Dear Banneker Rec Center, You’re Essential for Mental Health
By: Robin Doody
Tags: Love Letters, Washington DC, Parks, Local

Sign on Georgia Ave.

Do you have a favorite public in DC? Has it helped your mental health during the pandemic? Write it an ode (up to 100 words) at this form. We will share a round-up in a forthcoming blog.

Banneker, I hate to say it, but nobody really evokes you for a hang. In my experience, more often than not, that status is reserved for your colleague Malcolm X — with its drum circle, slack lines and hammock-filled trees. Or even, if the people live in “Bloomingdale, not Shaw,” your colleague Crispus Attucks, tucked away behind Bloomingdale’s concrete, its status elevated by its secrecy.

Everybody knows Malcolm X of The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Most people know Crispus Attucks of the Revolutionary War. But fewer people now know Benjamin Banneker, the astrologist and land surveyor.

I hate to admit it, but I was among the ignorant, to both the man and the rec center (not to be confused with the park behind The Wharf). Even when I moved next door. We were reintroduced, but our relationship was surface level. I did not utilize your resources, I longed for other parks, we did not hang.

That is until March of 2020, when a global pandemic changed our way of life, and sent me your way. So, today, I am taking the time to give credit where credit is due. To acknowledge the role you play in my life. To say, Dear Banneker, I love you. You’re essential for mental health.

Column sign, equipped with maps, near the ramp to the tennis courts.

Before March, I had been to your pool. Everybody has been to your pool. During a month of unemployment in a previous summer, when I lived further away from you, I’d come down and start each day at the pool with a meditation and a little journaling, plunge into the existential fears of maintaining a career, then stand in line at your diving board with the kids, choosing to enter the water with a sloppy dad flip, some part of my body slapping the surface like an ironic exclamation point. They laughed, and so did I.

When I moved right next door, I took notice of the Howard pregames at your edges. The university’s youth assembling to blow off steam before heading to U street, hitting the books and changing the future the next morning. I looked on with a smile and a hint of envy.

I saw the workouts on your track, from collegiate athletes and hobbyists alike. And those I did not envy, but I did respect.

But these were winks and nods. Passing moments of recognition, we had yet to talk.

Then work from home began. Everywhere else shut down. Your presence beckoned with an invitation: “Let’s hang out.”

So we did, slowly at first. Every day after work, my partner and I would come on down. She’d practice TikTok dances and I’d see if I could juggle the soccer ball 100 times. I never could, but that wasn’t the point.

The city came too. Your tennis courts vibrating with play, lines winding around waiting for their turn of the most socially distant sport available. Your green space swelled with the folks, neighborhood veterans and restless youth, serious runners, serious walkers and serious bootcampers. Work out groups, 10, 15, 20 people deep amassed in your spacious corners, optimistic about what we thought would be a short change in routine. Real social distance wasn’t your game yet, but that wasn’t your fault. It was ours.

You know the cute little Christmas tree thing on your southeastern edge? There are a couple, but I have a favorite. Well, when you weren’t so busy, it became my makeshift par three. As I’d doink a golf ball around and think about the state of the world, I became grateful for your space, growingly dependent on your solace.

And then you got shut down.

Par 3.

Parks are essential for mental health. And according to a survey from 10minutewalk.org — a group dedicated to ensuring that everyone in every city has “safe, easy access to a quality park within a 10-minute walk of home by 2050” (Muriel Bowser is a member) — people seem to think so too. 81% of people surveyed say increasing access to public parks during COVID would help them enjoy the outdoors more. Two-thirds believe parks are essential for physical and mental health. I would imagine that last statistic skews even higher here in Washington DC, where rent is expensive, yards are scarce and work is stressful.

But I don’t need a survey to know that you’re essential in mental health. I felt it in your absence. The inability to visit you threw a horrific question into my life. What was I supposed to do with my time?

We found our ways. I’d take phone calls on your edge, that little spot by your sign right outside your gates, or some weekend days, you’d see me there with a book and a lawn chair. On a Saturday, I liked to play this fun game where I would drink a beer then stare at the fence, or drink a beer and stare at the trash can, or when feeling particularly zesty, drink a beer and stare at the trash.

Sitting outside your fence felt like going on a date with a chaperone. We were both there, but couldn’t do what we wanted. But still, when the sweats and smells and incessant digital stress alerts took over our 570 square foot apartment, I’d come down just to say hi, and you helped immensely.

In this pre-pandemic study out of the Eindhoven University of Technology in the Netherlands, the authors concluded that “the effects of personal, neighborhood, and mobility characteristics on frequency of use of public space and on loneliness and life satisfaction were found to be significant.”

In other words, I am extremely lucky to live so close to you, closed or open or whatever.

Where we hung out when you were shut down.

And then, at the end of May, after you’d been shuttered for over a month, you opened back up in an explosion of beautiful activity, like an impressionist painting swirling into a movie. My dog Penny and I vowed to take a walk in you everyday if possible. In an unprecedented period of modern isolation, you were our source of human activity. And we watched the show.

On your east side, we saw the return of basketball, with its rampant shit-talking and erratic offense. Penny and I were fully there for all the insults, laughter, Russell Westbrook-like lay up fevers and deep (airball!) threes.

It’s died down a bit since it’s gotten cold, but you can still find admirers — like Walter. It’s freezing, but that doesn’t stop him from shooting around, jacket, beanie, mask and all. He’s a sophomore at Howard, forced by the pandemic to take classes online in his native Atlanta. He’s saying hi on a trip back to his place off of Georgia Avenue to get some stuff.

