P52 Week 16 - Street Photography

My street snapshots.

On my frequent walks, I pass by clutches of little Asian ladies. They smile and nod. Some of them know enough English to say “good morning,” others just enough to utter a tentative “hi.” When I stroll with my blond, blue-eyed toddler granddaughter, the smiles are extra wide and they lean down to make eye contact with her. “Pretty!” they exclaim. She’s nonplused but manages to take the attention in stride.

Bicyclers speed by, fully regaled in their uniforms: helmets with rear view mirrors attached – tiny, like a dentist’s – gloves, spandex shorts, tattoo blobs on their calves. They’re too focused on the ride to look at me, much less smile. Their bike touring is serious business.

A slim, middle-aged Hispanic – or perhaps Chinese – jogger in tan, pressed Dockers and a pristine white t-shirt, slowly lopes along.

A trio of young doe-eyed Muslim women, their shawled heads nodding together rosette-like, stand on a street corner chatting, giggling.

Another Muslim woman talks animatedly as she crosses the street, both hands conducting, a cell phone propped against her ear in her veil.

A dark skinned teenager with his pant waist fastened just above his knees saunters slowly. His gait is wide based – like an end stage alcoholic with cerebellar brain damage -- in order to keep the pants in position. Every few steps, he has to pull up the trousers, but adjusts them to no further than mid thigh. To hike them up over his hips is an unthinkable punk fad faux pas and so he waddles on, tolerating the fashion discomfort, much like women wobbling about in stiletto heels.

I see a petit oriental couple in the distance. She’s in fashionable, yet sensible khaki capris and a navy and white striped boatneck top. He’s in stylish baggy shorts and a pastel polo shirt. They’re holding hands, talking.

Here comes a small yippee dog, its owner with a brown weathered face in tow.  I pass by quite a few dogs on my walk: a Snoopy dog prancing along with her athletic outdoor type owner; a wrinkly faced mutt plodding along with encouragement from its elderly Hispanic friend.

An older, silver haired white couple walks briskly by, out for their morning constitutional – as am I. They smile brightly and say hello.

A tiny stooped lady trudges up the hill. Overloaded with plastic Safeway shopping bags, she stops to catch her breath and readjusts the bag handles that are cutting into her palms. She moves on, her face sober, her eyes downcast.

A stately African elder with a long skirt and cap, walks by. He is erect and proud.

There goes another dark-skinned man with a turban and an endless grey beard.

Two friends – a man and a woman – their smiles directed nowhere in particular, chat as they walk, gently tapping their white canes to and fro.

A serious Asian high school student passes by, backpack slung over his shoulder. There’s no eye contact or greeting from him.

Here comes a regular: a brown-skinned middle aged lady with a broad-brimmed and back flapped hat, jacket and gloves, wheeling a garbage can and using extended tongs to pick up hamburger wraps, pop cups, cigarette packs, blown about mailer flyers and other trash that has collected overnight. Hers is a daily pilgrimage. I wonder why people don’t pick up their own garbage like I learned to do in grade school.  

A woolly-haired father leads a hooded and robed wife and two hooded, robed little daughters, all three ladies demure, with downcast eyes. A lone son frolics freely in shorts and a t-shirt, unencumbered by traditional garb and gender expectations.

An imposing tall black youth with a steely gaze and a swaggering attitude holds a transistor radio to his ear, though why he needs it so close is unfathomable as it is blaring rap music for all to hear.

Outside my window, I sometimes hear cars revving and racing up the hill with woofers blaring. Other times, at night, I hear kids yelling, screaming obscenities either in jest or in ire.

Driving home late one time, I saw youths fleeing in all directions, police in pursuit on foot and in flashing and wailing squad cars.  

But most nights are quiet and deliciously peaceful.

These are some snapshots of the dwellers in my streets – in the neighborhood that I love. Not surprisingly, my zip code is the most ethnically diverse in the country.