One hot afternoon, I ventured into the deeper parts of an Atlantan neighborhood to get to my destination: Perkerson Park. Getting there —through the I-85 traffic at 1500— was probably one of the less exciting parts of the day. Despite living in metro Atlanta for most of my life, I don’t have much experience driving the roads of Atlanta and the little I had was from driving around GSU to find parking. I recalled from the article “Architectural Exclusion: Discrimination and Segregation Through Physical Design of the Built Environment” by Sarah Schindler, that “[c]ommunities also rel[ied] on […] confusion techniques to keep people out, or to make it hard for them to find their way around an area.” In reality, the roads weren’t really all confusing; the grid style roads and the clear street signs proved that. I was just so unfamiliar with these roads, but the experience of driving through streets I didn’t know gave insight on lost and foreign one feels in a different part of town. I drove past the Latin Academy Charter School, Atlanta Technical College and Atlanta Metropolitan State College before I reached my destination.
Perkerson Park showed its age from the start; the weathered wooden park sign spoke that it had been around for many, many years and the crumbling yellow paint of the gates would’ve agreed with me.
I parked my car in the nearly empty parking lot and I was welcomed by a brief cool breeze and the chatter of squirrels, which meant one thing: there weren’t a lot of people at the park.
The Sprayground was perfect for cooling down on a hot summer day, much like the day I visited. Popsicle sticks and candy wrappers could be found here and there, but these were only traces to prove that children had played here. The newer benches, the public restroom, the Sprayground looked relatively new and their close location to the park’s entrance couldn’t have been a coincidence.
The playground area seemed looked like it was slowly turning into a desert. Almost all the grass was gone and in its place was either wood chips or dry dirt. Even in the photo, there’s such a stark contrast; the trees are such a lively green but the ground produces such a dry beige that makes you want a drink of water by just looking at it. This was only one of the few ironies discovered while exploring the park.
What you see here is the very modern-looking sculpture titled “My Spirit is Changing” by Frank Toby Martin circa 1985. From a distance, the sculpture looks like any other park sculpture but close up, the condition of this park is anything but modern. The plaque showed its need of repair, spiderwebs hung liberally from every surface and the perimeter of bricks surrounding the surface were missing some of their comrades.
In the rest of these photos, you can see clearly the history of this park. It’s worn down paint, cracked asphalt, rusty gates and evidence of drug and alcohol use that this park has seen better days. A Jack Daniels cap, a package of Swisher Sweets Original Flavored Cigarillos and broken beer bottles also showed that there had been another kind of recreational activity in the park.
There were a few people who passed through the park later when it got cooler, and in a way, the demographics kind of reflected the park. A young African-American male and female couple, two young Caucasian males and another Caucasian male lounging on a blanket in the grassy area of the park.
An ice cream truck passed through as well and I took this opportunity to take a break from my expedition. This also seemed like a good time to document getting ice cream from an ice cream truck in many years.
Thanks to this assignment, I was able to go out of my comfort zone and visit a part of this community. Going to the park was something that I wasn’t used to doing alone. Without having to converse with another person, I was able to focus on the details of the park. It was a plethora of things old, new, foreign and nostalgic. Things for children and things for adults. In a way, this park was a picture of life and the sweet or regrettable moments along the way.
