colors, but sporting the same styles and trends. The monotony observed in these architectural façades made me want to find the nearest sledge hammer and break down the outer wall and get down to the real substance. I found the hidden walls more beautiful than the façade. I wanted to see and get to know the old, decaying wood hidden behind the cement surface. Why are we afraid to be vulnerable, visible, observable? Why are we so afraid to be unique? What do we have to hide?