I'm writing a paper on Central Park this semester and it's incredibly sad, because it focuses on a moment of rupture rather than one of celebration. One particular historical moment when this 'park for the people' suddenly became a contested space, a dangerous place, a theatre for violence and despair. Looking back through the newspaper archives is eerie, considering how when I lived in New York I never thought twice about crossing the park at night, never once worried for my safety as I spread myself out on a bench and drank a large mug of matza ball soup quickly, burning the roof of my mouth. Central Park was actually one of the places I relished, somewhere I would escape to from school, where I would read books and wander and know without a shadow of a doubt that I was in New York. Because it's not just a park, it's the park. It's hard for me to disengage from my own thoughts and feelings of the park as one of the places I most associate with happiness in New York - with ice-skating at dusk with my best friend, with being reckless and drinking black coffee and smoking cigarettes in the cold, with skipping class and sharing tuna baguettes and jam donuts in the shade of a cherry blossom tree. I know the park as something so incredibly beautiful, so incredibly lovely, so incredibly alive. Which it is, of course, despite everything. I need to go back. I can feel that longing deep in my stomach. I need to go back.
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