He misses you pre-pandemic. Every Saturday, he and his “group of boys from Howard” come out to play ball with whomever is out here, “different people every time.” “My favorite part about the park is the community.”

There are things he’d change. “DC gets a lot of money from the government. It is sad seeing all these cracks in the basketball court. I would love to see our tax money go someplace visibly. Where it is utilized.” New rims? Maybe increased use of the baseball field (he motioned to the Little League field off Georgia Avenue, not Maury Wills field)?

Ever since visiting for Obama’s inauguration in 2008, Walter knew “DC is the place for me.” It’s heart-breaking the pandemic has disrupted that, but he is confident he’ll be back, playing basketball with you on Saturdays, patient to see the day “the park will grow even more.”

Walter=$

On your west side, we saw the return of the skate park, a small commune whose clientele looks like a multigenerational birthday party. From the guys in hoodies and AirPods, to the little girl on a scooter in kneepads, Penny and I watched in wonder at the movement, the balance, the poetry of human life.

Word on the street (ramp?) is that more skaters are coming to you since the Shaw skate park is temporarily closed (again). But like me, they’re discovering you. One skater, who wants to go by Rice, put it simply: “I am grateful that [the park] exists.”

Skating has been a source of entertainment for Abdul’s daughter during COVID. She’s five and has been skating since the start of the pandemic.

“It’s a reason to get out of the house and go do something.” The day I talked to Abdul, he was watching on while she took a lesson from a teacher he met through Crushed Skate Shop. He drove her there from Northwest and seemed at ease around the skate park.

His daughter has chops. She can ride by herself and takes the gentle instruction well. She’s good, I say. “She’s getting there.”

Abdul’s daughter taking a skateboard lesson.

We saw the return of running. When DC’s morning fog rises from the earth, rendering Howard’s buildings the backdrop to a horror film, Penny is out for a pee, and the runners are out in full force. Talking, laughing, happy to be together, moving on your track at a pace I’ve only felt in a go-kart.

A freezing day at the track of adjacent Maury Wills field.

And perhaps in the utmost climax, we saw the return of tennis, the sport whose rhythmic popping and grunts are the unofficial soundtrack to your schedule.

Tennis is our favorite to watch. For me, the gentle repetition of a volley, conducted expertly by real life human people, brings about a deep calm. For Penny, there’s a ball and it’s moving.

We love when the courts get full and popping with life. When people who played in college backhand with ferocity next to a court of adults just learning the game.

We love the instructors! The city employees, with a boombox and demeanor you might assign to a Jazzercise class, leading a diverse and smiling group of adults in an afternoon of polite doubles. Or the private coach, whose bucket hat and coat of nose sunscreen could be mistaken for an Outback tour guide, who torques his body with immaculate grace.

We love the characters. The handsome man with the headband who jumps every time he hits the ball and sometimes wears an Orlando Magic Tracey McGrady jersey. The loving mom who’s starting to actually lose to her teenage son.

Or Dan, who loves you for your love of the game. “This is an awesome park.”

When I talked to him, it was 30 degrees on a Saturday. He was standing outside the tennis gates, in a sleek Eddie Bauer puffer jacket and UConn Huskies beanie, waiting for his friend, Oliver. Three or four years ago, Oliver, who is “obsessed with tennis,” saw Dan hitting balls and asked if they should play together. Now, they play every week.

“I didn’t really come here until the pandemic started.” Like me, they discovered you late in the game. They used to play at Rose Park, in Georgetown. But you’ve got lights and shorter lines. Dan loses the puffer jacket and reveals a bright green hoodie. He and Oliver play with the silent but casual intensity afforded to friends who love sports — their rhythm only broken by the occasional “sorry” or “fuck!” As I watch him and Oliver volley, I think about how they’ve maintained a friendship for about four years, seeing each other every week, even during a pandemic, and I’m grateful you’ve made it possible.

Dan says thanks because you’ve “been good to [him] during the pandemic.” He’s not alone.

Dan serves.

Sports aside, we just saw people (“squirrels too!” — Penny). Congregating, talking, being friends. A group of lawn chairs and familiar smiles talking about biking in the city: “I would, it’s just the 11th Street hill is too much.” Newborn babies and dogs meeting their humans’ friends for the first time. At night, spirited young people (not me!) smoking joints and laughing, being normal. I never participated in these conversations, but just seeing them happen brought me joy and comfort. Made me feel less alone.

Remember when I said people don’t evoke you for a hang? I was so wrong. We hang out everyday.

This sign, unlike me, is on the fence about you.

Benjamin Banneker was a self-taught astrologer who predicted a solar eclipse, produced multiple almanacs and helped survey the land that today is the District of Columbia. His work was wide-ranging, difficult and essential. The name is perfect.

It’s winter now. Your trees are bare, some of them have even been removed, revealing the constituents of your innards — broken glass and Cheetos wrappers. Some might call this depressing, but still, I think it’s beautiful. It’s you. No filter.

I’ve never told you this before, but I can see you from my apartment window. Sometimes at night, I look over your cold stillness, your tennis courts illuminated, your stately green space resting in the dark, your presence resting along the gentle slope of Georgia Avenue and beneath Howard’s stately clock tower, and I say thank you.

During this insane year, together, we’ve watched fireworks on the 4th of July, marveled at how summer ruddies into fall and enjoyed silence on Christmas.

Thank you for being there for me during this unprecedented time. Thank you for reminding me about life. For combatting my loneliness.

Banneker, I love you, you’re essential for mental health.

Rain or shine, I’ll see you tomorrow.

Do you have a favorite place in DC? Has it helped your mental health during the pandemic? Write it an ode (up to 100 words) at this form. We will share a round-up in a forthcoming blog.